while May Days got the warthog out of the pen, put a towel on her lap and fed the wrinkly little creature from a baby’s bottle. The warthog guzzled and milk dribbled down its chin.
“Would you like to feed her?” asked May Days, but Tiger was busy drawing again.
“Would you like to hold her?” asked May Days, but Tiger had colouring to finish.
“Would you like to give her a name?” said May Days, and Tiger looked up and said she’d think about that.
Tiger thought of Stinky and Saggy, Snorty and Pooper, but none of these names seemed to quite sum up the knockedy-kneed creature. She’d have to think some more, but it was hard to find a name for something she didn’t really care for.
Dennis sat at the table beside Tiger and told her what he did at the zoo. It was mostly feeding and cleaning poop by the sound of it, but he did look very interesting in his dark glasses, with his wide smile, and Tiger thought she might prefer it if Dennis was staying instead of the warthog.
“Isn’t Willowgate amazing?” asked Dennis.
Tiger put the lid back on her orange colouring pen. She’d finished a tiger picture for Dennis too, but neither of the drawings made her feel happy like she did in her room at home.
Tiger thought about home, her family, her soft bed, her striped blanket and the sign on her bedroom door with her name on it.
“I’ve never been to a house where a warthog lived in the kitchen. And I’ve never camped in a tent,” Tiger said, quietly.
“I don’t suppose it feels like home to the wartie yet either,” said Dennis. The wartie was back in the pen, her head drooping.
“What was her old home like?” said Tiger.
“Empty,” he said. “She’s an orphan.”
Tiger leaned over the table. The warthog looked up. Tiny dark eyes glistened and blinked at Tiger. That’s why she looked so sad. She had no family anywhere at all.
“Hello,” said Tiger to the wartie, even though they had already met.
“Are you missing home?” asked May Days that night when Tiger was zipped up in her sleeping bag on her camp bed.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you miss Africa?”
“Terribly,” May Days said. “Makes me feel all out of sorts.”
Tiger whispered, “I know what you mean. Being here feels a bit unusual and skew-whiff in your tummy.”
“We’ll be fine,” said May Days, and they held hands across the tent. “Have you thought of a name for the wartie yet?”
Tiger nodded. “Monday,” she said.
“I like it,” said May Days. “What made you think of that?”
“Because Monday is the beginning of the week, and being here is the beginning of something new,” said Tiger, softly. “And as we are all Days I thought she might like to be part of our family too.”
Tiger was used to the bustling and rumbling of cars, buses and trains in the town where she lived, but there were more unusual sounds at Willowgate.
“What’s that screeching?” Tiger asked.
“A barn owl,” said May Days.
“What’s that plopping?” Tiger asked.
“Squirrels dropping pine cones on the roof.”
“What’s that racket?” Tiger said in the kitchen one day.
“Oh dear,” May Days said as the ceiling shuddered and the pipes grumbled. “The plumbing’s up the spout.”
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