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on a rough path is a tiger. I sense it is on patrol, marking its territory. I feel no fear as it turns its head towards me. The colour and texture of its fur is like marmalade. Its presence grips me in a spell. I hold up my book and try to speak, but no words come from my mouth. The tiger just looks on, keeping me in its sights.
    When I wake up, the dream wet on my tongue, I get my scrapbook down from the shelf and open to the next blank page. This is what I write.
    I must learn everything about tigers, so that when I become one I will know how to be and what to do and when to do it. I will collect a new tiger fact every day and write it down here. If I don’t understand it exactly, that will be OK as it will make sense when I get older. I have found one book in the school library on tigers. I will search in the cellar for more. My tiger fact collection will be my manual for being a tiger, like the one I got to make a crystal radio (but better, because that didn’t work no matter how hard I tried and anyway the Father threw it in the bin in a mood – the manual, not the radio, that’s still in lots of bits in the box). He always gets angry when he can’t do things. Like when we played cards once and he couldn’t follow the rules, so he kicked the table in the air (clubs and hearts, diamonds and spades flying across the kitchen). We don’t play card games anymore and no one makes anything.
Tiger Fact
    Even though men have done their best to kill all tigers, there are still more different types alive than there are extinct.
    Scientific names of tiger (Panthera tigris)
Remaining sub-species:
Bengal: Panthera tigris tigris
Siberian: Panthera tigris altaica
South-Chinese: Panthera tigris amoyenis
Sumatran: Panthera tigris sumatrae
Indo-Chinese: Panthera tigris corbetti
    Extinct sub-species:
Caspian: Panthera tigris virgata
Javan: Panthera tigris sondaica
Balinese: Panthera tigris balica

FIVE
O SCAR MEETS M RS A PRIL IN THE PARK
    â€˜The joys of meeting pay the pangs of absence; else who could bear it?’Rowe
    A Thursday in the park, walking my plum-coloured dog. The sun is bright and warm for this time of year. One of those fantastic crisp days lighting up the sky, before winter finally snuffles it out. Somewhere over by the lake I hear music. The sun is low, so I shield my eyes. The light is reflected off the brass instruments of the Salvation Army playing in the bandstand. They are playing a jaunty tune to a group of children. Recognising the melody, I sing along.
    â€˜The animals went in two by two, hurrah, hurrah.
The animals went in two by two, hurrah, hurrah.
The animals went in two by two, the tiger and the kangaroo …’
    My dog barks in appreciation. Then he barks a different bark, as if something strange has caught his attention. It’s then I spot the Fishcutter Twins on the edge of the crowd by the bandstand. They wear identical navy blue overcoats and bottle-green berets. Although they are a distance away, I sense they are watching me. I want to go towards them. I want to ask them about names and animals and Jehovah. I tug on my dog’s lead to pull him in their direction, but he refuses to move. Then I see another figure walking on the pathway between us. With a gasp, I realise it is her.
    Under her jacket she wears a white blouse with an emerald green lizard across her bosom. I see the lizard; then I look at the ground. She is here. Away from the library. Walking outside in the park. Walking, not sitting or shelving. I am to meet her away from the safety and haven of the library. She holds a cream canvas parasol in a gloved hand. The lace trim of the glove against her wrist.
    She gets closer. I stare at my dog. His tongue hangs from the side of his mouth like a slice of honeyed ham. I feel my face flush and redden.
    â€˜Oscar, how nice to see you,’ she says with a smile. ‘And what a lovely little dog.’ She bends to stroke my dog’s head. ‘He