AlsobyMichaelMorpurgo

ArthurHighKingofBritainEscapeFromShangri-LaFriendorFoeFromHereaboutHillTheGhostofGraniaO’MalleyKensuke’sKingdomKingoftheCloudForestsLongWayHomeMrNobody’sEyes

MyFriendWalterTheNineLivesofMontezumaTheSandmanandtheTurtlesTheSleepingSwordTwistofGoldWaitingforAnyaWarHorseTheWarofJenkins’EarTheWhiteHorseofZennorWhytheWhalesCame

ForyoungerreadersAnimalTalesConkerMairi’sMermaidTheMarbleCrusherOnAngelWingsTheBestChristmasPresentintheWorld

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin1984

byKaye&WardLtdThiseditionpublished2008byEgmontUKLimited

239KensingtonHighStreet,LondonW86SA

Textcopyright©1984MichaelMorpurgo

Coverillustrationcopyright©2008TomHartley

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ISBN9781405233392eBookISBN9781780311760

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ForBasty,RationandRoss

TableofContents

CoverTitlePageCopyrightDedicationChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFour

ChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteen

CHAPTERONE

BILLY BUNCH CAME INABOXONEWINTRYnightten years ago. It was a largebox with these wordsstencilled across it: ‘Handlewith care. This side up.Perishable.’

For Police ConstableWilliam Fazackerly this wasanightnevertobeforgotten.Hehadpoundedthestreetsall

night checking shop doorsand windows, but it was toocoldanightevenforburglars.Ashecame round thecornerand saw the welcome bluelight above the door of thePolice Station, he wasthinking only of the mug ofsweethotteawaitingforhimin the canteen. He boundedupthestepstwoatatimeandnearlytrippedovertheboxatthetop.

Atfirstitlookedlikeabox

of flowers, for a great bunchofcarnations–bluefromthelight above – filled it fromend to end. He croucheddownandparted the flowers.Billy lay there swathed inblankets up to his chin. Afluffy woollen bonnetcovered his head and ears sothat all Police ConstableFazackerly could see of himweretwowideopeneyesandatoothlessmouththatsmiledcherubicallyupathim.There

was a note attached to theflowers: ‘Please look afterhim’,itread.

Police ConstableFazackerly sat down besidetheboxandtickledthechild’svoluminous cheeks and thesmile broke at once into agiggle so infectious that theyoung policeman dissolvedinto a high-pitched chucklethat soon brought the DeskSergeant and half the nightshift out to investigate. The

flowers – and they turnedwhiteoncetheywereinside–were droppedunceremoniously into PoliceConstable Fazackerly’shelmet, and the child wasborne into the Station by theDesk Sergeant, a mostproprietary grin creasing hisface. ‘Don’t stand theregawping,’hesaid.‘Iwanthotwaterbottles,lotsof’emandquickly. Got to get himwarm; and Fazackerly, you

phone for the doctor and tellhimit’surgent.Goon,lad,goon.’ And it was the sameDesk Sergeant who to hiseternal credit named thechild, not after himself, butafter the young PoliceConstable who had foundhim.‘I’venamedafewwaifsand strays in my time,’ hesaid, ‘and I’ll not condemnanychildtocarryanamelikeFazackerly all his life. ButBilly he’ll be – not Billy

Carnation,he’dneverforgiveus–no.Nowletmesee,howabout Billy Bunch for short?How’sthatforaname,youngfeller-me-lad?’ And Billygiggledhisapproval.

Billy did not know it, butthatmomentinhisboxonthetable in the InterrogationRoom with half a dozenadoring policemen bendingover him was to be his lasttasteoftruecontentmentforalong time. He was not to

know it either, but he sent ayoung policeman home thatnighttohisbedwithhisheartsinging inside him. BillyBunch was a name he wasnevertoforget.

Billy Bunch was takenaway to hospital andprocessedfromthereon.Firsttherewasthechildren’shomewhere he stayed for somemonths whilst appeals andsearches were carried out tosee if anyone would claim

him. No one did. In all thattimehe had only one visitor.Onceaweekonhisafternoonoff PoliceConstableWilliamFazackerly would come andsit by his cradle, but as themonths passed the childseemed to recognisehimlessand less, andwould cry nowwhenhereachedouttotouchhim. So, because he felt hewas making the childunhappy,hestoppedcoming.

By his first birthdayBilly

Bunch had entirely lost thesmile he had come with. Agrim seriousnessovershadowed him and hebecame pensive and silent,andthisdidnothingtoendearhimtothenurseswho, tryasthey did, could find little toloveinthechild.Neitherwasheanattractiveboy.Oncehehadlost thechubbycharmofhis infancy, his ears wereseen to stick out more thanthey should and they could

find no parting for his hairwhichwouldneverliedown.

He did not walk when itwas expected of him, for hesawnoneedto.Heremainedobstinately impervious toeither bribes or threats andwas quite content to shufflearoundon his bottom for thefirst two and a half years ofhis life, one leg curledunderneath him acting as hisrudder, thumb deep in hismouth and forefinger planted

resolutelyuphisleftnostril.And speech did not come

easily to him as it did withother children in the home.Eventhefewwordshespokerefused to leave his mouthwithout his having to contorthis lips and spit them out.This stuttermadehimall themore reluctant tocommunicate and he turnedto pictures and eventually,whenhecouldread,tobooksforcomfort.

No foster family, itseemed, wanted to keep himfor long; and each time hiscase was packed again toreturntothechildren’shome,it simply confirmed that hewas indeed alone andunwantedinthisworld.

School made it worse ifanything. The frequentchanges from one fosterhome to another spoiled anychanceshemighthavehadofmaking firm friends in those

early years.And certainly hewas not proving to be afavourite with the teachers.He was not bright in theclassroom, but most of theteachers could forgive himthat. The troublewas that heseemed completelyuninterested and made littleattempt to disguise it. All hewanted todowas to read,buthe would never read whattheywantedhimtoread.

And with his fellows he

was nomore popular, for hewas neither strong nor agileand had little stomach forcompetitive games of anykind. At play time he wouldwander alone, hands deep inhis pockets, his browsfurrowed. The other childrenwere nomore beastly to himthan theywere toeachother,in fact they paid him scantattention.Were it not for hisstutter he would have gonethrough each day at school

almostunnoticed.Mrs Simpson, or Aunty

Mayasshelikedtobecalled,wasthelatestinthelonglineof foster mothers. She hadthin lips, Billy noticed, thatshemadeupbright scarlet tolooklikeakiss,andsheworecurlerseverySundaynightinher fuzzy purple hair. Shewas a widow with grown-upchildrenwholivedaway.Shekeptacleanenoughhouseonthe tenth floor of a block of

flats that dominated thatwind-swept estate on theoutskirts of the city. TheestatehadbeenbuiltaftertheWar to accommodate theworkers needed for thenearby motor factory, andaccommodatewasallitdid.Itwas tidily organised withrank upon rank of identicalbox houses, detached andsemi-detached, spread outlike a giant spider’s webaround the central block of

flats where Billy now lived.Therewas littlegrass toplayon and what there was wasforbidden to him because hemight getmuddy, andAuntyMay did not like that. ‘Afterall, you know,’ she wascontinually reminding him,‘they only give me so muchtokeepyoueachweek,Billy,and I can’t be for everspending on extra washingjust because you go out andgetyourselfinastate.Ican’t

think why you don’t go andplay in the adventureplayground with the otherchildren. It’s all concretethere, and much better foryou.It’snotfaironme,Billy,not fair at all. I’ve told youbefore,Billy, if you can’t doasyou’re told,you’llhave togo.’

