In Search of the Blue Tiger (25 page)

‘Daddy', says Perch, ‘we wondered if you would help us in the rehearsal.'

Both Twins and the cat stare at Mr Fishcutter, awaiting his reply.

‘Of course,' he says, flabbergasted at being asked to take part in one of their activities.

‘I will be the voice of God,' announces Perch.

‘And I'm scriptwriter and director,' says Carp. ‘That's everything on the production side. Props and casting, makeup and wardrobe. Anything but acting.'

‘Oscar Flowers, the boy we have high hopes for as a Bible study, will be Abraham. He has a dog. The dog will be the ram in the bush.'

‘We are still casting for Isaac,' says Carp, stroking the upturned chin of the cat. Her stepmother looks on in quiet distress, what with it being dinner and all those germs.

‘We hoped you might be Isaac for our first rehearsal, until we find a child to play the part.'

‘Just to get us started. To help us on our way,' adds Perch, joining her sister in petting the purring cat.

‘For my darling daughters, anything,' he replies, forking the white meat of the fish into his mouth.

The cat's ears prick up, its nose senses the turn of events in the air.

Were-wolves have existed in many countries and civilisations. Pliny the Elder was a Roman Historian who believed a certain member of a family in each generation becomes a wolf for nine years. Pliny the Elder knew about were-wolves (he also wrote that bees could be killed by echoes and believed that the sound of clashing cymbals caused bees to swarm).

It is late at night. There is a flood of moonlight spread on the fishmonger's floor like a clean white sheet thrown onto a marriage bed. The salmon and trout, hake and swordfish have been packed away in boxes of shredded ice. Mrs Fishmonger wipes the back of her hand across her brow. It is deadly cold, but still she sweats from her labours. The rows of fish look up at her with sharp dead eyes, crystal clear. She wheels the boxes into the depths of the deepfreeze, the mortician of the undersea world. Back in the shop she sets about the nightly routine of sweeping and hosing the floors, washing down the large blocks of wood, locking all the doors and windows. More to keep out the town's tomcats than any burglars.

Finally, she collects up all the knives, rinses them under the hot tap and returns them to their place in the drawer by the counter. One is missing. She looks again. Counts them out on the draining board. ‘Four, five,' she says aloud. She lines them up. It is the small filleting knife. She looks around the shop, under tables, on top of cupboards. No sign. She puts the remaining knives away and then closes the door, making a mental note to ask her husband if he has taken the knife.

Directly above her head, Carp and Perch rehearse for the rehearsal. Not lines or positions, entrances or exits. They go through their moves with a length of rope they found amidst the nets and lobster pots on the quayside. They practise knots. Knots to tie and bind, to have and to hold.

Carp lies on the bed, Perch by her side.

‘Tighter,' commands Carp, the skin on her wrists burning from the friction.

‘Enough yet?' asks her sister, pulling for all she's worth, her toes pressed firmly against the foot of the bed. The packer's knot she learned from her mother tightening on itself with every tug. The cat stays under the dressing table where she will watch and wait until the Twins have finished for the night. Until they have slipped between the sheets and fallen to sleep. Only then will she leave the safety of her hidey-hole and make a dash for the hallway, squeezing soundlessly through the narrowest of kinks in the door.

It is not word or movement being rehearsed by the Twins, but action and intent.

The ancient
Book of Beasts
from the 12th Century says the latin for monkey is ‘simia', because people recognise a similarity to human reason in them. Monkeys are happy at the coming of the new moon. When the moon is half or full, monkeys become depressed. The book says when a female gives birth to twins she loves one greatly and hates the other. If the mother is chased she holds the twin she likes in her arms and the one she hates has to make do with jumping on her back with its arms around her neck. When she gets tired of running on her back legs, she throws away the one she loves so as to run on all fours. She is left carrying to safety the twin she hates.

Is this a clue? Something to do with Perch and Carp (and me?).

Blue Monkey: do you know?

