Iris and the Tiger

by Leanne Hall

  ‘You can draw,’ she accused Jordi. ‘Your bits are much better than mine.’

  Jordi had given the bear’s head shaggy tufts of fur. Its eyes glistened. When Iris looked at it, she was almost convinced that such a crazy mixed-up creature could exist.

  ‘Why did your mama not warn you about the magics before you come to here? You say she come here?’

  ‘I’m not sure that she knows about it,’ Iris said, folding their drawing. She’d thought about it a lot. Could her mum have been that blind to the magic? Or was she just a really, really good liar?

  Once they’d left the driveway, Jordi’s behaviour changed. No longer relaxed, he scanned the trees as if there were snipers in them. Then he took off sideways through the light scrub. Through the leaves Iris saw him drop into a commando roll.

  Iris had agreed to venture into the forest, but as a safeguard insisted that they keep the outer fence within sight. What if the mists come, and we have to spend the night in the forest? Iris had learnt some bush survival techniques at school camp, but she wasn’t sure they would be much use in Spanish woods.

  ‘You’re going to tire yourself out!’ she called. She didn’t want to imagine how much Jordi would carry on if he knew she was searching for a tiger. He was already convinced they were in an action movie.

  ‘We travel for days into the heart of the jungle.’ Jordi flicked his hair out of his face. ‘Maybe there are landmines. Probably we are going to explode.’

  Iris tried not to sigh. Jordi pulled out his texta and scribbled his name on the next fence post.

  This part of the forest had already been touched by autumn—there was orange and yellow on the trees, and crunchy dead leaves underfoot.

  ‘Jordi, have you ever seen the mists?’

  A car revved on the nearby highway. Spanish people drove fast and had nice new cars.

  Jordi answered by dropping to the ground. He grabbed Iris’s ankles, tripping her up so that she sank.

  Her knees slammed into the dirt.

  ‘Ow! What did you—’

  Jordi shushed her. He crawled on hands and knees towards the fence, beckoning frantically for Iris to follow him. They peered through the rusted iron bars.

  A red car was parked on the other side of the highway. A man and a woman unpacked equipment: an instrument on top of a yellow tripod and a heavy-looking suitcase.

  ‘They are here before,’ Jordi whispered.

  He made Iris crawl further along the fence.

  ‘I see them here, at the home of Dangercroft, and near the school. When Papa see them he use bad words. Words he usually keep for my mother.’

  The duo seemed to be debating where to set up their equipment. The woman held a tablet and scrutinised the screen. They were young and dressed like they were about to play golf. In all the excitement about the tiger, Iris had forgotten that she was also supposed to be looking out for these sorts of things.

  ‘What do you think they doing?’ Jordi asked.

  ‘They’re surveyors. I’m pretty sure. They measure and map the land.’

  Iris had seen surveyors before, in the city. Her dad worked with them sometimes, when people wanted to build the buildings he’d designed.

  ‘But in Australia they would wear fluorescent vests and work boots and drive a van,’ she explained. ‘Maybe these ones are hiding what they are doing.’

  ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘I’ve heard there are people that want to buy all the land around here. Property developers, I think. The Dangercrofts were talking about it last night. They think someone wants to build a big resort or country club.’

  Damp seeped through Iris’s jumper. The ground smelt musty and rotten.

  ‘No wonder Papa doesn’t like it.’ Jordi looked worried. ‘He works for the Freer family for over twenty years. He has done a lot for Señorita Freer. I think he hope to grow old at Bosque de Nubes, to keep the cottage and die there. This is the land of his childhood.’

  ‘We should tell Aunt Ursula that people are measuring her land.’ But what Iris really meant was that she needed to get a message to her parents.

  ‘Papa really won’t like this.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry. Aunt Ursula will never let anyone get their hands on Bosque de Nubes. She said so last night—and I could tell she meant it.’

  But deep down Iris knew there was still a problem. Aunt Ursula wouldn’t live forever, and then what would happen?

  ‘My stomach is so empty. Empty and sad.’