That was always the finalthreat, and not one to whichBillywasusuallysusceptible,for most of his foster homes

hadmeant littlemore to himthanaroofoverhisheadandthree meals a day. Seen likethat, one such home wasmuchlikeanyother.But thishome was the only one thathadeverbeenspecialtohim.This one he wanted verymuch to stay in, not onaccount of Aunty May whonagged him incessantly, andcertainly not on account ofthe school where he lived indread of the daily tortureMr

Brownlow, his frog-eyedteacher, inflicted upon him.‘Stand up, Billy,’ he wouldsay.‘Yourturnnow.Standupand read out the next page,aloud. And don’t take fiveminutes about it, lad. Just doit.’And so he did it, but theinevitable sniggers as hestuttered his waythroughadded yet more tissue to thescar of hurt and humiliationhe tried so hard to disguise.No, he endured all that and

Aunty May only because hehad hisWilderness down bythe canal to which he couldescapeandbeatlastamongstfriends.

CHAPTERTWO

THE CHAPEL OF STCUTHBERT, OR WHATwas left of it, lay in theremotest corner of the estate,agaunt ancient ruin thatwascrumbling slowly intooblivion.Likeeverythingelsestanding on the site it wouldhave been bulldozed whenthe estate was built, but apreservation order had

ensured its survival–noonewas quite sure why. So theyerected a chain-link fencearound the graveyard thatsurrounded the ruins and putupawarningsign:‘Keepout.Danger of falling masonry.’And, for the most part, thechildrenontheestatedidkeepout,notbecauseofthesign–few of them knew whatmasonry was anyway – butrather because it wascommon knowledge that

there were ghosts roamingaround the graveyard. Andthe few who had venturedthrough thewireand into theWilderness beyond returnedwith stories of strangerustlings in the undergrowth,footsteps that followed themrelentlessly, and head-highwhisperingnettlesthatlashedat intruders as they tried toescape. This was enough todiscourage all but the mostadventurouschildren.

Billy was by no meansadventurous,buthenolongerbelieved in ghosts and likemost children he had alwaysbeen intrigued by anythingthat was forbidden. He wasononeofhissolitaryeveningwanderings shortly after hecametolivewithAuntyMaywhen he saw a great whiteowlflyoverhisheadandintothevaultedruins.Itpassedsoclosetohimthathecouldfeelthe wind of its wings in his

hair. He saw it settle on oneof the arched windows highupintheruins.Itwasbecausehe wanted a closer look thathe pulled up the rusty wireand clambered into theWilderness.

Since that first eveningBilly had returned every dayto his Wilderness; skulkingalong the wire until he wassurenoonewouldseehimgoin,forthemagicofthisplacewould be instantly shattered

by any intrusion on hisprivacy.Hewoulddiveunderthe wire, never forgetting tostraightenitupbehindhimsothat no one would everdiscover his way in, andwould fight his way throughthe undergrowth of laurelsand yew out into the opengraveyard.Hidden now fromtheestate,andwiththeworldwild about him, Billy at lastfound peace. Here he couldlie back on the springy grass

the rabbitshadcroppedshortand soft, andwatch the larksrising into the sky until theyvanished into the sun. Herehe could keep a lookout forhis owls high in the stonewall of the chapel itself, hecould laugh out loud at thesparrows’ noisywarfare, callback at the insistent call ofthe greenfinch and applaudsilently the delicate dance ofthe wagtails on thegravestones.

In the evenings, if he layquite still for long enough,the rabbits would emergetentative from their burrowsandsnifffordanger,andhowhis heart leapt with thecomplimenttheypaidhimbyignoringhim.Noneedevertobring his books here. It wasenoughforhimtobeapartofthisparadise.Hedidnotneedto know the name of a redadmiral butterfly or a greenwoodpeckerinordertoenjoy

their beauty. He came toknow every bird, everycreature, that frequented hisWilderness and looked uponthemashisown.Inspringhetookituponhimself toguardthe fledglings against theinvasion of predatory catsfrom theestate. A stingingshot from his catapult wasusually sufficient to deterthem from a return visit. Hewas lord of his Wilderness,itsguardiananditskeeper.

Beyondthechapelwasthecanal.The ruin itself and thegraveyard were screened onthat side by a jungle ofwillows and alder trees, andnearer thecanalbyabankofhogweed and foxgloves.Hidden here, Billy couldwatch unobserved as themoorhens and coots jerkedtheir way through the stillwater, their young scootingafterthem.

But his greatest joy was

the pair of brilliantkingfishersthatflashedbysofast and so straight that atfirst Billy thought he hadimagined them. All thatsummer he watched themcome and go. He was therewhen the two young werelearningtofish.Hewastherewhen the four of them satside by side no more than afew feet from him, theirblazing orange and blueunreal against thegreensand

browns of the canal banks.Only the dragonflies anddamselflies gave them anycompetition;butforBillythekingfishers would always bethejewelsofhisWilderness.

One summer’s evening hewas kingfisher-watching bythe canal when he heard thesound of approaching voicesand the bark of a dogon thefarsideof thecanal,andthiswaswhyhewaslyinghidden,face down in the long grass

when the cygnet emergedfrom the bullrushes. Shecruised towards him,surveyingtheworldaboutherwith a look of mild interestandsomedisdain.Everynowand then she would browsethrough the water, loweringher bill so that the waterlappedgentlyoverit,thenherhead would disappearcompletely until it re-emerged, dripping. Althougha dark blue-grey, the bill

tingedwithgreen,shelookedalreadyaswanin themaking.No other bird Billy knew ofswamwith such easy power.Nootherbirdcouldcurve itsneck with such supremeelegance. Billy hardly daredto breathe as the cygnetmoved effortlessly towardshim.Shewasonlyafewfeetaway now and he could seetheblackglintofhereye.Hewas wondering why such ayoung bird would be on its

own andwaswaiting for therest of the family to appearwhen the question wasunequivocallyanswered.

‘That’soneof ’em,’camea voice from the oppositebank of the canal. ‘Youremember? We shelled themfour swans, made ’em fly,didn’twe?’Sgottobeoneof’em.Let’ssee ifwecansinkhimthistime.Let’sgethim.’Inthebombardmentofstonesthat followed Billy put his

handsoverhisheadtoprotecthimself.Heheardmostofthestonesfallinginthewaterbutone hit him on the arm andanother landed limply on hisback.Outragedroveawayhisfear and he looked up to seefive youths hurling acontinuous barrage of stonesat the cygnet who beat herwings in a frantic effort totake off, but thebombardment was on themark and she was struck

several times leaving herstunned, bobbing up anddownhelplessintheturbulentwater.Thedogtheylaunchedinto the river was fastapproaching, its black noseploughing through the watertowardsthecygnet,andBillyknewatoncewhathad tobedone. He picked up a deadbranch and leapt out into thewater between the dog andcygnet. Crying with fury helashed out at the dog’s head

and drove it back until itclamberedwhimperingupthebanktojoinitsmasters.Withabuse ringing in his ears andthe stones falling all aroundhim Billy gathered up thebattered cygnet in his armsandmadeforthesafetyoftheWilderness. The birdstruggled against him butBilly had his arms firmlyaroundthewingsandhungontight.

OnceinsidetheruinsBilly

sank to his knees and set thecygnetdownbesidehim.Oneof her wings trailed on thegroundasshestaggeredawayand it appeared she couldonly gather it up with somedifficulty. For amoment shestood looking around her,wondering.Then she steppedout high and pigeon-toed onher wide webbed feet andmarched deliberately aroundthechapel.Sheshookherselfvigorously, opened out and

beatbothherwings,andthensettleddownatsomedistancefrom Billy to preen herself.Shivering, Billy huggedhimself and drew his kneesuptokeepoutthecoldoftheevening.Hewasnotgoingtoleave until he was sure thecygnet was strong enough togobackinthecanal.Hesatinsilenceforsomeminutes,stillsimmeringwithanger,buthisangervanished as heconsideredtheyoungswanin

front of him. He startedspeaking without thinkingaboutit.