The telephone is black and heavy. Mrs April sometimes shines the silvery chrome of its dial. She always runs the cloth over it when she dusts and polishes the small oak table on which it stands. She always notices the small scratch marks on one of the table legs. They remind her of the day she took in the stray cat. It stayed one afternoon, played with a ball of bottle-green knitting wool, drank the cream from the top of the milk, then used its powerful claws to scrape through the varnish and make its mark on the oak beneath. Having claimed its territory, it disappeared into the garden, never to return. Passing on her way to lock the front door against the rain and the night she bends down and runs her fingers along the scratch marks. The sudden ring from the phone catches her unawares. She jolts up, just missing banging her head on the lip of the table.

‘Hello,' she says, pressing the cold handset to her ear, her heart still racing.

‘It's me,' says the familiar voice.

‘Where are you?' asks Mrs April.

‘In a phonebox down by the docks,' replies Mr Fishcutter. ‘I need to see you.'

‘It's late. I'm just about to go to bed.'

‘No, not tonight,' he says. ‘I can't see you tonight. My head is spinning. Tomorrow, can I see you tomorrow? I have some things I must say to you. I can't speak now.' His voice is flat and distant. No hint of love talk. The familiar suddenly unfamiliar.

‘Things?' she says, expecting the worst. ‘You have some things to say?'

She tightens her grip on the phone. She hardens. Bracing and protecting herself. He says nothing. She can hear the faint resonance of rain. And the faintness of his breath.

‘Not on the phone,' he says. ‘Not now. I have to go. I'll come to your house tomorrow. At lunchtime. About one o'clock. Is that okay?'

‘Is that okay?' she answers with a sigh. ‘Okay, I'll see you tomorrow and you can tell me your things.'

She lets the receiver hang limp in her hand for a second. She can hear some sounds. He might be saying something, suspended, but then again maybe not. Maybe it's just the rain, or static on the line. She places the phone back on its cradle. It sits again on its solid oak table. Mrs April stands still. Alone again. She fancies something brushes by her leg. It makes her shiver. A draught under the door from outside. She goes to the front door, turns the key and locks up for the night. Walking back along the corridor towards the stairs and her bedroom, she passes by the phone and the table, but has no urge to bend down and caress the scars in the wood.

‘We can offer up much in the large, but to make sacrifices in little things is what we are seldom equal to.' Goethe

Yesterday at school, just before the end of playtime, Carp and Perch came over to the railings where I was scratching my initials with a sharp stone and told me where and when to meet them.

‘This is our secret rehearsal,' said Perch.

‘No one else is to know,' added Carp.

‘It will be our secret place.'

‘Just we.'

This is another story of how the animal people got fire. In the beginning of the world, there was no fire, so the animal people were very often cold. It was only the Thunders, living in the world beyond the sky arch, who had fire. At last they sent Lightning down to an island and Lightning put fire into the bottom of a hollow sycamore tree. The animals could not get to the fire because of the water surrounding the island. So they called a council to make a plan.

‘Let me go. I am large and strong,' said Raven.

At that time Raven was white. He flew high and far across the water and landed on top of the sycamore tree. He sat there looking down into the tree, wondering what to do next. The heat scorched his feathers black and the frightened Raven flew home without the fire. His feathers have been black ever since.

Next it was the turn of Screech Owl. He easily got to the island, but as he looked down into the hollow tree a blast of hot air nearly blinded him. He flew back home and to this very day, Screech Owl's eyes are red.

All the other birds and animals tried to reach the fire, but to no avail.

Finally, Water Spider, the smallest and weakest of them all, was given a chance. She could run on top of water and dive to the bottom of the sycamore tree.

‘But you are too little and weak, how will you carry enough fire?' the others asked.

‘I'll be okay,' answered Water Spider. ‘I can spin a web.'

So Water Spider spun a thread from her body. She wove this single thread into a little bowl that she fastened on her back. Then she crossed over to the island and through the grass. She put one little coal of fire into her bowl. Triumphantly, she brought it back across to the water to the animal people.