Sleeping Tiger Read Free Page A

ruled by Mrs. Bruce. Agnes, who had once been her maid, and Mrs. Hopkins, the cook, and Selina, were all her obedient subjects, and a man, unless it was Mr. Arthurstone, Grandmother’s lawyer, or, in more recent years, Rodney Ackland, representing Mr. Arthurstone, had scarcely ever entered the house. When one did—to mend a pipe, do a bit of painting, or read the meter—Selina was invariably found in his company, asking questions. Was he married? Did he have children? What were the children called? Where did they go for their holidays? It was one of the few things that made Agnes cross.
    â€œWhat on earth would your grandmother say if she could hear you at it—keeping the man from his work?”
    â€œI wasn’t.” On occasions Selina could be stubborn.
    â€œWhat do you want to talk to him for?”
    She could not answer because she did not understand why it was so important. But nobody would talk about her father. His name was never mentioned. Selina did not even know what he had been called, for Mrs. Bruce was her mother’s mother and Selina had taken her name.
    Once, indignant on some score, she had asked outright, “I want to know where my father is. Why haven’t I got one? Everybody else has.”
    She had been told, coldly, but quite kindly, that he was dead.
    Selina was taken regularly to Sunday school. “Do you mean he’s gone to heaven?”
    Mrs. Bruce had tugged at a tiresome knot in her tapestry wool. The idea of That Man consorting with the angels she found hard to swallow, but her religious discipline was strong and it would be wrong to disillusion the child.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œWhat happened to him?”
    â€œHe was killed in the war.”
    â€œHow killed? How was he killed?” (She could imagine nothing more horrifying than being run over by a bus.)
    â€œWe never knew, Selina. We really can’t tell you. Now—” Mrs. Bruce glanced at her watch with an air that indicated the conversation was closed. “Go and tell Agnes it’s time for your walk.”
    Agnes, when tackled, proved a little more forthcoming.
    â€œAgnes, my father’s dead.”
    â€œYes,” said Agnes. “I know.”
    â€œHow long has he been dead?”
    â€œSince the war. Since nineteen forty-five.”
    â€œDid he ever see me?”
    â€œNo. He died before you were born.”
    This was discouraging.
    â€œDid you ever see him, Agnes?”
    â€œYes,” said Agnes reluctantly. “When your mother was engaged to him.”
    â€œWhat was his name, Agnes?”
    â€œNow that, I cannot tell you. I promised your grandmother. She doesn’t want you to know.”
    â€œWell, was he nice? Was he good-looking? What colour was his hair? How old was he? Did you like him?”
    Agnes, who was also highly-principled, answered the one question that she could answer truthfully.
    â€œHe was very good-looking. Now, I think that’s enough. Hurry along, Selina, and don’t drag your feet; you’ll scuff the toes of your new shoes.”
    â€œI’d like to have a father,” said Selina, and later that afternoon spent half-an-hour or more standing watching a father and son sail their model yacht on the Round Pond, edging nearer and nearer all the time in the hope of listening in to their conversation.
    *   *   *
    She found the photograph when she was fifteen. It was a depressing, wet London Wednesday. There was nothing to do. Agnes had her day off, Mrs. Hopkins was sitting with her arthritic legs on a footstool, immersed in the People’s Friend. Grandmother had a bridge party. Muted voices and the smell of expensive cigarettes stole from behind the closed drawing-room doors. Nothing to do! Selina, prowling restlessly, came into the spare bedroom, looked at the view from the window, made a few film-star faces into the triple mirror, and was just on the way out when she noticed the books