by Robert Power
Tiger Fact
In the Moslem faith it is believed Allah gave the tiger to the world to look over his special followers. Tigers guard the graves of holy Muslims. The tiger punishes anyone who breaks the Islamic laws. In an Islamic area of Sumatra, 100 people were killed by tigers in a single year. It was believed to be at the behest of Allah for misdeeds. Only those who had committed evil sins were actually eaten by the tiger.
In my little room above the courtroom I sit at the table, chewing the end of a coloured pencil. The police took my scrapbook away for evidence on orders of Judge Omega, but the guard said I could have as much paper as I wanted to write on. True to his word, there on the table are two new pencils (with rubbers on the end) and a thick pile of loose-leafed paper that has been hole-punched and held together by garden twine.
I like the way the pages turn and fall open: loose and free, unglued and unbound.
I write a heading at the top of the first page.
The Scrapbook of Oscar Flowers: Cahier number 25
I know I’ve only written one scrapbook so far, but I want to see my lucky number on the front page. I saw the word ‘cahier’ in my dictionary and I like the strangeness if it.
Then, to keep me company, I draw a picture of Stigir, Mrs April, Blue Monkey and me, flying a kite on a windy beach. After each day in the court I get some chocolate biscuits and a glass of milk. I fancy myself as the court reporter, writing for a crime magazine. On the next page I draw a tall detective dressed in a large trenchcoat. He wears a black trilby on his head and holds a huge magnifying glass to his eye. In bold blue capitals I write the words:
MURDER CASE REPORTS
Each evening I imagine I have to rush to the telegraph office to file my story. I eat my biscuits and drink my milk and then settle down to recap the day’s events.
While the court is in session I’m put in a box, hidden from the view of the public gallery. They tell me I am just a boy-child who should be heard and not seen. Perch and Carp are in a little box next to mine. I can’t see them, but I hear them whisper every now and again. Our little cubbyholes remind me of beach huts, but without the sand, the candyfloss and the promise of the rollercoaster at the end of the pier. In the third row from the back, I see Mother and Great Aunt. Mother holds a handkerchief to her eyes; Great Aunt holds a snuff-box in one hand and an ivory fan in the other. Between them is an empty chair.
MURDER CASE REPORTS:
THE FISHCUTTER TWINS & OSCAR FLOWERS
Day One: TRIAL OPENS
The trial of who killed Mr Fishcutter opened today. The two who stand accused are Perch and Carp Fishcutter, as they are of an age where responsibility begins. Their accomplice, and some might think the mastermind behind the plot, is Oscar Flowers. He is too young to be accused of the crime, being of an age where responsibility has not yet begun (but no one told him that as he was growing up). But he is the key witness (as he was there at the scene) and has been kept in solitary confinement so he cannot be tampered with, and can have a break from the crazy house of his parents and Great Aunt. The defendants, it is said, have admitted the crime (remorselessly, says the Judge), and guilt will be guilt. Oscar Flowers is hidden in a specially built box. This is because he is so young, and if he is freed no one will be able to recognise him when he is out in the town with his dog. Judge Omega will be in charge of the case. He made clear in his opening statement he will ask all the questions, decide who is guilty and what should happen to them.
Day Two: MRS APRIL TAKES TO THE WITNESS BOX Judge Omega asks Mrs April if it is usual for librarians to take young boys she meets in the library home for tea? Furthermore, is it befitting a woman of her stature to arrange to meet young boys in the park? She says it is a pity if it is unusual, but she thinks it probably is. She wears a blue woollen dress, a flamingo pink scarf, and delicate emerald and silver earrings hang from her ears. Her hands rest gently on the polished wood of the witness box.
The judge asks her if she knew the deceased, Mr Fishcutter? She says she did. Was she having an affair with him? Yes, she was, she says. There are hisses and cackles from the public gallery. But, she says, she felt the affair was drawing to a close. Did Oscar Flowers come to her home on the night of the thirty-first? Yes, she says, he did. How would you describe the way he was that night? asks the judge. Mrs April pauses. She looks at Oscar Flowers in his hidey-box, smiles a friendly smile, and says he seemed like a beautiful boy who was trying hard to make sense of the mad world created by adults. More hisses and jeers from the geese in the public gallery. The clerk calls for order.