  Not only did Jordi not cope well with being hungry, he was also anxious to speak to his dad.

  From the driveway’s edge, Iris could see black trunks staggered far into the distance. The sunshine made dappled patterns of light and shade, so it was easy to see things that weren’t there. Or not see things that were there.

  ‘Will you remember which parts of the estate we’ve searched?’ Iris asked.

  Jordi didn’t answer. He stood at the edge of the driveway, looking into the forest.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you see it?’ Jordi took a step forward.

  ‘See what?’ Iris’s insides flip-flopped. The birds stopped twittering.

  ‘I see something.’

  ‘You’re imagining things.’

  ‘I see it there. Something running.’

  Iris saw a fallen tree covered in moss, rocks, a carpet of ferns. Jordi reminded her of a cat stalking a bird.

  ‘We should look.’

  Jordi jumped into the ditch that ran alongside the driveway. Iris had no choice but to follow. For a shortie, Jordi sure could move.

  ‘Slow down!’

  Jordi had already made it over the fallen tree and was heading up a hill almost fifty metres ahead.

  A splinter pierced her palm when Iris belly-flopped across the tree, but there was no time to stop. Jordi crouched on the steep slope ahead, holding on to a trunk for balance. He gave Iris a hand up.

  A battered old black car was parked in a clearing at the top, partially covered in fallen branches and leaves.

  ‘Didn’t your dad tell us not to go near a car?’

  Iris was out of breath, but Jordi had already run ahead and was trying to force the driver’s door open. Iris glanced up and felt swoony. The towering trees were swaying like the masts of ships. The sky was still light.

  Jordi had his face pressed to the car window. The car was wedged so tightly between the trees that Iris couldn’t imagine how its driver had parked it there. It was broken down, not dangerous.

  ‘It’s even older than the one Señor Garcia drives,’ Iris said.

  She tried to remember what had been unusual about the car painting, but Uncle James’s paintings were all starting to blur together.

  ‘We can go for joyriding.’ Jordi walked to the rear of the car.

  Iris doubted if the car still worked. It was huge and rusty.

  She pulled at the weeds growing over the bonnet. They came away easily, exposing two round headlights, both cracked. The bonnet was torn across the front, leaving jagged bits of metal sticking into the air.

  ‘I think this car was in an accident.’

  The old-fashioned silver grille on the front of the car had prongs that attached at the top and bottom, all different shapes and sizes. They looked like—

  Iris stumbled backwards.

  Like teeth!

  The grille was a grinning mouth. The headlights were two blinded eyes.

  ‘Iris! Iris!’

  Iris dragged herself from the scarred face.

  Jordi crouched next to the car, inspecting the passenger door. There was a deep dent in it, but that wasn’t what had his attention.

  Instead the wheel was a large foot, as big as an elephant’s and covered with matted brown fur. Claws dug into the dirt. Iris glanced down where she stood—and realised the claw was now moving towards her.

  ‘Dios mio!’

  Jordi leant on the car to stand up, and gasped.

  ‘It’s warm,’ he s
aid. ‘Like alive.’

  Jordi’s and Iris’s eyes locked. They turned and ran—and didn’t look back.

  After Jordi had left, Iris parked herself in the climbing tree again, hugging a branch sloth-style. Her brain would surely explode while she was in Spain. Every time she remembered the feral car, a cold liquid shiver ran through her.

  In a way, its discovery was good. It was more likely than ever that a single tiger could be hiding on the estate. A tiger was much smaller than a car, and stealthier too.

  The back door clanged. Iris didn’t even lift her head.

  The tiger could be out there, she thought, but could it be found?

  Perhaps she was going about it back-to-front. The answer might lie with the subject of the portrait: Iris Freer.

  There was a crash and a high-pitched cry of distress.

  Iris leant out of the tree.

  Señor Garcia had dropped a large cardboard box on the patio. He crouched to recover the spilled contents. Iris spied several wigs and piles of red, silky fabric.