‘Mustbefunnytobeborngreyandturnwhiteafter,’hesaid. ‘Not a bit like an uglyduckling, you aren’t. Mostbeautiful thingI’veeverseen–soyoucan’thardlybeugly,can you? Course you’re notas beautiful now as you’regoing to be, but I ’spect youknow that. You’ll grow upjust like your mother, all

white and queenly.’ And thecygnet stopped preeningherself for a moment andlookedsidewaysathim.‘Didthey kill your mother too,then?’Billyasked.‘Theydid,didn’tthey?Whatdidtheydoit for? I hate them. I hatethem.WellI’lllookafteryounow.Yougottokeepcloseintothebankwheneveryouseeanyone–don’ttrustanyone,Inever do – and I’ll come byeach day and bring some

bread with me. I’m calledBilly, by the way, BillyBunch, and I’m your friend.Wishyoucouldspeaktome,then I’d know you canunderstand what I’m tellingyou.Andyoucouldtellmeafew things yourself, couldn’tyou? I mean, you could tellmehowtoflyforastart.Youcould teach me, couldn’tyou?’ And suddenly Billywas aware that his wordswere flowing easily with not

so much as a trace of astutter. ‘Teach, teach, teach,teach . . .’Billy repeated theword each time, spitting outthe T. ‘But I stutter on myT’s, always have done. T’sandP’sandC’s–can’tnevergetthemout.ButIcannow,Ican now. Never mind theflying, you’ve taught me tospeak.Icanspeak,Icantalk.BillyBunchcan talk.Hecantalkthehindlegoffahorse.’AndBillywasonhisfeetand

cavorting around the chapelin a jubilant dance ofcelebration, laughing till thetearsrandownhischeeks.Heshouted out every word hecouldrememberthathadevertroubledhimandeverywordhe shouted buried moredeeplythestutterhehadlivedwith all his life. By the timehe had finished he wasbreathless and hoarse. Heturned at last to where thecygnethadbeenstandingbut

shehadvanished.Billy searched the

Wilderness from end to end.He retraced the path to thecanalbuttherewasnosignofher.Hefoundonlyonesmallgreyfeatherleftbehindonthegrassy floor of the chapelwhere the cygnet had beenpreeningherself.Thisandthefactthathewasstillsoakedtothe skin from the canal wasenough to convince Billy hehad not been dreaming it all.

As he made his way homeacross the darkening estate,the blue-white lights of thetelevision sets flickeringthrough the curtains, hepractised the words and theystillflowed.

He expected and receiveddire admonitions andwarnings from Aunty Maywho railed against little boysin general and the price ofwashing powder in particularbefore sending him to bed

early.Billysmiled tohimselfin his bed, hid his greyfeather under the pillow andwhen he slept he dreameddreams of swans or angels –hewasnotsurewhich.

When Billy’s turn camethe next morning to read hispage out aloud in class, hestood up and looked abouthim deliberately at thealready sniggering childrenbeforehebegan.Then,usinghis grey feather to underline

thewords,hebeganinaclearlucid voice to read. MrBrownlow took the glassesfrom his frog-eyes indisbelief, and every smirk inthe classroom was wipedaway as Billy read onfaultlessly to the end of thepage. ‘You may sit downnow, Billy’ was all MrBrownlowcouldsaywhenhehad finished. ‘Yes, that wasvery good, Billy, very goodindeed. You may sit down.’

And the silence around him,born of astonishment andgrudging respect soaked inthrough Billy’s skin andwarmedhimtothebone.

CHAPTERTHREE

AUNTY MAY WASECSTATIC ABOUTBILLY’S miraculous curefrom his stutter. Of courseshehadherowntheoryaboutthecauseofthis,andwasnotslow to voice it to anyonewho would listen. ‘I’vealways said that a happyhome is the best cure for allevils.That’sallBillyneeded,

a happy, loving home; andhe’s not the first, you know.Ohno,Billywillbe the fifthfoster child I’ve looked aftersince my own boys grew upand went away. And he’s alovely boy, one of the bestI’ve had. You know, no oneelse would take him. Well,poor little mite, I supposehe’snotmuch too lookat, ishe? But I don’t mind that.Eats me out of house andhomebutwemustn’tthinkof

that,mustwe?And dirty? Ishe dirty?You should see thestatehegets in.But thereweare.Boyswillbeboys.Afterall we don’t do it for themoney,dowe?’

And the school tooclaimed responsibility forBilly’s new-found voice. MrBrownlow was congratulatedby the Head Teacher at theend-of-term Staff Meeting.‘Quite a job you’ve donethere, Mr Brownlow,’ she

said. ‘Should give Billy newconfidence – and the SpeechTherapist had quite given upon him you know. Any ideahow you managed theimpossible,MrBrownlow?’

‘It’s a slow process ofcourse,’ said Mr Brownlow,nodding knowingly. ‘Alleducation is you know. ButI’d say patience hadsomething todowith it.Yes,patience and faith in one’sown tried and proved

methods.Theylovetogetupand read you know. All theotherswerereadingwell,andIsupposehedidn’twanttobedifferent. I mean, who does?That’s what did it I expect.Yes, I do believe he wasshamedintoit.’

But the self-righteousglow at home and schoolsoon faded as itwas realisedthatBillydidnotwishtousehis new voice. He remainedas silent and withdrawn as

ever, speaking only when hehad to and then briefly. Atschoolhewould spendhoursstaring at the distant trees ofhis Wilderness through theclassroom window, chewingthe end of his pencil. Hisconfidential report read:‘Very much below averageintelligence.Healwaysseemstowanttobesomewhereelse.Notagoodprospect.’

At home Aunty May haddiscovered that to threaten to

send him away did indeedbringBillybackhomebeforedark,didbringhiminontimefor meals. And she was nottoo bothered what he got upto in between times just solongashedidnotgetintoanytrouble or get his clothesdirty. ‘I’ll keep him on for awhile, but I don’t like thechild,’ she told the SocialWorker on one of his rarevisits.

‘Whodoes?’camethe

reply.During that winter,

whenever he was not inschool,BillyspenteveryhourofdaylightinhisWilderness.He often thought of playingtruant and would have doneso but he knew Aunty Maywould have him back insidethe children’s home the nextday if he started that. Soimmediately schoolwas overevery afternoon he wouldmake for theWilderness, his

duffle bag full of the scrapshehadsecretedinhispocketsduringschooldinner.Itwasahard winter that year. Theground froze in lateNovemberand the first snowcame early in December.Billy saw himself as theprotector of all the wildthings in his Wilderness. Hewould spread his scrapsevenly throughout theWilderness and then watchthem feed. Rampaging rooks

and slow crows camewheeling in first and hewould drive them awaywithhiscatapultsoastoallowthesmaller birds first pickings –the robins and the hedge-sparrows and the blackbirds.But he could do nothing forthe barn owls, nor for thefamily of kingfishers. Hetried. He purloined sardinesfromAuntyMay’s larderbutthekingfishers ignored them.He took some of Aunty

May’sstewandput itoutonagravestonefor theowlsbutthey never came for it. Hebroke the ice on the canaleach day so that thekingfishers could fish, but itfroze over almost as hewatched.He had to stand byand see them weaken as thewinterworeon.

And he had not forgottenhis swan; he looked for herevery day and searched thecanal bank for her feathers.

He threw bread out onto thecanal to attract her back, butthere was never any sign ofher.

Thenoneday–itwasjustafter Christmas – the owlswerenolongerintheirarchedwindowinthehighstonewalloftheruinandthatsamedayhe found a kingfisher lyingstiff and dead by the canal.Hecouldseeitwasoneoftheyoung ones for it still had awhite tip to its beak and a

mottled breast. The groundwas toohard tobury it sohecarried it reverently in hishands down to the canal,hammered a hole in the iceand slipped it into thewater.Hecouldnotcry–hewastooangryforthat.Ashewatchedit disappear under the ice hevowedhewasnotgoingtoletthe others die. He turned onhis heel and ran back to thechapel. He picked up anyloosestoneshecouldfindand

madeagreatpileof themonthe canal bank. All day hewent to and fro, until hethought he had collectedenough. Then he began tohurl themviolentlyat the icethat first splintered and thenbegan to crackandbreakup.Bythetimedarknessbegantofall he had opened up atwenty-foot strip of canalwater for the kingfishers todiveinto.

