Tiger, Tiger

by Philip Caveney

  “Gin fizz,” announced Melissa. “And don’t forget, it’s legal now. I was eighteen last week, in case you’ve forgotten.” She winked slyly. “Age of consent,” she murmured.

  Harry laughed. He was extremely fond of Melissa and would accept things from her that he would not have tolerated in others. She was a lean, very attractive girl, with thick dark hair and enchanting hazel eyes; very like her mother in looks, but infinitely more outgoing in her personality. Harry’s affection for her was, of course, purely platonic, almost paternal. In many ways it was similar to the relationship that he had with Pawn’s grandson, Ché.

  “You’re a lucky fellow,” he told Dennis. “Lovely wife, lovely daughter. Where is Kate, by the way?”

  “Oh, you know her. More content to sit at home with a good book. Can’t say I blame her really. There’s not much here if you don’t enjoy a drink.”

  Harry nodded.

  “I’ve a bone to pick with you,” he said.

  “Oh?” Dennis looked wary. “Why, what’s up?”

  “You know very well what’s up, so don’t give me the wide-eyed innocent look. There was a certain Muslim doctor round at my place today.…”

  “Ah.”

  “You may know him. Drives about in a battered old Ford.”

  “Ah. Yes, well…”

  “What on earth are you both on about?” demanded Melissa.

  Dennis smiled sheepishly.

  “I think your Uncle Harry is referring to ah … Doctor Kalim … who I just happened to bump into this morning … and I may have, inadvertently of course … happened to mention Harry’s little upset at the courts yesterday. I mean, not even thinking that Kalim, as a doctor, might want to ah, investigate the situation.…”

  “Oh really, Daddy! Have you been spreading nasty rumours about poor Uncle Harry? Anyone can see he’s fitter than you are.”

  “Well that’s not saying very much,” observed Dennis drily.

  “You must remember that Uncle Harry is sixty-eight years old.”

  “Sixty-seven,” corrected Harry.

  “Exactly! And if I’m as healthy and downright good-looking as he is when I’m sixty-eight…”

  “Sixty-seven!”

  “… then I’ll feel very pleased with myself.”

  “Here, here,” enthused Harry. “For that, I think you deserve another gin fizz. Dennis, will you have another drink?”

  “Me? Thought I was in the doghouse.”

  “Well, we all make mistakes from time to time. Actually, I rather enjoyed Kalim’s little visit. Haven’t had a good row in ages. So, what’ll it be?”

  “Well, nothing for the moment, old chap. I’ve got to pop over to my office and pick up some papers. But I’ll certainly take you up on it when I get back. Meanwhile, perhaps you wouldn’t mind keeping this young lady out of mischief.”

  “Delighted. Can’t you let the papers ride for a while, though?”

  “Afraid not. Some of us have to work around here, you know. See you in a bit.”

  He went out of the room.

  “Poor Daddy,” observed Melissa thoughtfully. “He’s had rather a lot on his plate lately. I expect he’ll be glad to get back to England for a rest.”

  Harry motioned to Trimani, who came hurrying over from the bar.

  “One Tiger beer. One … gin fizz, please.”

  “Right away, Tuan!” And he was gone.

  Melissa shook her head.

  “Look at the way they run around for you, Uncle Harry. But if anybody else tried to get that kind of service, they’d just be ignored. Why is that?”

  “Because I’m a relic, I suppose.” He shrugged. “In my day, that’s how it was always done, nobody thought anything of it. Trimani there, he’s served at this Mess a long time. I expect he remembers the old ways too, but lately, he’s been told by a lot of people that he doesn’t have to bow and scrape to the white sahibs anymore, that he’s equal to them, and should they require a drink, well, let them jolly well come and ask for one. I don’t suppose any of them bothered to ask him what he’d like to do, but that’s neither here nor there. Still, for all his new freedom, he chooses to keep one memory of the old days alive and that memory is me. Oh, you’re absolutely right, Melissa. Nobody else here gets the same treatment I do; but then, nobody else here goes as far back as me and Trimani. We’re the only two dinosaurs left in this particular patch of swamp.”

