Page 12 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“May we touch her?” Tanveer asked.

My father nodded. We moved as a unit and each of us placed a hand on her head. Her ear was soft and flexible, the whiskers long and magnificent. Tanveer tilted his head, feeling under her jaw, around her nose. “She is just like a cat.”

One of the hunters snorted. “A cat that would eat you like a mouse, tearing you bit by bit.”

I shuddered, looking at her big yellowed teeth. I stroked her shoulder, realizing that my fantasy of her seeing me and letting me be was only that, a fantasy. She would have eaten me, too, and that seemedboth terrifying and fair. It had been her world and we invaded it. Surely she was right to kill invaders? “I’m sorry,” I whispered, then kissed her and fled to a hidden place in the garden where I could weep my sorrow out properly.

Tanveer found me there a little while later. I had worn myself out sobbing, and rested my face on my arms at the small table. He touched my shoulder, and I looked up. He was silently weeping, and I stood up to embrace him, letting him cry on my shoulder, taking comfort in our shared despair. “She was so beautiful,” he said.

“She was,” I agreed.

“We shall never forget her.”

“Never.”

A Phone Call from Afar

September 7–8, 1940

London

—7—

The story of the tiger distracted us for a time, but after an hour, I lost steam. The teapot had run dry, and we’d eaten all the biscuits. We fell silent, listening to the world beyond our little room. Whistling, distant booms, the rattle of guns and engines overhead.

Mother relentlessly knitted. Betty sniffled. Peter paced the very small area available to him, raising the tension in the room. He could hardly settle. His hands were shaking. My pity was laced with fear—his demons could make him violent and cruel. The presence of my mother ordinarily kept his temper in check, but these were extraordinary circumstances.

“I need a smoke,” he growled.

“Peter,” my mother said mildly. “It will no doubt be over soon. Just wait. Surely a cigarette isn’t worth dying for.”

He grunted, recommenced his pacing. Four steps to the far wall, four steps back.

Again.

For another hour, we huddled together, Betty curled against me, her body tensing every time we heard the whistle of a falling bomb and waited, waited, waited for it to land. The sound of the explosion let us know how far or near it was. Most of them farther. One or two nearby, the noise rattling the window glass, sending showers of dirt over our heads.

Mother brushed it from her shoulders. “We’ll need to cover the ceiling with cloth, I suppose.”

Just after six, the sustained song of the all-clear siren rang. Betty spoke for all of us when she patted her bosom and stood up eagerly. “I need the loo something fierce.”

My mother laughed, holding out a hand so Betty could help her up. “Indeed.”

Peter was already to the top of the stairs, and by the time I brought up the rear, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Betty,” I said, “perhaps we shall have sandwiches for our supper? Is there any bacon left this week?”

“Not a bit,” she said. “I have some tomatoes from the garden, and can fry some potatoes.”

“That sounds just right,” Mother said. She reached for the wall to take a breath. The ordeal had exhausted her.

“Come,” I said, catching her by the waist. “Let’s go sit while we wait.”

She didn’t protest, leaning on me as we made our way down the corridor. “I loved remembering the tiger,” I said in an upbeat tone.

“The summer we met the Singh family.” She settled in her chair. “Quite notable in your life, certainly.”

I deflected. “I’ll fetch a cup of tea.”