He was back the next

morning after bolting hisbreakfast.Hehadexpectedtofind it iced over once again.Butalthoughtheedgesoftheice had encroachedsomewhat,thewaterwasstillopentothesky.Hefoundthisdifficulttounderstandforthenight had been as cold asever.Hedidnothavetowaitlong for the explanation. Hehadbeentherenomorethanafewminuteswhenheheardastrange slapping slithery

sound, and into view came aswan, still brown in heryouth, staggering ungainlyacross the ice before lettingherself gently into thewater.Theneckwas longer thanherememberedandthegreyhadallbutdisappeared,butasshefloated towardshimnow, thewings billowing like sailsbehind her, Billy had nodoubtthatthiswasindeedhisswancomebacktohim.

‘So, itwasyouswimming

around that kept the iceback,’ said Billy. ‘Grown abit, haven’t you? Didn’trecognise you at first.How’sthewing then?’And as if toreply,theswanrosefromthewater and beat the air abouther before settling back intothewateragain.‘Didn’tbreakthe ice for you, you know.Diditforthemkingfishers,sodon’tyougofrighteningthemoff, will you now? Theyneedtofish.Cometothinkof

it, there can’t bemuch aboutfor you. Is that what you’vecome back for? Not just tosee me. I can still speak –been able to ever since thatday, and I’ve still got yourfeather you know. I’ll getback home now and bringyou some of Aunty May’sstale crumpets – she nevereats them. Don’t know whyshe buys them. Don’t goaway.’

The swan stayed for amonthormore after that andby the end of that time wastakingAuntyMay’scrumpetsoutofBilly’shand.Hetalkedto her constantly andconfessed for the first timewhattroubledhimmost–thathe belonged nowhere, lovedno one andwas loved by noone. Once or twice sheclambered out of the canaland allowed him to smooththe feathers on her neck. It

was just as he was sayinggoodbye to her one evening,running his hand down theneck and over her foldedwing feathers that he saw alarge ring of red plasticaroundher left leg. ‘Where’dyougetthatfrom?’heasked.‘You want to tell me, don’tyou?Funny, isn’t it? Imean,you taught me to speak andyou can’t even speakyourself.’

Betweenthemtheboyand

the swankept open the pondon the canal for thekingfishers to feed, Billybreakingawaytheedgeseachmorning tokeep the icebackand the swan endlesslycircling the water so that itwas hardly ever still andcould not freeze. No morekingfishers died and withBilly begging stale bread allover the estate no other birdin his Wilderness died ofstarvationthatwinter.

Then one night in Marchthe frost lifted and thewarmspring rain fell in torrents.When Billy arrived early thenext morning he found thecanal turned to water again.The swan was not therewaiting for him as usual.Hecalledout for her and ranupanddownthebank, throwingbread into the water in adesperateattempttobringherback. But all the while heknew she had gone. He felt

suddenly deserted andrejected.

Forsomedayshereturnedtowaitforher,butshenevercame back. He found hecould no longer be happy inhis Wilderness without theswan. So he made up hismind to leave theWildernessfor ever, and he promisedhimself faithfully he wouldneverreturn.

He kept his promise for amonthormore,butthenboth

boredomandanewyearningtempted him back. It was abright day in a spring stillchilledbya freshnorthwindwhen Billy clambered backunder the wire into hisWilderness. Already theskeletal treeswere fillingoutwith a new growth of leavesand the creeper was greenagain on the ruins. Billy ranacross the graveyard to thecanal, suddenly convincedthat the swanwouldbe there

waiting for him as he haddreamed so often she wouldbe. But the canal wasdeserted except for amoorhenthatscootedintothereedson the farbank.Seizedwithterribledespairhecalledout over the canal, ‘Whydon’t you come back tome?Why? I saved you, didn’t I?Didn’t I save your life? Ithought youweremy friend.Please come back. Please.’But the whispering murmur

of thousands of swarmingstarlings turned to a roarabove his head and drownedhiswords.

Billy made his way backto the chapel and lay downoutof thewindwatching thecloudsofstarlingswhirlinginthe sky over his Wilderness.He lay back on a mound inthe middle of the chapelunder the leaning lime treeand closed his eyes in anattempt to calm the anguish

insidehim,butallthemiserywelled up and he could notholditback.Hecriedthenashe had never cried before.Theonlyhope,theonlyjoyinhislifehadgone.Allthatwasleft for him was the thin-lipped Aunty May and theinhospitable hubbub of hisschool.

He must have criedhimself to sleep for he waswoken suddenly. He waslying on his side, his legs

curled up so tight that hiskneesweretouchinghischin.At first he thought the soundmight be the rustling ofsquirrels in the tree abovehim – he had seen them upthere often enough before –but he had never heardsquirrels yapping. Billy satup.Ablackbirdpipedat himfromablackthornbush.Billysat like a statue and waited.He allowed only his eyes tomove and they scanned the

treesabovehim, trainedeyesnow,keenandsharp.Whenitcame again the sound wasdistant,yetitfeltclose,anditcame not from the walls orthe trees or the undergrowtharound him, but from theground beneath him, acurious squawking andsquealing, almost bird-like,but no bird he knew couldgrowl. He put an ear to theground and listened. As hedid so he noticed a strange

musky smell in the grass.And from below the grassthere was a dull yet distincthigh-pitched yapping. Billyhadheardenoughandmovedcarefully off the mound,stepping slow and soft. Heclimbed over the stoneworkand settled down to watch,hisheartbeatinginhisears.

One came out first, hiswhite snub muzzle sniffingtheair,andhewasbuttedoutinto the open by the one

behind. And then two moreemerged, almost together,until all four fox cubs stoodlike ridiculous infantsentinels, each one facingoutwards, noses lifted, earspricking and twitching. Oneof them was looking now atBilly but seemed not to seehim. Itwas the largestof thecubs with a redder face thanthe others and more sharplydefinedblackstreaksrunningfrom the eyes to themuzzle.

The eyes were grey and thenosethatpointedathimearthbrown.Thefoxcubsatdownneatlyandyawned,andBillyfound himself yawning insympathy, a long yawn thatlifted the shroud ofdespondency from Billy’sshoulders and left himsmilingandhappyonceagaininhisWilderness.

CHAPTERFOUR

BILLYLOOKEDONTHATDAY AS THEY gambolledover themound, stalkingandpouncing on each other,rolling locked together downthe slope and then springingapart again to play aremorseless game of tag andhide-and-seek. Then, assuddenly as it had begun itstopped, and a prolonged

grooming session began,followed by a snooze in thethin spring sunlight – abundle of foxes breathing asone. A crackling of twigs inthe undergrowth was enoughtoawakethemandsendthemscuttlingdowninto theearth.Billy was aboutto leave,believingtheshowtobeover,when he saw the vixen, apigeon hanging from hermouth, padding through thegraveyard, her white-tipped

brush trailing behind her.Hefroze and prayed he had notbeenseen.

Thecubscameoutonebyone togreet theirmotherandlooked on patiently as thevixenneatlypulledawayfirstthe long grey primaryfeathers, then the downysecondaries until the pigeonwas plucked clean. She keptshaking her head to rid herteeth of the feathers. Themeal of regurgitated pigeon

was soon over and each cublay back replete while theirmotherchecked themover inturn.And every few secondsshewould liftherblacknoseandlookabouthernervously.She vanished down into theearth soon after the meal,taking her cubs with her.Billy was cold to the boneand he needed to stretch hiscramped legs. He had seenenoughforoneday.

