Philip Caveney - Tiger, Tiger

The kampong was now in pandemonium, shouts and curses spilling from every house. But to the bleary eyes of people stumbling from their beds, Haji was little more than a shadow, disappearing into the secondary jungle that bordered the village. The man who owned the calf quickly discovered his loss and began to exhort his friends into forming a rescue party. Hardly surprisingly, nobody seemed very keen on the idea of following the tiger into the jungle and anyway, they were more concerned with rounding up the other cattle and repairing the stockade. By the time anybody was organized enough to think of doing anything, Haji was half a mile away in the deepest jungle, enjoying a late but very satisfactory supper.

On Wednesdays, it was Harry’s custom to meet up with Dennis at the Officers’ Mess for a lunchtime drink. The ever-faithful trishaw driver would turn up at Harry’s doorstep around twelve o’clock and whisk him over to the barracks. No spoken agreement had ever been made about this. Harry was just grateful that he was saved the inconvenience of arranging transport on a weekly basis and he was careful to ensure that the old man was kept in a steady supply of cigars, which he evidently prized much more than extra money.

On this particular morning, however, the trishaw was uncharacteristically late. It was twelve-thirty, and Harry was just beginning to think about walking out in search of a cab when he saw the old man pedalling wearily up to the garden gate. Harry hurried out of the house and was concerned to see that the driver looked rather ill. His thin face was more haggard than ever, his eyes were ringed with redness, and there was an overall weariness about him that suggested he was far from healthy.

‘Sorry for lateness, Tuan,’ he croaked.

‘Sorry nothing! You look terrible. Are you ill?’

The old man shrugged. ‘It is nothing, Tuan … come, climb in. You are late …’

Harry shook his head.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he retorted. ‘You can’t drive me anywhere in that condition.’ He stepped forward and put his hand on the old man’s forehead. ‘Good lord, you’ve got a fever. You should be in bed.’

‘No, Tuan, I must work. Please, we go now, yes?’

Harry frowned, thought for a moment. Then a solution occurred to him.

‘Here, come along, off the bike.’ He grasped the driver by the elbow and helped him down. ‘Now, you climb in,’ he insisted.

‘But Tuan … what …? Surely, you cannot …?’ Harry pushed him firmly but gently into the passenger seat and then climbed astride the bicycle.

‘Let me see now,’ he murmured. ‘There can’t be all that much to it …’

‘Tuan, you cannot do this! It is not proper,’ protested the driver, but Harry waved him to silence.

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