Читать книгу Fitting In - Colin Thompson - Страница 53

FEBRUARY 6th 1952

I was ill in bed, under the sheets making tunnels with books. Tigger was under the covers down at my feet staring up at me as I pushed toy cars down the tunnels.

‘The King’s bed,’ a muffled voice over by the door said and I came up to find my mother sitting on the eiderdown.

‘What?’

‘The King’s dead,’ my mother repeated.

‘Oh, I thought you said the King’s bed,’ I said and went back to my tunnels.

‘Is that Tigger down there?’ my mother said.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, get him out. I’ve told you about having the cat in the bed.’

‘But he likes it,’ I said, and so did I.

She didn’t like the cat being in the room. She didn’t like the affection he showed me or the affection I showed him, affection she couldn’t evoke or match. I used to hide Tigger in the bed in the evening and if I got away with it, my mother would have to get up in the middle of the night and let him out into the garden. No one seemed to notice that when Tigger was there I never had nightmares or wet the bed.