He crept away from the

chapel as if every blade ofgrass might creak like afloorboard, and then he wasoutside the fence and hop-scotching successfully all theway home, never onceallowinghis feet to cross thecracks in the pavement. Thatnight he took out his greyfeather,helditinbothhands,closedhiseyesandwilledthefoxestobetherethenextday.He knew that if the motherhad caught his scent she

might well take her cubselsewhere. It was this dreadthat kept him awakemost ofthatnight.

Heapproachedthedenthenext morning with thegreatest caution, a dampforefinger in theaircheckingthewind direction to be suretheyhadnoadvancewarningof his approach. But in hisanxiety to see if they werestill there he went too fastthrough the undergrowth,

stumbled over a root andalmost fell. Cursing himselfsilently he tiptoed on. Heneednothaveworried,forthecubs lay in a pyramidon themound just where they hadbeenthedaybefore,andBillysettleddowntowatch.

Each day during that firstweek of the spring holidayshecametothemoundandsatbehind the chapel wall towatch.Afteraweekhecouldidentifyeveryfoxcub,buthis

eyewas alwaysdrawn to thelargest of them, the boldest,the one that had looked athim that first day. This wasthe one that seemed to callthe tune whenever the vixenwasawayhunting.Theotherswent where he went. In anymock battles this one alwaysended up on top, astride hisopponent and joyfullytriumphant.Thiswas theonethat often stayed awake andon guard whilst the others

slept, andBilly felt that onlythis fox cub was aware hewas watching them, and hetolerated it because heunderstood that Billy was abenign presence that held nothreatforthem.

The vixen appeared to behunting alone. If therewas adog fox helping her, Billynever saw him. The vixenwasasplendidcreaturewithathick yellow-brown coat thatbounced on her back as she

moved. Billy admired hergreatly, and not just for herlooks. She worked tirelesslyfor her fox cubs. Everywaking minute was devotedto their well-being. She wasendlessly patient with them,supplying their every need,and seemingly spreading heraffectionandattentionevenlybetween them. She broughtback rabbits, mice, voles,minuteshrewswhichthecubsthrewintotheairandjuggled

with; and judging by thevariety of bones Billy foundallover themound, shemusthavevisitedeverydustbinonthe estate at one time oranother in her endlessstruggle to keep her cubsalive.

On the Sunday beforeschool began again for thesummer term, Billy took apicnic lunch with him andspent the entire day fox-watching in the ruins. He

wanted to make the best ofhis last day of freedom. Hehad not seen the vixen for aday or two and did notwantto miss her. So he got thereearlyandplannedtostayuntilafterdark.AuntyMaywouldfret and fume, but he wouldriskthatthistime.

The fox cubs were muchaltered since he first sawthem. Itwasas if theirwhitemuzzles had somehow beenstretched, and pulled out to

accommodate their teeth.Their noses were no longerbrownbutblack.Conversely,theirdarkchocolatecoatshadturned tomilk chocolate andthe sparse wispy hair hadbeen replaced by a thickerwoollypile.

They seemed unsettledwhen he arrived; only thelarger one sat on top of themound,histailcurledcat-likearound his feet. The othersyappedandwhinedanxiously

aroundhim,buthepaidthemlittle attention. They did notsleepmuchallthatdayeitherand their games were briefandill-tempered;andmuchtoBilly’s disappointment theyspentmuchofitunderground.When they did appear, Billynoticed thatoneof themwaslistless, weak and unkempt.Hefeltsomethingwaswrong,but could not think what itwas. He waited until it wasdark for the vixen to appear,

but again she did not. Thecubs had gone below andwere silent. Billy put his eartothegroundandlistened.Hecould hear nothing. He leftthem to make his way homeforsupper.

Hefoundacrowdgatheredunder the amber glow of thelight outside the flats. Billyhadtoshieldhiseyesagainsttheglaringheadlightsofacaras he ran towards it.Everyone was there – Aunty

Mayrunningoutinherfluffymauve slippers and hercurlers – and all the childrenwere there in their dressing-gowns. But the crowd wasstrangely silent. As Billypushed his way through healready knewwhat hewouldfind. The vixen lay in thegutter, tonguelollingout,herunseeing eyes glintingfluorescent orange under thelight. She was matted andmuddied, and somehow

smallerindeath.‘Itriedtostop–thoughtit

wasadog,’saidthemanwhowas kneeling over her. ‘Juststaggered out in front ofme,she did, almost as if shewantedmetohither.Lookedto me as if she’d been hitonce already – either that orshe was drunk. She wasdraggingherbacklegs.I justfinished her off. That’s all.Not my fault. Only a foxanyway. Don’t belong to

anyone, does it?’ So manyfeelings were racing throughBilly’s mind; grief at thevixen’s death, anger at itscause,andanxietyforthefoxcubs left hungry in theWilderness.

Everyoneofcoursehad tohave their look. Someonewanted to cut off the brushforatrophy,butitwasagreedintheendthatthefoxshouldbedumped in thedustbin forcollection in the morning,

beforeitbegantosmell.Billymade sure which dustbin itwas before Aunty May tookhis hand and hauled himaway. ‘I’ve been waiting foryou for nearly two hours,Billy,’ she said. ‘Could havebeen you run over out there.I’ve told you time and againtogetbackhomebeforedark.Worried sick Iwas.You gotschool tomorrow and youhaven’t had a bath for days;andlookatyou,Billy,you’re

filthyagain.Whatdoyougetup to? No point in asking, Iknow. You never sayanything, do you Billy? It’snot fair,Billy. It’snot fair atall.’

Billy stole out of the flatbefore first light, taking thetrowel Aunty May used forher flower boxes and randown to the dustbin. Thevixen lay curled up at thebottomofthedustbin.Wereitnotforherunnaturalstillness

she could have been asleep.Billycradledher inhisarms,and keeping away from thestreet lights ran across theestate towards theWilderness. The vixen washeavy, heavier than he hadimagined, andhehad to stopand put her down severaltimes before he reached thefence. The Wilderness wasalivewithbirdsong.

He removed the turfcarefully. The earth was soft

in the graveyard and withinhalfanhourhehaddugdeepenough. He prepared asmoothearthbedandlaidthevixengentlytorest.Hehatedto cover her up, but once hehadbegun the jobhewantedto finish it and was quickabout it. He laid the turfsback over the earth and trodthemdownwith his foot.Hestood for a moment lookingdown at the grave. ‘I’ll lookafter them for you,’ he said.

‘Don’t you worry. I promiseI’lllookafterthem.’

He found a small branchthat had fallen from the limetree and pulled off the twigsuntilhewasleftwithacross.He pushed it firmly into theground, picked a fewprimroses from the ruins andcovered thegravewith them.Thenheturnedawayandleftherthere.

Inside the walls of theruinedchapelnothingstirred.

Billykneltdownatthemouthof the den and spoke in awhisper. ‘It’s all right,’ hesaid. ‘It’sBilly,BillyBunch.I’m yourmother now, d’youhearme,andI’mgoingtobelookingafteryou.Bebackatlunch time with some food.You’ll be all right. You’llsee.’Andherandowntothecanal and washed the earthoffthetrowel.

Hadhe looked up then hewould have seen the swan

watching him, motionless inthe black water. But he didnot.

He turned and made forhome. The street lights werestillonasheracedacrosstheestate.Hehadthepresenceofmind, before he climbed intobed, to take a tin of driedmilk and two tins of cornedbeeffromthelarderandpushthem down to the bottom ofhis duffle bag. The rest hethought he would save back

from his school dinner as hehad done last winter for thebirds.