In one corner is a narrow bed, next to which is a wash basin and toilet. Over by the window are the table and chair. On the table are my new scrapbook, cahier number 25, and my pencils. I tap my pencil on the window ledge, wondering if ‘suspense’ or ‘anticipation’ is the best word to use. In mid-thought, my attention is distracted by a noise from outside.
Although the window has thick metal bars, I can peek out onto the garden that lies beyond the wall of the courtyard.
On the lawn, by a small lake, a marquee is being erected and all around is a hubbub of activity. Food is being delivered from horse-drawn carts, to be handed to kitchen boys and then stored in the pantry. Gardeners are hoeing flowerbeds and trimming hedges and parlour maids are hanging brightly coloured bunting from the trees. Watch out for the four-and-twenty blackbirds who’ll peck off your nose!
Then there is another sound: the sound of a key turning in the cell door. A short squat guard comes into the room, a tall thin priest standing by his side.
‘Oscar,’ says the priest, opening his arms and walking towards me. The guard moves away like a boxer retreating to a neutral corner, and then leaves the room.
The priest sits on the bed, patting the mattress, expecting me to come sit beside him. I stay standing by the window. He looks like a vulture in his stiff starched cloak with its dark green braiding. He has a bald head and hunched shoulders. His Adam’s apple runs up and down his neck, as if he’s trying to swallow a field mouse.
I don’t like this vulture. He has a look in his eyes like he wants to pick over bones.
As he begins to talk of ‘God’s Mercy’ and the ‘blood of the cross’, I turn my eyes away from him and watch the activity on the lawn.
Two men scale metal poles that form the frame of the marquee.
He talks on, but I stop listening. Through the window I can see a huge canvas being laid flat on the lawn, pulled and straightened into shape, ready to be hauled up onto the skeleton of the marquee that is coming to life by the lake.
‘You were baptised a Catholic by your God-fearing parents and now you have the chance to confess and repent your sins, to turn away from this demon worship.’
‘How do you know who are demons and who are not?’ I ask, without turning to look at him.
The priest looks alarmed. Taken by surprise. As if a leopard has turned up at the scene of the kill.
‘God knows,’ says he, his voice suddenly shrill.
The door clicks open and another man appears. He wears a light blue cloak and a warm smile. His entry brings a cool breeze in its wake.
‘Ah,’ says the vulture priest, receding into the corner, ‘this is Brother Saviour.’
Brother Saviour smiles a hello. Something about him reminds me of Mrs April. The way his deep blue eyes look at me, warm and welcoming. Like the time Mrs April pulled that face when I was reading the man-eater book in the library. I really am beginning to see signs of good and bad, trust and mistrust in these grown-ups.
‘So, young Oscar,’ says he, with a softeness to his voice, ‘you’ve got yourself in a bit of a mess, am I right?’
He makes me smile. ‘Don’t you worry, this will all be over soon. We’ve been talking with the court. You know, the judge is a strict man but he is a stickler for the letter of the law. That will be in our favour, given your age. You will never go to prison, but we have something to offer you that will help you through this. I went to see your pa
rents a few nights ago. We all agree that it would be nice for you to come to our home, my home, that I share with the other monks, for a break. That is, if you want to. We have lots of children come to our island to stay, especially after they’ve had a tough time. The island is very beautiful and you’ll like it very much, I am sure.’
‘An island,’ I say, conjuring images of pirates and beaches, soft breezes and treasure troves. ‘What’s there?’ I ask him.
‘Well, there’s the monastery where I live, and that’s where you’ll sleep and have your food. But the island is full of fields and woods and orchards for fresh fruit.’
In the garden some men are tying thick ropes onto the corners of the canvas, deep in discussion, each pointing out to the others their plan of action.
‘And animals, are there animals?’ I ask.
