The train driver was at lunch. The next train to depart, according to her blackboard, was 13.00. It was now 12.45. The miniature diesel locomotive and the row of blue carriages were empty in the station. Shut in his house on the far side of the lake, the lion, deeply troubled, was roaring his head off.
My grandson chose a carriage two from the front. He insisted on being the one who turned the little brass knob that opened the low door. The zoo train’s carriages are open carriages with room for two passengers, one facing forward, one back, knees touching. Our ice creams were starting to melt and drip. I found a paper serviette in my pocket and wiped the ice cream from his chin and hands and then I licked his lopsided ice cream back into shape and returned it. Alone on our beloved zoo train, we sat and finished our ice creams in perfect accord.
We’d had a marvellous morning. We’d seen tigers, we’d seen lions, we’d seen a matamata. (The matamata was standing glumly in exactly the same place in its tank of brown opaque water as it was the last time we came.) We’d seen the new orangutan baby that was featured on the local television news. We’d seen a huge mountain gorilla swing over and thump the safety glass so violently and unexpectedly with his forearm that a woman with a pushchair had screamed hysterically and made everyone, even herself, laugh.
Oscar had literally jumped for joy when I’d picked him up earlier that morning. He jumped up and down twice, an arm reaching for the sky. I don’t think anybody has jumped for joy to see me before. A good part of his joy, though, I expect, was inspired by the expectation of a ride on the zoo train.
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