At school they had anhour’s break for dinner. Heusually ate alone if he couldfind an empty table, and hemanagedthattoday,soitwasnothing to slip thebeefburgers and treacle tartinto his duffle bag, andnothingtohideawaythetwoblueplasticbowls.Heranoutof the playground and made

for the Wilderness. Themoundwasdesertedwhenhearrived and that suited him.He did not want to frightenthemawaybefore theyhadachance to get to know him.He opened the corned beefand emptied it out in fourseparate piles,making a trailof corned beef crumbs rightto the mouth of the den. Hebroke the beefburgers in halfand put each half onto thepiles of corned beef. The

treacle tart had disintegratedin the bottom of his dufflebag, but he gathered thesticky bits to garnish eachcub’s meal. The two plasticbowls he filled with waterfrom the canal and thenslowly sprinkled on themilkpowderandstirreditwithhisfinger until it became thickand creamy. Then heretreated behind his wall towait.Heheardtheschoolbellgofortheendofplaytime.If

he did not go now, he knewhewouldbemissed,andthatwould mean trouble; but hecould not bring himself toleave.Hehadtobesuretheywould take the food – hecertainlydidn’twantanythingelsetotakeit.Thenoisefromthe distant playground fadedandhewasleftinthesuddensilenceoftheWilderness.

Asheexpected,thelargestof them came out first.Hesitant and uncertain he

sniffed at the corned beef,backed away from it, satdown and ignored itstudiously, surveying allaround for some minutesbeforehedecided itwassafetotryatasteofit.Ashortyapof command brought theother three tumbling into theopen and they attacked onepiletogether,allfourofthem,beforemovingontothenext.It was not as Billy hadplanned it but he was

delightednone the less.Theyfound the milk and lappedboth bowls clean. When hewas sure they had had theirfill he rose up slowly frombehind the wall so that theycouldseehim.Allfourstayedfor just a moment by thebowls,lookingupathimandlickingtheirlips,beforethreeof them dashed into the den,leaving only the biggest ofthembehind.

The boy and the fox cub

looked at each other insilence for a full minute.Neither moved a muscle.Then the fox turned andwalked away. At the mouthof the den he stopped toconsider Billy again, satdown to scratch himself andthen disappeared into theearth.

CHAPTERFIVE

BILLY WAS SOOVERJOYED AT HISSUCCESS that he quiteforgot to prepare himself forthe onslaught that wasawaitinghimathome.AuntyMay was at him before hecould close the door behindhim. ‘I want to know whereyou’vebeen,Billy,’shesaid,her thin lips quivering with

rage. Billy looked up at herand felt sorry for her. ‘MrBrownlow from the schoolrangme after lunch and toldme you had vanished – justnotcomeback,hesaid–andI’ve been worried sick eversince, sick,Billy.Howcouldyoudothistome?FivefosterchildrenI’vehadandnotoneof them ever played truant,not one, until you.And bothmyownboysnevermissedaday of school, not one day.

It’s too bad, Billy, too bad.’She was near to tears andBillylikedheratthatmomentfor the first time. Then shespoiltitbyfollowingupwiththeusual threat: ‘Now ifyoudon’ttellmeBilly,rightnow,where you’ve been allafternoon, you know whatwillhappen,don’tyou?’

‘Beenout,’saidBilly.‘Where?’‘Dunno, just out. Didn’t

feelwell, did I?Cameonall

dizzylike.’‘Then why didn’t youcomehome,Billy?’‘Dunno. Couldn’t find the

way, could I? Dizzy, wasn’tI?’

It was all on the spur ofthe moment, a lie that waswafer thinandBillyknew it;butasitturnedoutitwastheverybeststoryhecouldhavedreamed up. If he’d had anentire week to make up the

story it could not have beenbetter.

Within the hour he wasinside the doctor’s surgeryandexplaining the symptomsin more detail. The doctor,who had tufts of red hairgrowing out of his ears,pressed and prodded him allover, and Aunty May keptmuttering that she’d alwaysfed him right and that nochildofhershadeverhadthistroublebefore.Intheendthe

doctor diagnosed a mildinfection of the middle ear,gavehimsomeantibioticandsaidheshouldcomebackinaweekifitwasn’tbetter.

‘What about school,Doctor?’ Aunty May asked,draggingBillytothedoorbyhiswrist.

‘No school,’ said thedoctor, without looking up.‘Up and about at home, butno school. And best to wrapup warm when he goes out.

And he should go out. Freshairisgoodforallofus.Don’tcoophimup.’

Billycouldnotbelievehisgood fortune as he walkedhome that evening withAunty May. She was goingon about how she knew allalong there must besomethingwrongwithhimtogowanderingofffromschoollike that, and how MrBrownlow had no right toaccuse one of her boys of

playing truant. ‘Teachersthesedays,’shesaid,shakingher head. ‘They’re just tooyoung, like the policemen.It’s what I’ve always said –no experience. You needexperience to look afterchildren–andyouhavetobesensitive.ThatMrBrownlowwouldn’t know it if hestepped on a hedgehog withhisbarefeet.NowBilly,dear,we’re going to have to feedyou up and get you strong

again,aren’twe?’So long as Billy was

smothered in at least twoscarves, a coat and aBalaclava,AuntyMaylethimgo out for longwalks on hisown, but he had to be backfor meal times. Billymentioned as casually as hecould that his favourite foodthese days was corned beefhash.Ofcoursehedetestedit,but it had the desired result.Aunty May went out and

bought twodozen tinsof it–it was cheaper thatway – tojointheothersontheshelfinthe larder. Billy thought thathecouldkeephis foxesaliveon about two tins of cornedbeef a day, washed downwith milk. And it was notdifficult under all hisprotectiveclothingtodisguisethe fact that he was carryingtwo tins of corned beef eachmorning when he went outand a plastic bag of milk

powder. Aunty May did notseemtonoticethatthepileofcornedbeeftinsatthebackofthe larder was diminishingrather tooquickly,but just incase she did, Billy made apoint of making himselfoccasional corned beefsandwiches which he forcedhimself toeat infrontofher.Andsheneverevenlookedinthe old tin of milk powder.When it ran out after a fewdays,Billyspentallhissweet

moneyonreplacingit.Fortunately the fox cubs

never seemed to tire of theirnew diet and came out for itwhenever they heard Billycoming through theWilderness. They would bewaitingforhimonthemoundand although they still kepttheir distance as he openedthe tins and spooned it outonto the grass, they werecoming closer to him eachday.Billywas often tempted

to reach out and touch themas they fed, but he felt thatwould be a risk, and perhapsa liberty this soon. Theywouldcometohimandwanttobetouchedonlywhentheytrusted him completely. Hewouldwait.

Hewould sit cross-leggedon the mound, and the foxcubs would play around himnow, for the most partignoring him completely; butoccasionally they would all

four sit and look at him. Hethought he ought to speak tothemthen,butdecidedwordsmight be too sharp. So hewould hum gently and whenthey became used to this hewouldputwords to the tunes–hisownwordsandhisowntunes.Andtheylistened,earspricked, heads on one side,fascinated – for a time. Butthere were alwaysinterruptionstospoilhisbriefconcerts – a tempting tail to

pounce on, an essentialscratchbehindtheear,adeadleafthatjusthadtobechased.As Billy expected, it wasalways the largest cub thatwas his most loyal listener,his grey eyes never leavingBilly’sfaceashesang.

This fox was the first totake food from Billy’s handsome days later. He was thefirst to submit to beingtouched, and once he hadconsentedtheothersfollowed

almost at once. Now theywould play, not just aroundBillyashesatonthemound,but with him. They sprangover his legs, hid behind hisback, chewed on his shoesand lay up against him tosleep.Hehadtheirtrustnow,and their love. He had kepthispromisetothedeadvixen.

The absence of the swanwas all that saddened him.Every day after he hadcovered the vixen’s grave

with fresh flowers he wouldmake his way through thegraveyard to thecanal just incase she should be therewaiting for him. He was nolonger offended that shewasn’t there. Curiously, hefelt quite certain that hewouldseeheragainoneday.Meanwhile he had his foxesto care for, and they neededhim.