‘Oh, yes. We have lots of farmyard animals. But there are birds in the hedges, foxes, badgers, squirrels. All sorts.’
I imagine the scene on this island. The sun, the fresh air. The freedom of being away. The adventure of it all.
Brother Saviour is smiling at me. He can see me thinking. We can both feel the same sun on our cheeks. Something deep down, that I barely recognise, tells me this is an adult I can believe in.
‘Do people become animals?’ I ask, looking him in the eye.
‘What a fascinating question,’ replies Brother Saviour, rubbing his chin. ‘Well, Oscar, that depends quite what you mean by animals. Nebuchadnezzar was a great king of ancient times, but spent his last years eating grass in a field like a cow. So, sometimes people can act like animals without really being them.’
‘And sacrifice. Is it right to sacrifice?’
‘You do have a lively mind,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘Well, I’d say we all make sacrifices in different ways. Putting other’s needs before our own. It’s like giving something we have to another. Like food, or help, or kind thoughts. Doing things to make other people happier. To make their lives more bearable. Some go as far as giving up their lives for others.’
I must have a worried look on my face, for he stops talking and puts his hand gently on my shoulder. And he puts his hand in his pocket and brings out some chocolate.
‘Here,’ he says with a smile, ‘I’ll sacrifice my last piece of chocolate, just for you.’
And he gives it to me and I feel the touch of his fingertip on my palm and the sense it gives me is that there are men who will be kind to me and will help me grow into my life. Men I can trust.
‘I want to write a letter to Mr Fishcutter,’ I say to him suddenly, somehow confident that he will understand.
‘A letter?’
‘A letter to explain what happened and to ask him if he is all right.’
‘Of course,’ says Brother Saviour after a slight pause, caressing my arm with the softest of touches, ‘I am sure that is something Mr Fishcutter will like very much.’
It’s all hands to the pump, as the ropes are thrown and heaved-and-hoed over the metal frame. Gradually, the huge canvas awakens and rises from the lawn. Twos and threes of men and women pull together on the ropes, bending backwards in their efforts. The canvas climbs up the wall of its frame, reaches the apex and then flops and falls down the far side. What was, just a short while ago, a rattle and jumble of metal poles and a huge sheet of lifeless canvas is now a shape and form on the landscape. Men pull guy ropes tight at each corner, hammering huge metal pegs into the soft ground to anchor the marquee into place.
‘By all means, write letters, young man, but it’s confession you need,’ says the vulture priest, emerging from his dark corner, preparing to leave, smoothing down the wings of his cape, the field mouse still trapped in his throat. ‘So tell me when you’re ready to confess and I’ll pay you another visit.’
Brother Saviour smiles and winks at me and I smile back.
A blue and orange striped flag is raised to the top of the marquee. All the labourers clap as it ripples in the wind. A job well done.
‘Let me out,’ shouts the vulture priest, or is it the field mouse?
There are more keys turned and doors open and close, and when I look around he is gone.
‘Have a good rest now,’ says Brother Saviour. ‘I’ll come and see you again and tell you more about our island. We can tell each other stories and get to become good friends.’
Then he opens the door and waves goodbye.
When the guard returns and tells me it is time for the lights to be switched off to sleep, I am still standing by the window, watching the workers in the garden clearing up for the day.
‘Good night, Oscar,’ says the guard, for he is a kind man with a son of his own.
‘I want to see Mrs April,’ I say to the guard. ‘No one else, just Mrs April.’
The lights are out. It is dark. Something has woken me up. Lying half asleep I can hear the sound of hammering and sawing, sawing and hammering. I think of getting up from my bed to investigate, but find myself drifting back to sleep.
