On that last evening they were sitting out on deck, and Billy had his arm around the fox. He could feel the fox pulling away from him but held on, reluctant to let him go in case he did not come back. ‘Billy, old son,’ said Joe. ‘That fox sitting beside you is a wild fox. He loves you, Billy, as much as you love him. He loves you like a mother, Billy. But foxes leave their mothers, old son. If he comes to rely on you he won’t be a real fox any more, you’ll have taken away his wildness, Billy, and that would be a terrible thing, almost like taking his soul away from him. Let him go, Billy. Let him go, old son.’
Billy released his hold on the fox and immediately the fox leapt for the shore and ran off. Joe and Billy waited on the deck until the night settled black about them before going to bed.
Billy did not even call for the fox that night, he knew by now that there was no point. He knew he was losing him. It was a hot night, too hot to sleep, and anyway half of him was always awake waiting for the fox. It was that night that he told Joe all about Aunty May and all the other aunties and uncles he had had. He told him everything there was to tell, for it was easier to talk in the dark. He told him about the swan, about the lucky grey feather he kept under his pillow, about his stutter, about Mr Brownlow and about the Wilderness, and all about the four fox cubs he had tried to keep alive. Joe listened in silence and never said a word when he had finished except: ‘Goodnight Billy, old son.’
The fox was not back by first light nor by breakfast time. Billy could eat no breakfast that morning. Much against Joe’s advice he went out into the fields calling and whistling for him to come. When he returned to the barge Joe could see the boy had been crying. Nothing would comfort him and Joe knew it, so he did not attempt it. As he watched the boy sitting dejected in the bow of the barge waiting for the fox, Joe made up his mind what he would do.
He was sure that the fox would come back eventually, and so he did, at about midday, padding across the field towards them. Joe saw it first and had his gun ready to hand. He waited until it was close enough before firing both barrels of his shotgun in the air above the fox. Billy was on his feet and screaming at Joe to stop shooting, but Joe loaded again and fired over the fox’s head. The fox turned and ran for about twenty paces and then stopped again. ‘It’s the only way, Billy,’ said Joe, loading the gun once again. ‘The fox has only one enemy, Billy; man, you and me. If you want him to survive out there, then it’s a lesson you’ll have to teach him yourself.’ He handed Billy the gun. ‘Fire into the sky, Billy. Frighten him so he’ll never come back. Do it Billy, do it for him, and do it now.’
Billy pulled the trigger twice and watched the fox bolt across the field and vanish into the trees.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FOR SOME DAYS AFTER THAT BILLY WOULD neither speak nor eat. He sat in the bows of the barge, his grey feather in his hand, his eyes scouring the countryside round about for the fox. Joe left him alone with himself. He knew there was nothing he could say that would not sound trite, so he preferred to say nothing until the wound had begun to heal, as he knew it would.
Billy was sitting out on deck that last night on the barge, trying to drag his soul out of the darkness. He knew Joe was not to blame, that he ought to speak to him, that the right thing had been done, but he could not bring himself to say anything. When Joe came and sat beside him, puffing on his pipe, Billy looked away. ‘Billy, old son,’ he said. ‘Only last year something happened to me that made me feel just like you feel now. It made me feel that life was unfair and cruel, that the world was a terrible place where I did not belong. They were black days, Billy, but I had a friend, a dear friend, who made me see that it was worth going on, that the swans still needed to be cared for, that life had to be lived. You have to look at it this way, Billy, old son. That fox is out there right now where he should be, and he’s there because you kept him alive against all the odds. That’s your reward, Billy, old son.’ And when Joe put his arm around Billy’s shoulder, Billy could cry as he had needed to all that time, all those ten long years.
The next day they were cruising down a broad stretch of river, passing an island that was white with swans. They were travelling faster than usual for some reason, engine at full throttle, when suddenly the engine died, leaving them floating silently towards the bank. As the barge slowed, pushing into the reeds, Joe shouted to Billy to jump off and tie up.
‘Sounds bad,’ he said. ‘Poor old girl – she’s just about due for retirement. Built her myself, Billy, my father and I did. Nearly forty years old she is. I’ll have a look below – see if I can fix her. Tie her up properly fore and aft, won’t you Billy. Wouldn’t want to drift on this stretch with no engine.’ And he lifted the engine hatch and peered into it, shaking his head. Time after time he tried to start her up but the engine never even gave so much as a hopeful cough. He rubbed his hands with an oily rag. ‘It’s no good, Billy old son,’ he said, ‘she’s had it. Needs help if we’re going to get her started again. Still, if we’ve got to break down somewhere I suppose this isn’t a bad spot to do it. See that house up there across the fields – must be a telephone in a place like that. Come on.’
