Tigers on the Beach by Doug MacLeod Page A

ghost.’
    I have a lump in my throat.
    â€˜It’s such a big house,’ says Grandma. ‘There are plenty of rooms to haunt. But the lazy blighter hasn’t turned up in a single one.’
    â€˜Mum, why don’t you stay with us for a little while?’ Mum says.
    â€˜I’ll be all right in the big house,’ says Grandma.
    â€˜Come on, Mum. You won’t be a bother. Will she, Ken?’
    Dad gazes at the wildebeests. ‘Of course you won’t,’ he says.
    â€˜You could stay in one of the cabins,’ says Mum. ‘Number two is free. We’ll be right next door if you need us.’
    â€˜Who’ll look after the big house?’ says Grandma.
    â€˜We’ll arrange something.’
    â€˜But you’ve a business to run.’
    â€˜We’ll manage. Won’t we, Ken?’
    â€˜It would be our pleasure,’ Dad says, because he knows it is the right thing to say. ‘We insist.’
    â€˜We’ll organise it right away,’ says Mum.
    Mum drives to Grandma’s house and collects three boxes of stuff. We spend the rest of the evening unpacking the boxes and making cabin number two into a granny flat. I find an old black-and-white photo of Grandma and Grandpa at the seaside. Grandpa looks odd with his long floppy hair. I don’t recognise the beach in the photo. We set up Grandma’s computer. She says she doesn’t want to leave it in the big house on The Escarpment because burglars might take it. In one of the boxes is a bottle of multicoloured balls the size of marbles. Xander opens the bottle and takes out one of the balls. It’s a milky pink colour. Its surface is soft and dimpled. Intrigued, Xander rolls it between his fingers. Then he squeezes and the ball bursts open. Sweet-smelling goo oozes out. He wipes the perfumed mess on his shirt.
    â€˜Alexander, please leave those things alone,’ says Grandma.
    â€˜What are they?’ Xander asks.
    â€˜Bath beads,’ says Grandma.
    â€˜What are they for?’
    â€˜You eat them with ice-cream.’
    Mum has a minor panic attack. ‘Grandma’s making a joke, Xander. Don’t eat them. They’re probably poisonous.’
    â€˜He knows I’m making a joke,’ says Grandma. ‘Don’t be silly. He only pretends to be odd.’
    When Grandma’s back is turned, Xander grabs a handful of the bath beads and stuffs them in his pocket. I don’t know why he wants them, but I’m sure he isn’t going to put them in the bath. In the bottom of the box is the little silver urn that contains Grandpa’s ashes. It’s a plain metal container with a wooden base and a screw top, the sort you’d find on a jar of pickles. It’s about twenty centimetres high. Grandma looks around, trying to find a suitable place for it.
    â€˜I’ll look after it, if you like,’ Mum says.
    â€˜No, I’d like to keep him here,’ Grandma says. She talks about the urn as though it is Grandpa himself. ‘Adam, could you move one of those chairs so that it’s facing the TV set?’
    I move the chair until Grandma is satisfied. She carefully places the urn containing Grandpa’s ashes on it.
    Mum shakes her head. ‘No, Mum, you can’t leave it there.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Someone might sit on it.’
    â€˜They’d have to be an idiot. I suppose Alexander might.’
    â€˜Please put the urn somewhere else,’ says Mum.
    â€˜I like it where it is.’
    â€˜We are
not
leaving Dad out on a chair.’
    Mum picks up the urn then looks around, trying to find a more suitable location. Where do you stick an urn full of ashes? Grandma takes the urn from Mum and places it back on the chair.
    â€˜Reginald liked watching Sir David Attenborough,’ says Grandma. ‘I want him there.’
    â€˜All right,’ says Mum. ‘And Xander has Asperger’s. Please don’t make fun of