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

them in half. And I tell him about the time I climbed the big tree in the orchard and went out on a branch and couldn’t get back, though I must have done, because I was on my own.
    We both listen. The commotion downstairs has quietened. We wait a moment or two for more, but no one comes.
    I cuddle Blue Monkey close to me and climb back into bed.
    â€˜Thank you, Blue Monkey, for looking after me,’ I whisper. And we both fall fast asleep.

SIX
O SCAR HEARS ABOUT THE G REAT A UNT M ARGARET ’ S BABY
    â€˜Fire came down from heaven, therefore restlessly works itself through all combustibles till it returns thither again.’ Secker
    I look through the keyhole. It is cold against my eye, even though the fire burns and crackles in the corner of the room. By its light I can see Mother and Great Aunt, sitting close to each other. The record on the gramophone has gone silent.
    â€˜All right for you,’ says Great Aunt, her arms flailing around as if she is trying to keep her balance. ‘You have your child. Your golden boy. He’s all right. He’s alive and don’t I know it. The madness bubbling under those curly locks.’
    Mother says nothing. I can see the bun of her hair above the back of the armchair.
    My Great Aunt’s arms keep circling: the conductor to the orchestra of the flames.
    â€˜He can run around and play with that dog, free as a bird. But my baby, my darling baby girl. She is gone. She is gone and he is here. Every time I see him … he doesn’t know what he does. So unfair … unfair.’
    Her arms fall to her side. The only sound is the hissing of the fire.
    After a few moments I watch Mother get up from her chair and move towards her Aunt. She is doing something. I sense it is with tenderness. Rearranging Great Aunt’s hair; folding her reading glasses; placing the rosary beads on her lap. Then she sits back in her own chair. I am about to turn away when I hear a gentle sobbing. Rhythmic and heaving. I cannot tell if the crying is from Mother or Great Aunt.
    I knew there was a baby. My Great Aunt often told me the story of the coach-house fire.
    The first time she told me it was like this.
    There is a large blue flower in a vase. The shape of the flower is one I have never seen before. It spirals and twists up against itself as if in pain. At its end it flops back towards the table in tired submission. Its centre is a peppered yellow pod that lets tiny specks of pollen drop onto the shiny varnish of the table. My Great Aunt is pouring tea, so I bend down and lick up the pollen, like beads of sugar. She does not see me, though I notice my steamy tongue-print on the tabletop. As she turns around I rub away the evidence with the cuff of my cardigan.
    â€˜Sit down,’ she says. ‘It’s time for a true story.’
    She often tells me stories. Here in the coach-house. In the late afternoon. On the cake-stand is a single plate of biscuits. They look like dry cement. My Great Aunt looks serious and foreboding. She gestures for me to sit opposite her. Where she won’t be tempted to touch me.
    â€˜Your mother is not the only one in this family to have had a baby,’ she begins.
    For once she is not holding her rosary beads, but her fingers move between each other like spider legs. I listen, like I always listen to these words from the adults. Expecting anything; being surprised at nothing. I reach out and touch one of the stems in the vase. The pollen falls like snow. I press the grains on the tip of my finger. I can count them. Six, seven, eight. All this I do as I listen.
    â€˜She was a pumpkin. My dove. My bird. She lit my life with a flame of golden orange.’
    Then there is silence. I look at her. She is staring ahead. She is a mile away, years away. Then she gently sings. ‘She was as beautiful as a butterfly and as proud as a queen.’
    I lick the pollen. I taste it in my mouth. My Great Aunt is somewhere else and notices