They walked from the river, along an avenue of lime trees that led to an ancient red-brick house with gabled roofs and stone mullion windows. There was a huge pond with wonderfully coloured ducks swimming around in it, and the hedges on either side were clipped out like great birds, pheasants, cockatoos. And there were roses, roses everywhere. ‘Big, isn’t it?’ said Billy. ‘Like a palace. Wouldn’t want to clean the windows in this place.’ But Joe said nothing. He seemed suddenly tense, almost excited. They crossed the deep crunchy gravel and walked up the steps to the huge oak front door that was studded with nails. But to Billy’s amazement Joe did not knock on the door at all but walked straight in. He threw his straw hat onto a chair and ushering Billy in front of him, marched through the hallway into a huge sitting room where there were paintings as big as the walls in Billy’s bedroom back at Aunty May’s. There were two people in the room, a smiling policeman with three stripes on his arm, standing with his back to the fireplace, his hands behind his back. And sitting in an armchair beside him was a lady who got up as they came into the room. Billy sensed some kind of trap and backed away. But Joe took his hand gently and led him in.
‘Well, here he is, dear,’ said Joe, kissing the lady fondly on both cheeks. ‘I brought him home, just like you wanted me to. This is Billy Bunch. Billy old son, I want you to meet Molly.’
‘You married then?’ Billy asked, looking up at Joe, and Joe nodded.
‘Hallo Billy,’ she said, as she kissed him on both cheeks. The lady did not have to bend down far for she was short. Her hair, which was greying at the temples, was drawn up behind her in a plait and pinned to the top of her head. She smelt of flowers and wore no make-up and Billy liked that. ‘Joe’s told me so much about you, I feel I know you quite well already.’ Billy had a hundred questions, but there was no time to ask even one.
‘And Billy,’ said Joe, ‘this is Police Sergeant William Fazackerly. Now he has his own very special reason for wanting to help you. And he has been a great help, Billy, sorted it all out with the Social Services people. They know you’re here, Billy. You see, old son, I knew who you were that first morning when you came to the barge. Not at first, I didn’t. At first I thought you were someone else – but I’ll tell you about that in a minute, Billy. You were in all the papers, Billy, on the radio. Everyone was on the lookout for you. Luckily Sergeant Fazackerly here had visited my barge the day before. They knew you were heading in the direction of the river; asked me to keep a lookout for you. So I was half expecting you to turn up, and when you did I rang the Sergeant from the village that same morning, told him I’d found you and that they could call off the search; and I told him I’d look after you till I got home. After that I rang Molly here and I told her all about you and she thought what I thought, that some things are meant to be. She told me to bring you home. So I did and here we are.’
<
br /> ‘You live here? In this place? You don’t live on the barge?’ Billy asked, trying to piece it all together.
Joe shook his head and smiled. ‘So you see I knew all about you, old son, even before you told me yourself, but I was glad you did that, old son, very glad. You don’t know about us though, do you Billy? Well, maybe it’s time I told you. It all happened about a year ago, Billy. It was early springtime, Billy, and we’d found four little cygnets high and dry after a flood, no parent bird around. My son, Christopher – he was about your age – he fed them and looked after them for a few weeks, and then when they were ready to fly we decided to release them. We ringed them as we always do the young ones and took the barge upstream for a few miles to get them away from the swannery on the island – didn’t want to risk them being attacked by the adult birds. We were two days up-river, weren’t we, Molly, and Christopher was releasing them from the bank. I was busy tinkering with the engine; Molly was in the galley. When I went up on deck later the four cygnets were swimming away but there was no sign of Christopher. We don’t know how it happened even now, Billy, but they found him downstream later that day, drowned. That was the great sadness I told you about on the barge, Billy. It was the same for you when you lost your fox. Soon as I saw you that morning, Billy, soon as I knew it wasn’t Christopher walking across the field towards me, I thought to myself that providence had smiled on us and was giving us back a son. We need you, old son, Molly and me, every bit as much as you need us. We know we get on, don’t we; we love the same things. And if you get on with me, you’ll get on with Molly. Molly wants to be your mother, Billy, and I want to be your father, if you’ll have us.’
Sergeant Fazackerly looked at the boy. ‘Well, Billy Bunch,’ he said. ‘Can I tell the office you’ll be staying here with these good people?’
‘For good?’ Billy asked. ‘Do you mean for ever?’
‘We mean for ever, Billy,’ said Joe, putting his arm around his wife. Molly nodded. ‘For ever, Billy,’ she said.
‘Take it or leave it, son,’ said Sergeant Fazackerly. ‘I know what I’d do.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Billy. And he put his hand in his pocket to find his feather, but it was gone. ‘Must have dropped my lucky feather,’ he said.
‘Won’t need it any more, will you?’ said Joe. ‘Not any more.’
If any of them had looked out of the window at that moment they would have seen a solitary swan standing by the duck-pond, looking up at the house. Round her left leg she wore a red plastic ring. She waddled towards the pond and settled into the water, frightening the ducks out of the pond. Then she was taking off, her wings beating the water behind her, her legs paddling the water, lifting her high into the air down the lime avenue towards the swannery, all her debts paid, her mission accomplished at last.
Michael Morpurgo, Little Foxes
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