The world of Tigers caught on camera

Wednesday 25th Jul 2012
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<div>“We’ll go to the Island. Just like our </div><div>mothers. Houses right next door.”</div><div>Nick smiled, thinking about Tiger House, its </div><div>airy rooms, the expanse of green lawn that </div><div>disappeared into the blue of the harbor.</div><div><br></div>
“We’ll go to the Island. Just like our 
mothers. Houses right next door.”
Nick smiled, thinking about Tiger House, its 
airy rooms, the expanse of green lawn that 
disappeared into the blue of the harbor.

<div>“I think that one,” Daisy said, pointing to one </div><div>spread out on the bed. Navy blue, with </div><div>lobsters printed on its full skirt. </div><div>“To go with the Lobster Bisque.”</div><div>“I agree,” Aunt Helena said, suddenly </div><div>sounding cheerful and definite. </div><div>“I was thinking that would be just the ticket.”</div><div><br></div>
“I think that one,” Daisy said, pointing to one 
spread out on the bed. Navy blue, with 
lobsters printed on its full skirt. 
“To go with the Lobster Bisque.”
“I agree,” Aunt Helena said, suddenly 
sounding cheerful and definite. 
“I was thinking that would be just the ticket.”


Midmorning swimmers were already walking <div>the shoreline of the Chappy bathing beach, </div><div>with its red-and-blue-striped bathhouses, </div><div>and behind him Hughes could hear the bell </div><div>on the dock ringing for the skipper of the On </div><div>Time, calling him to make his way across.</div>
Midmorning swimmers were already walking 
the shoreline of the Chappy bathing beach, 
with its red-and-blue-striped bathhouses, 
and behind him Hughes could hear the bell 
on the dock ringing for the skipper of the On 
Time, calling him to make his way across.
The beautiful decanters, her grandmother’s<div> crystal, each with a silver plaque that had </div><div>the name of the alcohol engraved in swirling </div><div>script. Her father had taught her to put the</div><div> gin in first, then the ice.</div>
The beautiful decanters, her grandmother’s
 crystal, each with a silver plaque that had 
the name of the alcohol engraved in swirling 
script. Her father had taught her to put the
 gin in first, then the ice.


Daisy unscrewed the wooden press from her <div>racket and laced her fingers between the </div><div>strings, pulling on the gut. </div>
Daisy unscrewed the wooden press from her 
racket and laced her fingers between the 
strings, pulling on the gut. 
The ground was damp and I could see the<div> moon. The first thing I thought was: Daisy.<br></div>
The ground was damp and I could see the
 moon. The first thing I thought was: Daisy.


Hughes could feel the bridge of his nose <div>crisping and he found himself squinting </div><div>behind his sunglasses, already sticky with </div><div>salt.</div>
Hughes could feel the bridge of his nose 
crisping and he found himself squinting 
behind his sunglasses, already sticky with 
salt.
Daisy huffed into her beloved bedroom, with<div> the twin brass beds and the pink rosette</div><div> wallpaper she had been allowed to pick out</div><div>herself.<br></div>
Daisy huffed into her beloved bedroom, with
 the twin brass beds and the pink rosette
 wallpaper she had been allowed to pick out
herself.


<div>It was hushed back there at that time of day,</div><div>deserted by the well-heeled on their way to </div><div>the Yacht Club for cocktails, or evening sailors</div><div>on their way to Cape Pogue with their picnics.</div><div><br></div>
It was hushed back there at that time of day,
deserted by the well-heeled on their way to 
the Yacht Club for cocktails, or evening sailors
on their way to Cape Pogue with their picnics.

Her mother said that the blue was rare and <div>came from the way her grandmother had</div><div> mulched them with coffee grounds.</div>
Her mother said that the blue was rare and 
came from the way her grandmother had
 mulched them with coffee grounds.


He thought of Nick, at home, perhaps getting<div>ready for bed, the small sigh that escaped </div><div>her lips when she sat at her dressing table at</div><div>the end of an evening. He looked back out at</div><div>the dark water and pushed the idea out of </div><div>his head.</div>
He thought of Nick, at home, perhaps getting
ready for bed, the small sigh that escaped 
her lips when she sat at her dressing table at
the end of an evening. He looked back out at
the dark water and pushed the idea out of 
his head.
It was the kind of day that you didn’t need<div> to remember from a distance to know it was </div><div>a good one.</div>
It was the kind of day that you didn’t need
 to remember from a distance to know it was 
a good one.

Listen to the Tigers in Red Weather playlist, created by author Liza Klaussmann.

Wondering where the wonderful title comes from? Find out here.

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