  “You’re not a dinosaur,” cried Melissa emphatically. “And neither is Trimani.”

  “Pardon, Missy?” inquired the barman, who had just arrived with the drinks.

  She stared at him, flustered.

  “Oh … ah … I was just saying, Trimani … you’re not a … dinosaur.”

  Trimani shook his head gravely.

  “No, Missy, that is right. I am a Buddhist.” He set down the drinks, smiled proudly, and walked away. Harry and Melissa managed to hold back their laughter until he was out of earshot.

  “You see, I told you,” giggled Melissa. “He’s not a dinosaur.”

  She sipped at her gin fizz. It was deliciously cold and she found herself musing that she was rarely happier than when she was in Uncle Harry’s company. She had really meant what she said about missing him. There was nothing strange about it either; it was simply that Harry Sullivan had always represented a kind of reassuring steadfastness that she had come to rely on. Even when she was a little girl, she had relished the visits to Uncle Harry’s house. She would sit on his lap, inhaling the familiar cigar-smoke of him, while she listened enthralled to his wonderful stories of adventure in far away places.

  Even then he’d been alone, of course. The Tremaynes had not come to live in Malaya until 1956, when Melissa was eight years old. Harry had already been a widower for six years and he was then, what he was now, an extremely nice, but very lonely old man. As far as Melissa knew, he had not had a relationship with another woman since his wife died; at least, not one that was anything more than platonic, though lord knows, he must have had some opportunities along the way. He always spoke of his late wife with a reverence that Melissa found very touching and she had very quickly learned that underneath his blustery, austere exterior, there lay a heart of pure gold.

  “Do you remember much of England?” he asked her now.

  “Not really. Little things.” She smiled. “I remember building a snowman one Christmas and I remember a field, I think, that must have been outside our back garden.… There’s nothing definite, you know, just very abstract images. Oh, I remember a dog too, a big black thing. Must have been ours I suppose, goodness knows what must have happened to him.” She shook her head. ‘Not much to go on, is it? Everyone keeps telling me how very cold it is over there and…”

  Her voice trailed away as her attention was distracted by the entrance of a stranger, a tall, blond-haired man, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. He was walking slowly, rather dejectedly, she thought, his hands in his pockets and a rather glum expression on his handsome, tanned face. He moved over to the bar and began chatting to Trimani.

  “Is something wrong?” enquired Harry, who had not noticed the focus of her attention.

  “I was just wondering who the dish was.”

  “The what?”

  “The dish, Uncle Harry. You know … the dishy fellow who just walked in.”

  He stared at her.

  “Dish?” he echoed. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

  She smiled apologetically.

  “It’s just an expression I picked up from a magazine. It means good-looking, that’s all … and I wondered who he was. I haven’t seen him before.”

  “Who?” cried Harry in exasperation.

  Melissa leaned closer in order to whisper. “I’m talking about the chap by the bar. There … wearing blue jeans…”

  Harry looked in the direction she was indicating.

  “Him?” he cried.

  “Shush! Yes, him. Why, what’s wrong?”

  “That’s Beresford!”

  �
�Oh. Well, he’s very handsome.”

  “But … he’s Australian!”

  Melissa giggled. “Well alright then. He’s a handsome Australian. I say … why is Trimani pointing at us like that?”

  “I can’t imagine!” muttered Harry. He was somewhat taken aback. He had always thought that Melissa had some degree of discernment.

  “He is though, Uncle Harry. Look.”

  Harry looked. Sure enough, Beresford was chatting to Trimani, and Trimani did seem to be pointing at the table where Harry and Melissa were sitting.

  “Do you know him very well?” asked Melissa.

  “Hardly at all. Never even passed the time of day with him.”

  “Well, he seems to think he knows you. He’s coming over.”

  “What?” Harry glanced up in alarm. The Australian was sailing towards him with a disarming grin on his face. A few steps brought him right to the side of the table.

  “Hello there. Hope you don’t mind me introducing myself. I’m Bob Beresford. You must be Harry Sullivan.” He thrust out a hand that was doubtless intended as a shaking device, but Harry just sat there staring at him; so he swivelled slightly to the left and offered the hand to Melissa, who took it more readily. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, miss.”