He stayed with them nowevery minute he could, only

returning home for theobligatory meals and theinevitable questions fromAuntyMaythathefendedoffwithincreasingskill.

All this time Aunty Maysuspected nothing. Whenasked where he had beenBillywouldalwaysjustreply,‘Out’. Only once was hissecret nearly discovered, andthen it was the foxes’ faultandnothis.Itwasthemuskysmell of the foxes that Billy

broughthomewithhimonhisclothes that nearly gave thegameawaywithAuntyMay.As he came into the flat oneevening, she wrinkled hernose up and insisted onknowing where he had beenandwhat he had been up to.Billyparried thequestionsasbesthecould.‘Thenyoubeenrolling in something, Billy,’shesaid.

‘No,AuntyMay,’hesaid.‘Don’tthinkIhave.’

‘Wellyousmellsomethingrotten,’ she said. ‘And don’tyoucomesittingonmygoodsitting-room furnituresmelling like that. I don’tknow what you get up toBilly, I really don’t.Sometimes I think I’d bebetter off without you, Ireally do. Now get thosestinking clothes off. I’ll havetowashthemagain.’

After feigning anotherdizzyspelloneeveningashe

gotupfromthekitchen tableafter tea, Billy managed toextend the doctor’s diagnosisofhismiddleearinfectionforthreemorewonderfulweeks.By this time, though, thecubs’ appetites seemed tohave doubled. They alwaysseemed hungry now, evenafter their meals, and Billyrealised he was not going tobe able to supply their foodonly from Aunty May’slarder for much longer

withoutarousingsuspicion.‘Iknow you love it, Billy,’AuntyMayhadsaidonmorethanoneoccasion,‘butImustbebuying in at least adozentins a week of that cornedbeef. Can’t think where youputitall.Eatmeoutofhouseandhomeyouwill.’

Suddenly, much to AuntyMay’s relief, his dizzy spellsceased, and he returned toschool where he had toendure Mr Brownlow’s

inevitably sarcasticwelcome.Billy had his reasons forgoing back. He knew thatthere were always vastquantities of left-overs afterschool dinners and they hadto be put somewhere. Hedetermined to findoutwherethat was. His investigationsled him to a row of blackdustbins outside the kitchendoorbehind theschool.Theywere conventionally hiddenround the corner and not

overlooked by any windows,and he was able to riflethrough the dustbins withlittle chance of beingdiscovered. There wasenoughtheretofeedanarmyof foxes, but he chose onlywhathe thought thefoxcubswould appreciate most –sausages, bread rolls andcheese.

As it turned out he chosebadly, for when he emptiedhis duffle bag on the mound

that afternoon during lunchbreak, the fox cubs simplyplayed with the sausages,tossing them into the air andignored the rest. He tried toencourage them by breakingthe sausages open, butalthoughtheyatesomeofthecheese they were stillunenthusiastic. ‘What’s thematterwith you?’ he said. ‘Ican’t get you corned beef allthe time. They don’t serve itup at school – no onewould

touch it if they did. Look, Iknowit’sschoolfood,butit’sfood isn’t it? It’s not thatbad.’ But the foxes clearlydid not agree and they laydown together in adisconsolate, disappointedpile. ‘All right,’ said Billy,‘I’ll see if I can findsomethingbetter,butitwon’tbe until after teatime.’ Theywouldnotplaywithhimthatday,soheleftthemandmadehis way unhappily back to

school.Hewouldhavetoraidthe dustbins once again, hethought. There was nothingelsetobedone.

Billy was sitting alone onthe steps of the mobileclassroom waiting forafternoon lessons to beginandwonderinghowhecouldlay his hands on a largesupplyofcornedbeefwithouthaving to shop-lift it whentherewasascreamofdelightfrom the direction of the

schoolgates.Heignoreditatfirst, but then sauntered overto see what was up. Theplayground fence was linedfrom end to end withchildren, nosespressedthrough the mesh andclingingonwiththeirfingers;and there was a rush ofrunning children all abouthimandtheteacher’sstridentvoiceabovehishead.‘What’sthematterhere?’

‘’S’afox,sir,’said

someone.‘Foxes. There’s three of

’em,’ said someone else.Billy barged his way to thefrontofthecrowd.

‘Well I never, bold asbrass,’ said the teacher,standing beside him. ‘Neverseen that before, have you,Billy?’

‘No,sir,’saidBillyquickly.‘Never.’Three fox cubs were

sittingoutonthegrass in the

open just outside the fence.The children cooed withdelight,buttheoohsandaahswere soon superceded by avociferous band of huntersthat aimed their fingersthrough the wire and blastedaway at the fox cubs, who,suddenly alarmed by thedistant hullabaloo, wriggledback under the wire andvanished into theundergrowth of theWildernessbeyond.

That afternoon MrBrownlowmadethemwriteastory about foxes, but Billycouldnotwriteaword.Hesatstunned by his window, andwhen Mr Brownlow askedwhy he had not writtenanything he said he wasn’tfeeling too well. And thistimeitwasnolie.

CHAPTERSIX

THAT AFTERNOONAFTER SCHOOL, BILLYranhome and took three tinsof corned beef off the shelfandjusthopedhe’dbeabletoreplace them before AuntyMay noticed. He tookparticular care no one waswatching him when hecrawled under the wire intotheWilderness.Thefoxcubs

were ravenous, snarling andsnappingateachotherastheywaited for the tins to beopened, and then theyattacked the corned beefvoraciously. When they hadfinished not a shred was lefton the grass. In their anxietyto drink themilk, they stoodontheedgesofthebowlsandupset them, sending themilksoaking into the ground.Twice more he had to fillthem up from the canal and

mix up the milk powderbefore they were satisfied.Then when Billy lay downthey spread themselves allover him and cleanedthemselves, each other andBilly,minutely.

‘You sillies,’ said Billy.‘Why did you have to comeoutand showyourselves likethat? I’d have brought thefood. I’d have found itsomewhere. I toldyoudidn’tI?Have I ever let you down

yet?Well, have I?Now theyknowwhereyouareandIgotto move you. That’s whatyour mother would do but Idon’tknowwhereIcanmoveyou to.There’s nowhere elseroundhereforfoxes’cepttheWilderness.Can’thardlytakeyou home, can I? You mustnever, never come out again.They’re nasty out there,d’you understand, nasty.They’d shoot you soon aslookatyou.’Oneofthem,the

onewith thewhitestmuzzle,sat down on his face as if tostop him talking. ‘I’mbeginning to think AuntyMay’s right, you know. Youdo smell something rotten.Can’tseehow’cosyouwashyourselves every fiveminutes.Still’spectyouthinkI smellpretty funny.Wonderwhatwedosmelllike,peopleImean?’

Hestayedlongerthaneverthat evening. He didn’t want

toleavethemaloneatall;andwhen he did have to leavethematlastheturnedtogivethem a final warning,wagging his finger at them.‘You ’member what I said,now,’ he said. ‘Stay here.StayhereandbegoodandI’llbe back tomorrow sometime.Corned beef, I promise.Dunno how, but corned beefitwillbe.Butdon’tyoumoveout of the Wilderness, youunderstand?’Butthefoxcubs

were all busy washingthemselves and hardly gavehimaglanceasheleftthem.

Billy could not sleep thatnight. He lay on his back,hands under his head, andtriedtothink,buthisthoughtswere forever beinginterruptedbytherumbleandroar of traffic from themotorway, by yowling cats,orbyAuntyMayturningoverin her squeaking bed andcoughing her dry smoker’s

cough. It was the first warmnight of the summer, andBilly discarded his blanketsone by one until he was leftonlywithhissheet.Eventhenhe could not sleep. Bymorning he had still notworkedouthowhewasgoingtofindenoughcornedbeeftofeedhisfoxes;neitherhadhemanaged to think of a placewhere it would be safeenough to hide the cubs.Butmovethemheknewhemust,

andquickly.He survived school that

dayonlybecauseAuntyMayhad unwittingly solved theproblem of the corned beeffor him. At breakfast shehanded over his dinnermoney for the week. Itwouldn’t be stealing, hethought, as he joined thecavalcadeofchildrenwalkingto school. It wasn’t as if hewastakingfromheranymorethanusual.Hewouldspendit

all on corned beef and gowithoutschooldinnersfortheweek – just tell them atschoolthathewouldbegoinghome for dinner. No onewouldknow.Lotsofchildrendidit,afterall.

