The Tiger Who Came to Tea

What a strange, lovely book this is. A tiger knocks on the door, says he’s hungry and asks little Sophie if he can come in for tea. He then proceeds to eat and drink everything in the house, forcing Sophie and her parents to go out to a cafe for supper. The next day Sophie and Mummy stock up on provisions, and add a tin of Tiger Food in case their visitor returns.

The text is short; the illustrations wouldn’t look out of place in a Ladybird book from the 1960s: everything’s comfortably white and middle class. And yet. The tiger is drawn full size. And even though he smiles and is polite and allows himself to be cuddled by Sophie, he towers over his hosts and there’s nothing they can do to stop him helping himself to everything on the table and in the fridge and the pantry. And then when he’s done, he leaves. 

There’s something ever so slightly unsettling about it all. There’s no explanation for the tiger turning up. While he’s polite, he literally eats them out of house and home – however temporarily. And even though order is restored – the family together, supper in a cafe and shopping the next day – there’s always the chance that he might come back.

I’m wondering whether this is the reason why the book is still in print, 50 years after it was first published. Because instead of a neat, they-all-lived-happily-ever-after ending that’s easy to fold away and forget, this little bedtime story closes on a note of doubt – and possibly even regret.

And doesn’t that always linger longer in the mind?