Read Online In Search of the Blue Tiger by Robert Power - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Power
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says to herself, to break the mood, reminding herself that the stray cat who once scratched the furniture in the hallway had long since disappeared down the lane.
She fumbles to reach for her glasses, gasping as the pain shoots up her back, and squints at the clock. Noting it is far too early, she pulls the blanket up to her chin, breathing deeply to keep the pain at bay.
âI must be careful humping all those books to the top shelf,â she thinks to herself, rubbing the small of her back with her fist.
Outside, she hears the whistle of the wind in the trees; inside, she hears her mind wandering down the avenues of her past.
First comes Mr Preachwell, the vicar, who comforted her in the months after her young husbandâs tragic death, and then, a week after Easter, took her by the hand and led her gently to the bedroom in the attic of the vicarage. She remembers well the sweet smell of the clematis that climbed to the open window (to peek in on the lovers?). And remembers (was it a year later?) when he came to her in the library (she was atop the step-ladder, then, shelving books: how ironic) to tell her he was off to Kenya to spread the word of the Gospel. He smiled up at her; she smiled back, knowing his ambition was to be fulfilled. But hers? She was a young woman, still open to hope and adventure, but her mother was ill and needed her only daughter.
One by one, her mind resurrects the lovers who shared her bed in the years since her husband drowned. The trace of a smile, an old photograph on the pier, ice cream and candy floss, tender words, a gentle touch on her tear-filled cheek, footsteps turning a corner, a branch scratching on a frosty windowpane. And then her current paramour. Strong sensations of those early passionate days and weeks: fiery and breathless, hungry and heady. Immediate. She tastes his skin, feels his strength, recalls the sweet exhaustion. And then more recently a cooling off, a reticence. A foreboding.
The dawn is threatening to dispel the gloom, but her back still aches and she feels an uncertainty and uneasiness that is unfamiliar.
Outside, passing by her window, she hears the wings of a bird and then the distinct and harsh caw of a crow.
EIGHT
O SCAR GETS TO EAT CAKE WITH M RS A PRIL
âLook how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine.â Byron
There is a rhythm to the town, like the tide in its name. In the early morning the people of Tidetown pop from their houses. They ebb and flow through the streets, sucked into fisheries and factories, offices and boat yards. There they stay, the roads and byways largely empty, dry and still, bereft of movement, save for the trickle of mothers and children. Come evening, the streets swell again and the townsfolk merge and meander back to their homes, once again safe and secure for the night. Out on the headland the lighthouse scours the coastline, picking out any who have strayed too close to shore, illuminating them for all to see.
A man sat next to me in the park this morning. He stroked Stigir and said my little dog looked liked Victoria Plum jam and could he spread him on buttered toast and have him for breakfast.
He laughed, so I laughed.
Then he went quiet and said something Mother said was strange when I told her later. And she said I should always get up and go if anyone says things like that again and she said he was a beast and I should find a policeman and tell them. But I liked what he said and it is not anywhere near as strange as the things I hear in this house.
This is what he said:
âI hope the noises in my head are not disturbing you.â
I donât think he was a beast; he was soft like a cygnet that was having trouble flying.
Mrs April lives on a street with beautiful trees. They are happy, preening themselves contentedly in the early evening breeze. There is a calmness to this street. The houses have brightly lit porches. The doors have stained-glass panels
She fumbles to reach for her glasses, gasping as the pain shoots up her back, and squints at the clock. Noting it is far too early, she pulls the blanket up to her chin, breathing deeply to keep the pain at bay.
âI must be careful humping all those books to the top shelf,â she thinks to herself, rubbing the small of her back with her fist.
Outside, she hears the whistle of the wind in the trees; inside, she hears her mind wandering down the avenues of her past.
First comes Mr Preachwell, the vicar, who comforted her in the months after her young husbandâs tragic death, and then, a week after Easter, took her by the hand and led her gently to the bedroom in the attic of the vicarage. She remembers well the sweet smell of the clematis that climbed to the open window (to peek in on the lovers?). And remembers (was it a year later?) when he came to her in the library (she was atop the step-ladder, then, shelving books: how ironic) to tell her he was off to Kenya to spread the word of the Gospel. He smiled up at her; she smiled back, knowing his ambition was to be fulfilled. But hers? She was a young woman, still open to hope and adventure, but her mother was ill and needed her only daughter.
One by one, her mind resurrects the lovers who shared her bed in the years since her husband drowned. The trace of a smile, an old photograph on the pier, ice cream and candy floss, tender words, a gentle touch on her tear-filled cheek, footsteps turning a corner, a branch scratching on a frosty windowpane. And then her current paramour. Strong sensations of those early passionate days and weeks: fiery and breathless, hungry and heady. Immediate. She tastes his skin, feels his strength, recalls the sweet exhaustion. And then more recently a cooling off, a reticence. A foreboding.
The dawn is threatening to dispel the gloom, but her back still aches and she feels an uncertainty and uneasiness that is unfamiliar.
Outside, passing by her window, she hears the wings of a bird and then the distinct and harsh caw of a crow.
EIGHT
O SCAR GETS TO EAT CAKE WITH M RS A PRIL
âLook how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine.â Byron
There is a rhythm to the town, like the tide in its name. In the early morning the people of Tidetown pop from their houses. They ebb and flow through the streets, sucked into fisheries and factories, offices and boat yards. There they stay, the roads and byways largely empty, dry and still, bereft of movement, save for the trickle of mothers and children. Come evening, the streets swell again and the townsfolk merge and meander back to their homes, once again safe and secure for the night. Out on the headland the lighthouse scours the coastline, picking out any who have strayed too close to shore, illuminating them for all to see.
A man sat next to me in the park this morning. He stroked Stigir and said my little dog looked liked Victoria Plum jam and could he spread him on buttered toast and have him for breakfast.
He laughed, so I laughed.
Then he went quiet and said something Mother said was strange when I told her later. And she said I should always get up and go if anyone says things like that again and she said he was a beast and I should find a policeman and tell them. But I liked what he said and it is not anywhere near as strange as the things I hear in this house.
This is what he said:
âI hope the noises in my head are not disturbing you.â
I donât think he was a beast; he was soft like a cygnet that was having trouble flying.
Mrs April lives on a street with beautiful trees. They are happy, preening themselves contentedly in the early evening breeze. There is a calmness to this street. The houses have brightly lit porches. The doors have stained-glass panels
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