I am dreaming. I know I am dreaming and I know somewhere nearby there is hammering and banging and sawing. In my dream I am aboard a huge wooden ship on a frothy green sea. I am standing on the deck and the planks beneath my feet creak with the movement of the boat. It is hard to keep my balance, what with the swell and sway of the waves, so I push my back against the mast. Above the crashing of the waves I become aware of a hammering way above my head, up in the crow’s nest. With great effort I force myself to look up, but the sun is so bright. Shielding my eyes, I can make out the silhouette of Father. He is fixing a board onto the mast, just below the crow’s nest. The bright sunlight catches the silvery metal head of the hammer he is wielding. I know there is an engraving on the board and I know it is a message from Father. But I am blinded by the intense sunlight and, try as I will, I cannot read the sign. He is mouthing something to me, but I cannot make out what he saying, even though he repeats it again and again. I blink my eyes and look towards the prow of the ship. There, in full Admiral’s regalia, is Blue Monkey, firmly in control of the wheel, his vision fixed on the horizon.
I wake to the sound. Hammer, hammer, saw, saw.
I look out the window. There is industry in the garden beyond the courthouse wall. Way in the distance, on a small island in the middle of the lake, a wooden building is under repair. I squint my eyes and focus on its outline. It is a summerhouse of sorts: a simple two-storey-building. A solitary workman is perched on its roof, banging and nailing, busily repairing the tiles and gable.
As the morning grows, the summerhouse comes clearer into view. The workman descends his ladder and sets about re-hanging the front door and then replacing a broken windowpane. Sometime later two small rowing boats carry painters to the island. The rising sun reflects the shimmer of the fresh white paint they apply to the walls, and by mid-morning the summerhouse looks bright and new and expectant.
TWENTY-ONE
MRS APRIL COMES TO SUPPER
‘I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me.’ Montale
Tonight Mrs April is coming to visit.
In my cell I pass the time admiring the engravings on the walls, running my little finger along the groove of the letters, imagining myself as their author.
David Napier – I never stole the sheep. 20 June 1786.
Theresa Perez, she is I, about to step to the gallows. He got what he deserved and now I’ll get what I deserve. June 24 1776.
You cannot crack lice with one finger. Lottie Peacock. 28 December 1800.
But mainly I watch the party preparations unfolding in the garden beyond. Chinese lanterns being placed on the branches of a weeping willow tree. In the near distance, where the water glistens on the small lake and the summerhouse wallows in its new splendour, I notice one of the gardeners taking a little wooden boat from its mooring. Mesmerised, I watch as he crosses the lake, the oars dipping in and out of the silvery water. He lands on the islet and spends the rest of the day clearing the weeds around and abou
t the summerhouse.
As dusk settles in I sit back at my table and write some more while I wait through the rest of the evening, knowing Mrs April will never let me down.
Sure enough, ten minutes before the allotted time, I see her come through the perimeter gate and across the courtyard. She is escorted by the vulture priest, who is in urgent conversation with her. She is carrying a hamper, covered in a blue gingham tablecloth.
She looks up at my window, the priest still bending her ear, and smiles and waves when she sees me. She says something to the priest, who is left standing, looking awkward and perplexed. She disappears from my view and makes her way into the courthouse.
I hear her steps on the stone stairs; the turn of a key in the door and here she is.
‘Oscar,’ she says, putting the hamper down by the chair, ‘time for a supper, all to ourselves.’
She beckons me to sit on the bed, as she busies herself laying the table with the gingham tablecloth. Like a magician she plucks sumptuous delicacies from the hamper: all things she knows I like. There’s a veal and ham pie with a boiled egg in the middle, pickled beetroot, radishes, raw carrots and apples, gherkins, cherry tomatoes, sunflower and barley bread, honey, butter, and cheddar cheese. To drink we have cranberry juice and fresh spring water. I watch her as she arranges all the food and crockery. She is wearing a beautiful navy-blue woollen dress and on her breast she has the lizard brooch that I remember from the park. With a final flourish, she produces a small vase and pops a single flame-orange rose into its delicate neck.
‘There,’ she says, when all is ready, ‘you need good food to nourish you for the next stage of your journey.’
‘Which journey?’ I ask.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she says, ‘there’s always another journey, so long as you are ready for it.’
I’m not quite sure what she means, but I’m just happy to be with her in this moment.