Read In Search of the Blue Tiger for Free Online Page B

is such a wonderful colour. He’s almost mauve.’
    I search for something to say. ‘I’ll come to the library on Tuesday,’ and I lower my head.
    â€˜Good,’ she answers, easy as slicing a peach. ‘Well, I’m taking a walk around the lake. Shall we walk together?’
    â€˜Er … ummm … that would be nice,’ I say, the way I’ve heard some adults speak. And it would.
    â€˜And what is the name of your lovely dog?’
    â€˜He’s called Stigir,’ I reply as we walk along the gravel path by the rose bed.
    â€˜What an imaginative name. How did you come to choose that?’
    So I tell her how the dog got his name. It happened like this.
    It is a Sunday morning. The wind is up in the garden. Some crisp brown leaves scratch at the kitchen door. The Mother sits at the table, peeling something. The Great Aunt looks out the window, watching another autumn slipping away. There is a silence of sorts and I sense my opportunity.
    â€˜Stigir,’ I shout at the dog, who is doing nothing. He pricks up his ears from the corner of the room. ‘Stigir, stop doing that.’
    The dog looks around, trying to make sense of the words. No one else moves. The two women: deep in their own worlds.
    â€˜Stigir,’ I say slowly, clearly, ‘stop stigging about.’
    The Mother stops peeling. ‘Stigger?’ she says.
    The Great Aunt turns from the window. She wears a thick black frock with a white ruff. She looks like someone from an old painting. ‘I’ve never heard a dog called Stigger,’ she says with a disdainful look on her face. ‘What sort of a name is that then? Ask him,’ she says, prodding her finger in the direction of Mother.
    â€˜I call him Stigir because he’s always stigging about,’ I answer before the Mother gets a chance. I’m prepared for this. To stand my ground. To do battle.
    â€˜Stigging?’ says Mother, her voice a bit high-pitched. ‘What’s stigging?’
    â€˜Look,’ I say, pointing at my little dog. ‘He’s doing it now.’
    Stigir looks decidedly confused, his head moving up and down and from side to side. Then he nuzzles his nose into the old battered sofa by the door.
    â€˜See, he’s stirring and digging. Aren’t you, Stigir? You’re stigging, aren’t you?’
    Mother nearly smiles. The Great Aunt just scowls. But she reckons it sounds more like a dog name than a cat name.
    When I finish telling her the story I look at Mrs April. She is smiling. Only me and Blue Monkey and the Stigir dog know the secret behind the name. But I want to tell someone else. Someone I can trust. Someone who would understand.
    â€˜They said I couldn’t call him Tiger,’ I say to Mrs April, the sun jumping off the water of the lake onto her lizard brooch.
    I look over to the bandstand, but the Twins are nowhere in sight. Stigir pricks up his ears, as if something else is nearby.
    â€˜Who said you couldn’t call him Tiger?’ she replies.
    We are so close to the edge of the lake. Near to where I once saw a turtle basking in the sun on a piece of wood jutting out of the water. Like the survivor of a shipwreck. Floating on a sliver of splintered plank.
    â€˜They. Mother, Great Aunt,’ I say, remembering the turtle, the way its neck stretched, slower than the unfurling of a leaf.
    â€˜So you called him Stigger instead? It’s a nice name,’ she says, turning her face to the sun. Drinking in the warmth, the nourishment. A tendon stands out along her neck. It is strong and sinewy like the metal cables on the canal lock gates.
    â€˜Can you keep a secret?’ I whisper.
    She looks away from the sun towards me. The light catches the pearl necklace she wears. They are like drops of sparkling milk. She smiles, but is serious.
    â€˜Yes, I can, if you want me to,’ she says, her voice gentle.
    â€˜Well, his name is secret. Stigir. S. T. I. G.