  “Melissa. Melissa Tremayne. Pleased to meet you Mr. Beresford.”

  “Tremayne. That wouldn’t be anything to do with Captain Tremayne, by any chance?”

  “His daughter.”

  “Well now … fancy that!” There was a brief, rather uncomfortable silence. Bob turned back to Harry. “Well, I hope you don’t mind me coming forward like this, but I had to come over and offer to buy you a drink, the moment I learned it was you what bagged the big stripey over there.”

  “Bagged the…?” Harry was beginning to suspect that the rest of the local population had decided to switch to a new language overnight, without informing him. He glanced at Melissa for some support.

  “I think he means the tiger,” she said cautiously.

  “Yeah, sure, the big old bugger stuck on the wall there.…”

  Harry raised his eyebrows.

  “May I remind you that there is a lady present?” he asked icily.

  “Oh, that’s alright, Uncle Harry. I’ve heard worse at school! Won’t you sit down with us, Mr. Beresford?”

  “Ah, thanks very much, Miss Tremayne.”

  “Melissa.”

  “Right, Melissa.” Bob pulled up a chair and sat himself down at the table. “And you must both call me Bob. Now, I took the liberty of asking Trim to bring over another round of drinks; you see, Mr. Sullivan, we’re birds of the same feather. I do a bit of hunting meself and I was thinking…”

  Harry took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Beresford…”

  “Bob. My friends call me Bob.”

  “Mr. Beresford. I can assure you that…”

  “’Course, I’ve never actually gone after tigers before. That’s where you come in. See, I’ve heard that a bloody big tiger killed a cow last night, on the coast road just outside of Kampong Panjang … and I was thinkin’ that you and me, the two of us together, so to speak, could team up and have a crack at him.…”

  “Mister Beresford!” Harry’s voice was harsh as a whipcrack. Even the impetuous Australian stopped to listen this time.

  “First, let me assure you that I have not gone hunting tiger, nor anything else for that matter, for something like eight years. I am a retired man, Mr. Beresford, I am sixty-seven years old and frankly, I do not feel in the least bit interested in renewing the hobby. I hope I have made myself clear.”

  It became very quiet again. Trimani arrived with the tray of drinks, sensed the uncomfortable atmosphere, set down his load and departed as rapidly as possible. Bob took a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, extracted one, offered the pack to Melissa, who shook her head dumbly. He lit his own smoke and then tried another angle.

  “Of course, Mr. Sullivan, you wouldn’t actually have to join in the hunt. See, what I’m really lookin’ for is a good guide, a tracker, someone who knows the ropes. I’d be willin’ to pay…” He saw from the outraged expression on Harry’s face that he had put his foot in it again and he glanced wildly at Melissa, hoping that she might bail him out.

  “What er … part of Australia are you from … ah … Bob?” she ventured.

  “From New South Wales. Do you know it at all?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, well you must go there sometime, it’s very beautiful.”

  “Anywhere near Botany Bay?” enquired Harry unexpectedly.

  “Why do you ask that Mr. Sullivan?” asked Bob, brightening a little.

  “That’s where all the convicts landed, isn’t it?”

  The two men glowered at each other across the table for a moment.

  “You know,” exclaimed Melissa, with exaggerated jollity. “I was only saying to Daddy the other day, I wouldn’t mind learning to shoot, myself.”

  “Oh well, Miss Tremayne … Melissa … I’d be only too glad to give you some lessons, anytime you like…”

  “If Miss Tremayne decides she wants shooting lessons, I think she knows only too well that I can provide them,” said Harry tonelessly. He turned to gaze at Melissa. “Strange you’ve never mentioned it before.”

  “Oh, well I…”

  “You can still shoot then?” murmured Bob.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You can still shoot, Mr. Sullivan. Only, I thought perhaps the reason you didn’t hunt anymore was because your eyes had gone … something like that.”

  “My eyesight is perfect, thank you.”

  “Well, it’s interesting this, but me and some of the junior officers have got together and organized a little target-shooting event for Saturday. They’ve got permission to use the rifle range at the barracks. Officially, the prize is just a crate of beer … but we’re going to put up a little money between ourselves, just to make it more fun. Everybody puts in fifty dollars and the winner takes the lot.…”

  “Gambling.” Harry said the one word in a measured, icy tone that seemed to transform it into something quite filthy.