  Señor Garcia shuffled to the greenhouse. He set the box down and retrieved a small object from the windowsill. A key. Señor Garcia unlocked the door and took the box inside.

  Iris waited.

  After a moment or two, Señor Garcia emerged from the greenhouse again, this time carrying a flat rectangle wrapped in a white sheet. He staggered up the stone path, stopping halfway to rest. Iris felt sorry for him. His arms were little more than twigs.

  The sheet fell aside at the corner, revealing a picture frame, a floral pattern, and a dark patch of paint, perhaps the top of someone’s head. Iris slid down the trunk. He would be in big trouble if he had dropped a painting.

  But before she could reach him the back door opened. Aunt Ursula rushed out, wiping her hands on an apron. She said something to Señor Garcia and he began shaking as if he was laughing. Aunt Ursula patted his shoulder. Together they took the rectangle up the stairs and through the back door.

  Iris watched them, pressed against the tree trunk. She felt a little uncomfortable spying.

  Señor Garcia returned to lock the greenhouse door and put the key on the windowsill. Aunt Ursula came out again with a plate of biscuits. She put the plate down on the outdoor table. Then she drew her arm back like a baseball pitcher and threw an imaginary ball across the yard. The shadowhound raced across the dirt, skidding about in a cloud of dust.

  Elna had taken the night off. And because Aunt Ursula could not be bothered to set the table, dinner was served in the kitchen. It was the first time that Iris had been properly alone with her great-aunt for more than a few minutes.

  The kitchen at Bosque de Nubes was even more old-fashioned than the rest of the house, with worn benches and a chequerboard floor. The only stove available was the pot-bellied sort that you had to feed with wood. A kettle sat permanently on top.

  ‘Did you get a chance to play the Exquisite Corpse game?’

  Aunt Ursula poured herself a sherry and Iris a fizzy tangerine drink. They sat on stools at the bench. The overhead light wasn’t bright enough to banish all the shadows.

  Iris pulled out their drawing and smoothed it flat. She pushed aside a tray of biscuits to make space. The biscuits had an odd appearance—each had a leaf pressed into the dough, and some also had pieces of bark. Iris hoped she wouldn’t be offered one. She couldn’t help but think of all the fairytales where children were fattened up with delicious cake. Perhaps it was Jordi and his talk of witches that had brought it to mind.

  Aunt Ursula put on her reading glasses and examined their bear-spider-serpent creature. She’d changed into silky pants with a long Chinese-looking embroidered jacket over the top.

  ‘All the good bits belong to Jordi,’ Iris said. ‘I can’t draw, and I don’t understand art.’

  ‘You don’t need to. Children understand art. It’s grownups who know nothing about it.’

  ‘But I was wondering, Aunt Ursula, why do artists like this game so much?’

  ‘You’ve played it. What do you think?’

  Aunt Ursula went to the old green refrigerator, her silk jacket dragging on the floor.

  ‘Well, adults don’t usually play games. The worst thing about high school is that no one plays games anymore. There isn’t even any play equipment.’

  Iris’s brain was urging her to ask about the magic, or to tell Ursula about the surveyors, but her mouth had other ideas.

  ‘The boys still play football and basketball at lunchtime,’ she went on, ‘but the girls sit on the steps and talk. And all they talk about is clothes and TV and boys. It’s boring.’

  Aunt Ursula dished up two wedges of frittata onto their dinner plates.

  ‘In my experience, girls often pretend to be older than they really are,’ she remarked.

  That’s school exactly, Iris thought. Everyone pretending constantly, even Violet.

  ‘Did you ever do that, Aunt Ursula?’

  For some reason this made Aunt Ursula chuckle.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Iris, I’m not laughing at you.’ She spooned out the salad. ‘Actually, I did pretend this, once upon a time. When I first visited my brother in Paris at nineteen, I hid how little I knew of the world. I was constantly worried that someone was going to discover how green I really was. It became a game in itself: wearing the right clothes, going to the right parties, having the right opinions. It was very tiring.’

  Aunt Ursula handed a knife and fork to Iris.

