Philip Caveney - Tiger, Tiger

‘Of course, Mr Sullivan, you wouldn’t actually have to join in the hunt. See, what I’m really lookin’ for is a good guide, a tracker, someone who knows the ropes. I’d be willin’ to pay …” He saw from the outraged expression on Harry’s face that he had put his foot in it again and he glanced wildly at Melissa, hoping that she might bail him out.

‘What er … part of Australia are you from … ah … Bob?’ she ventured.

‘From New South Wales. Do you know it at all?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh, well you must go there sometime, it’s very beautiful.’

‘Anywhere near Botany Bay?’ enquired Harry unexpectedly.

‘Why do you ask that Mr Sullivan?’ asked Bob, brightening a little.

‘That’s where all the convicts landed, isn’t it?’

The two men glowered at each other across the table for a moment.

‘You know,’ exclaimed Melissa, with exaggerated jollity. ‘I was only saying to Daddy the other day. I wouldn’t mind learning to shoot, myself.’

‘Oh well, Miss Tremayne … Melissa … I’d be only too glad to give you some lessons, anytime you like …’

‘If Miss Tremayne decides she wants shooting lessons, I think she knows only too well that I can provide them,’ said Harry tonelessly. He turned to gaze at Melissa. ‘Strange you’ve never mentioned it before.’

‘Oh, well I …’

‘You can still shoot then?’ murmured Bob.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You can still shoot, Mr Sullivan. Only, I thought perhaps the reason you didn’t hunt anymore was because your eyes had gone … something like that.’

‘My eyesight is perfect, thank you.’

‘Well, it’s interesting this, but me and some of the junior officers have got together and organized a little target-shooting event for Saturday. They’ve got permission to use the rifle range at the barracks. Officially, the prize is just a crate of beer … but we’re going to put up a little money between ourselves, just to make it more fun. Everybody puts in fifty dollars and the winner takes the lot …’

‘Gambling.’ Harry said the one word in a measured, icy tone that seemed to transform it into something quite filthy.

‘Yeah … well, I appreciate not everybody approves of it … but you’ve got to do something to pass the hours away, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, Uncle Harry! It sounds like terrific fun,’ enthused Melissa. ‘Why don’t you go in for it? Then I could come along and cheer you on.’ She turned back to Bob. ‘Are members of the public allowed to come?’

‘Sure. The more the merrier, that’s what I reckon. But maybe Mr Sullivan doesn’t feel up to it …’ He glanced slyly at Harry. ‘After all, some of those young officers are crack shots; could be he doesn’t want to risk his fifty dollars.’

‘What time is this competition?’ snapped Harry defensively.

‘We’re starting off at ten in the morning before the sun gets too strong.’

‘I’ll be there,’ announced Harry calmly.

‘Fantastic!’ Melissa clapped her hands in anticipation. ‘I can hardly wait. I’ve always wanted to see you in action, Uncle Harry!’ She lifted her gin fizz and took a generous swallow of it. ‘Here’s to Saturday,’ she said.

‘Cheers.’ Bob raised his glass of beer and drank. Then the two of them glanced at Harry, but he remained motionless, his face impassive. The awkward silence returned.

‘About this tiger, Mr Sullivan,’ ventured Bob warily. ‘Couldn’t you give me some advice, at least? I don’t know the first thing about tiger hunting. I’ve been asking around the kampongs for guides, but nobody seems to have much idea. I suppose the obvious thing to do is to find the carcass of the cow he killed and then try tracking him into the jungle from there …’

Harry let out an exclamation of contempt.

‘Mr Beresford, that is the last thing you do! I only once ever resorted to trailing a tiger through its home ground and that time I was lucky to escape with my life. The tiger was wounded. The only possible reason for following a cat into the jungle is to put it out of its misery after your first shot has failed to finish it off.’

Bob shrugged.

‘Fair enough. But … how do you get the shot in, in the first place?’

Harry gazed at Bob contemptuously, almost wearily, like an aged schoolmaster regarding a particularly troublesome pupil.

‘You build a machan , Mr Beresford.’

‘A what?’

‘A tree platform. You place it in a tree overlooking the half-eaten kill. A tiger will return every night to feed on it. You fix a flashlight to the barrel of your gun and when you hear the cat eating, you aim, switch on the light, and shoot.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of finality. ‘One dead tiger,’ he said calmly. ‘Or possibly, one wounded tiger, which is when you come down the tree and follow him up.’

‘Ah. That sound a bit more sporting!’

Harry stared at Bob for a moment in silence.

‘Excuse me,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t realize we were discussing sport. I thought we were talking about killing tigers.’

Bob frowned. ‘Is there a difference?’ he enquired.

‘Oh yes. I wasn’t aware of it myself for a very long time. But now I can tell you with authority, that there is a difference; and one day, you’ll learn that for yourself.’ He picked up his drink and sipped at it thoughtfully.

‘So … er … how do I go about making this … machan ?’

‘There will be someone in the kampongs who remembers. Ask the older men to help you. It’s a long time since I heard of a tiger venturing out of the jungle. It may just kill once and go back, in which case there’s no reason to try and shoot it.’

‘Reason?’ Bob chuckled. ‘’Course there’s a reason!’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the tiger’s head trophy on the wall. ‘I want to put another head on the wall beside that one.’ He leaned forward as though confiding a secret. ‘I don’t want to worry you, Harry, but from what I’ve heard, this new tiger is a lot bigger than the one you’ve got there …’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it! It was one of the villagers who told you about it, was it?’

‘Well, yes …’

‘The Malays have a marvellous capacity for exaggeration.’ Harry pointed to the trophy. ‘That fellow there now. On several occasions, he was described to me as being over twelve feet long. A beast as big as a horse, with jaws like a crocodile, and as tall as a grown man. I measured him when I’d finished him off. He went exactly eight feet, six inches, between pegs. Not small by Malayan standards, but not exactly a monster either.’

Bob looked puzzled. ‘Between pegs?’ he echoed.

‘There are two ways of measuring tigers, Mr Beresford. The honest way is to drive a wooden peg into the ground by the tip of his nose and at the tip of his tail, then measure a straight line between. Some hunters prefer to measure over curves … laying the tape along all the contours of the body. That can add on another four or five inches. Very good for the ego, no doubt. Of course, it was the rajas in India who had the most ingenious method. They had special tape measures constructed that had a couple of inches taken out of every foot. Hence all those records of eleven- and twelve-foot cats, shot from the backs of elephants. It’s true that the Indian tiger does tend to be a little larger than its Malayan counterpart, but even so …’ He went into a silent muse for a few moments, his eyes narrowing as though he were squinting into some misty world that his companions could not see. Then he said, ‘I really wish you would leave that tiger alone, Mr Beresford.’