Zea the Siberian Tigress
Emma Tennant, 3 May 1984
“... paces alone in her garden. An aging favourite, she knows the ritual of cleaning-time, the kiss of key in gate and cub led off, moon-eyed, to the far compound. By the pool, the patch of mud that never dries, she puts on speed. July-dark trees close round keepers walking in formation. It’s airless. The sun’s swaddled in white, as if a snow-god, the God who made Siberia, found on abandoning the crude paintbox of the taiga for the south’s half-tones, that he was bored here too and pegged out his blanket to sleep on the hills of Kent, garden of England ... ”