Publisher's Synopsis
"A poignant memoir featuring my extended family," Musician Norman Cook, a.k.a. FatBoy Slim
"An unforgettable tale of courage and love, focused on real events. What a precious book." Jane Lythell, author of After the Storm "Fascinating, honest and poignant, with writing so beautiful I had to reread several passages." Angela Petch, author of The Tuscan Secret "No More Tigers is a truly gorgeous memoir, romantic, magical and atmospheric. I was moved to tears." Laura Lockington, book-reviewing podcaster "When I was eight, I walked out of Burma..."So begins the true story of Mary Rayner's childhood, a beautifully written and deeply moving account of a family who for several generations lived in colonial Burma, and of what happened to Mary and her siblings when World War 2 shattered their lives.Featuring dozens of original photographs that capture the people and places that were once part of the British Empire, plus the heartbreaking love letters from a her father and mother who were torn apart by war, No More Tigers is a tale of resilience and survival which readers of all ages can enjoy. It is a quest for understanding, for home, for answers. Packed so full of detail it carries you away to a different time and place, it's laugh-aloud funny, yet isn't afraid to ask uncomfortable questions about how we used to live.
* From the author/illustrator of the much-loved picture books, Mr & Mrs Pig's Evening Out, Garth Pig & The Icecream Lady, Mrs Pig's Bulk Buy and many more
* Introduced by Mary's daughter, Sarah Rayner, author of the international bestselling novel One Moment, One Morning
* Packed full of family photographs, images conveying what the war was like and maps to show where events took place
* A must-read for anyone interested in the tragic tale of WW2's Forgotten Army
* 25% of profits are being donated to WWF's Save the Tiger campaign
* Suitable for readers aged 11+ and those who enjoy YA
* An ideal Christmas gift for older people
* For fans of The Diary of Anne Frank, The Tattooist of Auschwitz and Lady in Waiting
Chapter One:
What is my country? I have no country, nowhere that I can call truly my own. Oh yes, I live in a village tucked below the rolling downs of Wiltshire, in a house that has been here for centuries; I know the history and the trees and the wildflowers and the birds and the architecture of England probably as well if not better than most, because it has been important to me to learn it, to adopt it as my own, but it is not deeply and thoroughly mine.
The landscape that feels right to me is on a grander scale. The hills are parched, tawny and dry, the skies are blue, the rivers are wide. Why does it still, after forty years and more, seem an imposition to put on shoes and stockings or socks? Because bare feet or sandals are the right and proper thing. Why does the fall of leaves in autumn fill me with foreboding, the smell of chrysanthemums revolt me? Because winter is a hostile season. Cold winds that others find invigorating-make my ears and teeth ache. And I remain convinced that the only way to enjoy swimming is to be so hot in the sun that you are desperate to drop into a cool envelope of water.
And why this permanent sense of dislocation? Because I was not born here. I am an alien, a refugee, a changeling. I only arrived in this country when my deepest loyalties were already forged, my natural bonds already made. And those ties were made half a world away, in other latitudes, in a country to which, I have come to feel, my own nation had no right, and to which I cannot return. When I was eight, I walked out of Burma.