  “Yeah … well, I appreciate not everybody approves of it … but you’ve got to do something to pass the hours away, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, Uncle Harry! It sounds like terrific fun,” enthused Melissa. “Why don’t you go in for it? Then I could come along and cheer you on.” She turned back to Bob. “Are members of the public allowed to come?”

  “Sure. The more the merrier, that’s what I reckon. But maybe Mr. Sullivan doesn’t feel up to it.…” He glanced slyly at Harry. “After all, some of those young officers are crack shots; could be he doesn’t want to risk his fifty dollars.”

  “What time is this competition?” snapped Harry defensively.

  “We’re starting off at ten in the morning before the sun gets too strong.”

  “I’ll be there,” announced Harry calmly.

  “Fantastic!” Melissa clapped her hands in anticipation. “I can hardly wait. I’ve always wanted to see you in action, Uncle Harry!” She lifted her gin fizz and took a generous swallow of it. “Here’s to Saturday,” she said.

  “Cheers.” Bob raised his glass of beer and drank. Then the two of them glanced at Harry, but he remained motionless, his face impassive. The awkward silence returned.

  “About this tiger, Mr. Sullivan,” ventured Bob warily. “Couldn’t you give me some advice, at least? I don’t know the first thing about tiger hunting. I’ve been asking around the kampongs for guides, but nobody seems to have much idea. I suppose the obvious thing to do is to find the carcass of the cow he killed and then try tracking him into the jungle from there.…”

  Harry let out an exclamation of contempt.

  “Mr. Beresford, that is the last thing you do! I only once ever resorted to trailing a tiger through its home ground and that time I was lucky to escape with my life. The tiger was wounded. The only poss
ible reason for following a cat into the jungle is to put it out of its misery after your first shot has failed to finish it off.”

  Bob shrugged.

  “Fair enough. But … how do you get the shot in, in the first place?”

  Harry gazed at Bob contemptuously, almost wearily, like an aged schoolmaster regarding a particularly troublesome pupil.

  “You build a machan, Mr. Beresford.”

  “A what?”

  “A tree platform. You place it in a tree overlooking the half-eaten kill. A tiger will return every night to feed on it. You fix a flashlight to the barrel of your gun and when you hear the cat eating, you aim, switch on the light, and shoot.” He spread his hands in a gesture of finality. “One dead tiger,” he said calmly. “Or possibly, one wounded tiger, which is when you come down the tree and follow him up.”

  “Ah. That sounds a bit more sporting!”

  Harry stared at Bob for a moment in silence.

  “Excuse me,” he said at last. “I didn’t realize we were discussing sport. I thought we were talking about killing tigers.’

  Bob frowned.

  “Is there a difference?” he enquired.

  “Oh yes. I wasn’t aware of it myself for a very long time. But now I can tell you with authority, that there is a difference; and one day, you’ll learn that for yourself.” He picked up his drink and sipped at it thoughtfully.

  “So … er … how do I go about making this … machan?”

  “There will be someone in the kampongs who remembers. Ask the older men to help you. It’s a long time since I heard of a tiger venturing out of the jungle. It may just kill once and go back, in which case there’s no reason to try and shoot it.”

  “Reason?” Bob chuckled. “’Course there’s a reason!” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the tiger’s head trophy on the wall. “I want to put another head on the wall beside that one.” He leaned forward as though confiding a secret. “I don’t want to worry you, Harry, but from what I’ve heard, this new tiger is a lot bigger than the one you’ve got there.…”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it! It was one of the villagers who told you about it, was it?”

  “Well, yes…”

  “The Malays have a marvellous capacity for exaggeration.” Harry pointed to the trophy. “That fellow there now. On several occasions, he was described to me as being over twelve feet long. A beast as big as a horse, with jaws like a crocodile, and as tall as a grown man. I measured him when I’d finished him off. He went exactly eight feet, six inches, between pegs. Not small by Malayan standards, but not exactly a monster either.”