  ‘What were you and Uncle James doing in Paris?’

  ‘James was supposed to be studying at the big-deal art academy, but he’d dropped out. Everyone predicted he’d come home with his tail between his legs, but instead he started selling lots of paintings. I was sent there to talk him into returning to Australia. War was brewing in Europe and my parents were desperate for him to return.’

  Ursula leant in. Her skin was paler than usual. Iris could trace the faint outlines of veins across her forehead, and there was a smudge of yellow and pink along her hairline.

  ‘No one suspected I had a secret plan. I knew from his letters that James had befriended some famous artists. I thought it was all absolutely marvellous and I was determined to join the gang. I had no intention of talking James into returning home!’

  Iris could hardly imagine how Ursula had dared to be so brazen. She could never lie about something so big.

  ‘You asked why the painters played the Exquisite Corpse game?’ Ursula continued. ‘This gang had a lot of games, just as children do. But the games had a serious purpose. It was a way for them to get in touch with a different part of their minds, a trick to make buried ideas and thoughts bubble up to the surface.’

  Iris felt more confused than ever.

  ‘Aunt Ursula? I have a question about Uncle James. Or it’s about one of his paintings, Iris and the Tiger?’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

  ‘What I want to know is: which room is it kept in? I found a picture of it in a book, but I’d love to see the real thing.’

  ‘Oh, the painting is in Barcelona. It’s worth too much to have here. The art gallery there keeps it safe. Bosque de Nubes is very…demanding. It’s so difficult to maintain things as they were.’

  Iris’s face grew stiff with disappointment. Uncle James had pictures in galleries all over the world; it had been stupid to think his best one would be hidden in the countryside.

  ‘Of course. That makes sense.’

  Her eyes started to sting, as if she were going to cry, just like a baby would. Why is it so important to me? It’s just a painting.

  ‘I suppose we could go to Barcelona and visit it,’ Aunt Ursula said. ‘It’s not so far to drive. It would take careful planning, of course.’

  ‘Only if you want to.’ Iris cut up the frittata into a dozen small pieces instead of crying.

  Aunt Ursula sported a familiar faraway look. ‘I yearn to see some of the other paintings again, naturally,’ she said, ‘but we could run into some problems. It sounds
as if she’s genuinely interested…what would it be like to spend a whole day with a little girl…?’

  Iris stopped cutting. ‘I am still here, you know.’

  It wasn’t like Iris to snoop, but she was literally led to it. All she’d wanted was to watch the sunset from the patio.

  The shadowhound had other ideas.

  It ran in front of her, rushing at her legs and then retreating. When it galloped right through her Iris felt a cool breeze.

  ‘I’ve got too much on my mind. Go away. I don’t want to play.’

  The dog wouldn’t give up. Somehow it made itself darker and clearer than usual against the marble paving. Iris remembered that the hound had belonged to Iris Freer, when it was alive and more than a shadow.

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, dog?’

  Iris followed the shadow to the greenhouse. She stood on tiptoes and felt for the key on the sill.

  Above the greenhouse roof was a row of windows belonging to the main building. The windows were curtained, but as Iris watched, the curtains twitched.

  Her fingers grasped the key finally. It was an old key, with a clover-shaped head. The curtains had grown still.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ asked Iris, but the shadowhound flickered away.

  The door opened smoothly. Iris had expected to walk into a messy storage shed but instead found herself in a painting studio. There were easels in a dozen shapes and sizes, canvases leaning against walls, and jam jars stuffed with paintbrushes.

  She locked the door from the inside, in case anyone should come by and try the doorhandle. The box that Señor Garcia had carried in was next to the door, spilling dark red satin and fake hair. One of the wigs was long and black and curly.

  Perhaps he puts them on his favourite lamp. Iris smiled.

  A few strands of ivy had burrowed through the windowpanes. Other than that, time had stopped in the studio. The easel at the centre held an unfinished painting. A cup and saucer sat next to Uncle James’s palette. It was freaky to imagine that one day Uncle James had walked away from his easel and never returned.