blurry with tears so that she could barely see, but she knew the way well enough. Every so often she slowed and looked down at the precious friend she was carrying in her arms. For a second each time there was a flicker of hope. It was all a mistake. Tiger wasn’t dead. He’d look into her face and purr at her and close his eyes as she stroked the side of his head, then he’d wriggle around because he wanted to be let down to play. But Tiger didn’t raise his head. His fur was bunched into damp points from lying out in the wet. In the half-light, just for a second it seemed his eyes opened and she gasped. But of course it was a trick of the light and her own wishes. His eyes were two tight, pained lines and his face didn’t look like him any more. All the cheeky, fiery life that was in him had gone. Maryann could hardly stand to look at him, with his poor, floppy neck. She ran along the street sobbing her heart out.
‘Oh, Tiger, my little Tiger!’ She didn’t care who saw her. And mixed with her grief she could hear Nance’s words in her head, ‘someone’s broke ’is neck . . . throttled ’im and broke ’is neck’ and the terrible knowledge, as she ran along, that she knew who that someone was. Someone who kicked Tiger out of the way with his shiny boot every time the cat crossed his path, the someone who liked to have clean hands and clean nails, who had sat making them play cards with him when all the time he knew where Tiger was because he must have put him there. She thought she might burst with her rage and hatred of Norman Griffin.
She ran down Ledsam Street and tore across the yard to her Nan’s cottage, pushing in urgently through the door.
‘Nan, oh Nanny – look what that bastard’s done to Tiger!’
But Nanny Firkin was not in the kitchen and the place was as cold as ice, no fire in the range. Maryann had been in such a state she hadn’t noticed the unusual darkness of the windows. There was a rank smell of cat urine and as Maryann burst in the three cats all rushed at her, tails up, miaowing for food, their fur appearing to be standing on end in the gloom. Walt the parrot shifted silently on his perch. There was a dish on the table containing the dried-up remains of porridge.
‘Nan?’ Maryann wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, the eerie feel of the place breaking through her grief over Tiger. The other cats were rubbing against her legs. ‘Nanny, where are yer?’ It was unheard of for her Nan not to be in her kitchen. Then she remembered Nanny Firkin was ill, that she’d had a cough and her chest was bad. Hadn’t her mother been in that day? The cats were acting as if they hadn’t eaten for a week.
Maryann went to the stairs. ‘Nanny? It’s Maryann.’
But there was no reply. She laid Tiger on the floor and climbed up, somehow feeling she needed to tip-toe. Maybe Nanny Firkin was asleep.
The old lady was lying in her bed. Maryann saw the little bump where her little feet were sticking up under the cover. The room smelt stale. When Maryann went over to her she saw in the dimming light from the window that her grandmother’s hair was down out of the pins and straggly round her face and her cheeks looked hollowed out. She was on her back with her eyes and mouth half open and she looked like a wizened doll. There was no movement from her, not a flicker.
‘Nan?’ Maryann whispered. She knew there would be no reply, that whatever it was that really made Nanny Firkin her Nan, was gone, but she couldn’t take it in. Nanny Firkin was always there like the sky, she was supposed to live for ever. This wasn’t really her any more, this body lying here. Maryann suddenly felt a prickle of terror pass through her, her whole body shuddered and she backed away, and ran back down the stairs. She left Tiger and ran all the way home again.
‘Mom! Mom!’
Seven
The lamplighters were round lighting up as they all ran back to Ledsam Street, Flo still in her apron, with Maryann,
‘Oh, Tiger, my little Tiger!’ She didn’t care who saw her. And mixed with her grief she could hear Nance’s words in her head, ‘someone’s broke ’is neck . . . throttled ’im and broke ’is neck’ and the terrible knowledge, as she ran along, that she knew who that someone was. Someone who kicked Tiger out of the way with his shiny boot every time the cat crossed his path, the someone who liked to have clean hands and clean nails, who had sat making them play cards with him when all the time he knew where Tiger was because he must have put him there. She thought she might burst with her rage and hatred of Norman Griffin.
She ran down Ledsam Street and tore across the yard to her Nan’s cottage, pushing in urgently through the door.
‘Nan, oh Nanny – look what that bastard’s done to Tiger!’
But Nanny Firkin was not in the kitchen and the place was as cold as ice, no fire in the range. Maryann had been in such a state she hadn’t noticed the unusual darkness of the windows. There was a rank smell of cat urine and as Maryann burst in the three cats all rushed at her, tails up, miaowing for food, their fur appearing to be standing on end in the gloom. Walt the parrot shifted silently on his perch. There was a dish on the table containing the dried-up remains of porridge.
‘Nan?’ Maryann wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, the eerie feel of the place breaking through her grief over Tiger. The other cats were rubbing against her legs. ‘Nanny, where are yer?’ It was unheard of for her Nan not to be in her kitchen. Then she remembered Nanny Firkin was ill, that she’d had a cough and her chest was bad. Hadn’t her mother been in that day? The cats were acting as if they hadn’t eaten for a week.
Maryann went to the stairs. ‘Nanny? It’s Maryann.’
But there was no reply. She laid Tiger on the floor and climbed up, somehow feeling she needed to tip-toe. Maybe Nanny Firkin was asleep.
The old lady was lying in her bed. Maryann saw the little bump where her little feet were sticking up under the cover. The room smelt stale. When Maryann went over to her she saw in the dimming light from the window that her grandmother’s hair was down out of the pins and straggly round her face and her cheeks looked hollowed out. She was on her back with her eyes and mouth half open and she looked like a wizened doll. There was no movement from her, not a flicker.
‘Nan?’ Maryann whispered. She knew there would be no reply, that whatever it was that really made Nanny Firkin her Nan, was gone, but she couldn’t take it in. Nanny Firkin was always there like the sky, she was supposed to live for ever. This wasn’t really her any more, this body lying here. Maryann suddenly felt a prickle of terror pass through her, her whole body shuddered and she backed away, and ran back down the stairs. She left Tiger and ran all the way home again.
‘Mom! Mom!’
Seven
The lamplighters were round lighting up as they all ran back to Ledsam Street, Flo still in her apron, with Maryann,
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