Free In Search of the Blue Tiger by Robert Power Page A

talks. ‘Be with your friends in the park. Don’t trouble yourself with adult things.’
    I stare at the floor. I may have said too much, too soon. The carpet is thick, a jungle. She doesn’t know that she and Stigir and Blue Monkey are all the friends I need.
    She is tapping the spoon on her teeth. I glance up and around. On the sideboard is a photo of a young man in a sailor suit. A diversion, a way out.
    â€˜Who is that?’ I ask.
    The tapping stops. She lays the spoon gently on the table.
    â€˜That fine young man,’ she says, ‘is Mr April.’
    Mr April looks back at me. He is tall and as handsome as a film star. His hair is blond. His eyes remind me of Mrs April. They smile and glitter, even though the photo is black and white. He is standing by the dockside. In the background is a huge grey battleship, bristling with guns, flags flying high and proud.
    â€˜He was lost at sea,’ says Mrs April, her voice drawing me away from the quayside and the shiny canons. ‘His ship was hit by a mine in the Bay of Biscay. It was the end of the war. It was all over. They were on their way home, but no one made it. The boat sank and there was no one there to rescue them. All souls were taken.’
    I look into his face. He seems young to me. Too young to be drowned. I look away from the photo, towards Mrs April. She smiles, her eyes never lose a trace of kindness.
    â€˜It was all a long time ago,’ she says softly, absent-mindedly. ‘Things happen to a person … His name is on the War Memorial in the town square. We were together a very short time. He loved to play chess. Do you play chess, Oscar?’
    I shake my head, concentrating on the jungle carpet.
    â€˜Then one day soon I will teach you,’ she says, clapping her hands. ‘Anyway, enough of this. Let’s have some cake.’
    Somewhere in the house a clock chimes. Mrs April gets up, walks over to the sideboard and picks up another plate.
    â€˜Chocolate éclairs,’ she says with an exaggerated squeal. ‘Real dairy cream for a treat. And then, young Oscar Flowers, you must tell me all about why animals and people find it hard to be friends.’

    It is quite dark in the cellar, but I have smuggled a candle and matches from the cupboard under the stairs. When I strike the match and light the wick, Stigir clacks his teeth together in excitement. Stigir is such a good listener. He loves it when I tell him stories from the books I’m reading.
    Rummaging in the trunk I pull out my Grandmother’s peacock scarf and wrap it loosely around my shoulders. I am off to the Castle of Otranto, I say to Stigir, waving the lighted candle from side to side to create an air of mystery. There are giants in the Castle and armoured statues with eyes that trace your steps and walls that shift and move from Birnham Wood to Dunsinane. Follow me, I add, with a flourish of my scarf, and Stigir trots along behind me. We walk a few steps. I unravel and wave the scarf from side to side. The peacock takes wing. What is this strange creature of the night that switches form from man to beast?
    There are shadows on the heath ahead. Stop, it is the weird sisters calling us from the cliffs. Abandon ship, we will be lured and dashed upon the rocks. Out, out, brief candle. I am dead.
    I fall to the ground, the peacock floating gently to my side. Stigir licks my cheek and snuggles down beside me. We stare into each other’s eyes, seeing who’ll be the first to blink. We lie close together, on a dusty old rug, my little blue dog and I. Does he dream of me? I wonder, listening to our breathing. Does he dream of fields and sheep? It is my last thought as I fall asleep and dream myself of Mrs April.

    She is under the water, playing chess with her dead husband. His face is white with so much washing. Her heavy linen dress sways like reeds in the current. She holds the black queen in her hand. As she speaks, bubbles flow