Throughout the dinnerbreaktherewasalineoffox-watchersbytheschoolfence,binoculars at the ready. Butwhen after an hour nothingappeared, they soongaveup.By the time thebellwent for

afternoon lessonsBilly foundhewasoneofonlyafewleftatthefenceandhedidnotforone moment take his eyefromthespotwherethefoxeshad appeared the day before.He longed to run over to theWilderness, crawl under thewire and be with them, toreassure them. More thanonce he thought he spottedsome unnaturalmovement inthe undergrowth beyond thewireandheldhisbreath,fully

expecting them to come outinto the open. Foreheadpressed against the schoolfence,hewilled them to stayhidden,andtheydid.

Theappearanceof the foxcubswasstill thebuzzof theschool. There was talk ofclandestine expeditions intotheWilderness to find them,talk of setting the dogs uponthem. This only served toconvinceBilly thathehad toact fast if he was to save

them. By the time schoolfinishedthatafternoonhestilldid not know what could bedone. On the way home forteahestoppedattheshopstobuy as much corned beef ashis dinner money wouldallow. That problem at anyratehehadsolved,atleastforthetimebeing.

He was into his secondhelping of baked beans andhad scraped away all thebeans off the toast as he

alwaysdid,whenAuntyMaytook the cigarette out of herlips, took the cosy off theteapot and poured herself acup of tea. She sat downopposite him and flicked theash off her cigarette into theashtray. ‘Did you hear aboutthose fox cubs, Billy?’ sheasked suddenly, but she didnotwaitforananswer.‘Fourof them there was – that’swhat my friend Ivy told me,youknowIvyatnumber38–

and she saidMrsBootle toldher and she’s on theCommittee so she ought toknow, shouldn’t she? Well,someonespottedoneofthema fewdaysago justdownbythat old ruin, just outside thefence it was. You know theplace, Billy? Then yesterdaytherewas three of them seenfrom the school. Childrencamehomefullofit,Ivysaid.You didn’t see them, Billy,did you? Don’t suppose you

did – didn’t say anythingabout it, did you? Wellanyway Mrs Bootle wasn’tgoing to have it. Vermin arevermin, like she says, andwhentheygrowuptheyonlybreed, don’t they? Andthey’re into dustbins all thetime, spreading litter anddisease. And Ivy says sheknows her tabby cat waseaten by a fox last year –couldn’t have been anythingelse, she says. And likeMrs

Bootle says, they’readangerto health. I mean did yousmell that dead fox a fewweeks back? And she saysthey’vebeenknowntoattackchildren in their pramswhenthey’re hungry enough. Andthey don’t wash, you know,they don’t ever wash. Wellthey wouldn’t, would they?Anyway, Mrs Bootle, she’sChairman of the Committeenow, you know, well shewasn’t having it, like I said.

She rangup thePestControlpeople last night and theycame quick as lightning firstthing this morning. Notsurprising really – been a lotof complaints about verminon the estate. What’s thematter,Billy?Don’t you likeyour baked beans? Told meyou could eat like a horse.Something the matter withyou? You eat up, there’s agoodboy.LikeIwassaying,theywentinandgassedthem,

justlikethat.Goodthingtoo,Ishouldsay.MetMrsColeatthe supermarket and herhusband that works on theCouncil, he was there – hewas one of them that did it.You won’t ever go near thatplace, will you, Billy? MrsColetoldme,shesaidthere’sbeen strange goings-on inthere–youknow,likerituals,witches and that. She saidthey found a cross of twigsstuck into the ground and a

freshgravewithflowersonit.Don’t you ever go near thatplace, Billy, do you hear?ComeonnowBilly,eatyourbaked beans. I opened a bigtinandyousaidyou’deat it.It’snot right towaste things,Billy,I’mnotmadeofmoneyyouknow.’

‘How many did you saythey found?’ Billy asked,blinking back the tears thatthreatened to engulf him,wiping them away from the

cornersofhiseyes.‘One cross is quite

enough, Billy,’ she said,stubbing out her cigarette.‘People get up to all sorts inplaceslikethat,BlackMagic,Voodoo.Youkeepaway,likeIsaid.’

‘Foxes,’ said Billypatiently. ‘How many foxesdidtheyfind?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Thinkit was four. Do wish you’dstopplayingwiththosebeans

and eat up, Billy. They’ll beall cold if you leave themmuch longer. No, perhaps itwas three theykilled.Maybeit was four, I don’t know.Three, four, what’s thedifference? Anyway, MrsCole said they’d be goingbackintoflushoutanymoreif there are any. Are youcrying, Billy? Are you allright, dear?OhBilly, there’sno need for that. You don’thavetoeatthebakedbeansif

youdon’twantto.Icankeepthem back for tomorrow.There’snoneedtocry,Billy.’Billy wept silently, his tearsfalling from his cheeks ontothebakedbeans.‘Allthisfussoverbeans,Billy,’saidAuntyMay. ‘I’ve never known youcry before, and now this andall because of baked beans.You’ll spoil them, Billy. Idon’t understand you at all,Billy, I’ve never understoodyou. I don’t like to see boys

who cry, Billy. You’re a bigboynow.Crying’sforbabies,Billy, not big boys. You goand lie on your bed till youfeel better, there’s a goodboy.’

Billy threw himself facedownontohisbedandburiedhisfaceinhispillow.Hehadtobiteonhisknucklestoholdback the scream of anguishthat threatened to burst fromhim.Hewasconsumedwithaterriblegriefatthelossofhis

family, anda raging anger attheignoranceandcrueltythathad killed them. As he laythere he could find only onevestige of hope remaining,the possibility that therecouldbeoneofthemstillleftalive. Aunty May had notbeen sure whether it wasthree or four. He clungdesperatelytothathope,tookhis grey feather out fromunderhispillowandwilledittobethree.WhenAuntyMay

cameinlateronhepretendedtobeasleep;breathingdeeplyas she covered him with theblanket. He waited until shehadgonetobedandthelightin the passage had beenswitched off before slippingoutoftheflat.

It was one of those raresummer nights when thewhite light of the moon wasstrong enough to all buteliminate the omnipotentglare of the street lamps.

Billy ran down across theestate towards theWilderness, his grey featherin his pocket. He ran all theway there, half hoping, halfdreadingwhathewouldfind.Once in the Wilderness hemoved silently through thegraveyardandintotheruinedchapelitself.Thesoundofhisown panting filled the ruinsashesatdownonthemoundandwaited.

There was destruction all

aroundhim.Alltheentrancestothedenhadbeencavedin,and great mounds of freshearth covered each one. Heputhisear to thegroundandlistened. He could hearnothingbuthisownheartbeatandhisownfranticbreathing.He lay there for some time,hoping and praying that oneof themmight have survivedthe gassing, but as timepassed and he heard nothinghe feared the worst, but

refused to believe it. It tookseveral minutes of franticdiggingtoclearawayenoughearthfromoneoftheholessothat he could call down intothe den. ‘It’s me. It’s Billy.You can come out now. It’sme.It’sBilly.’But therewasnoansweringmovementfrominside the earth, no sound atall.

Time after time Billy’shopeswereraised,onlytobedashed again. There was a

sudden rustling in theundergrowth that turned outto be a small hedgehogshuffling through the leaves,then a noisy commotion onthe canal when somethingalarmed the ducks and sentthem quacking into the air.Billy reached the canal intimetoseeabigfishjump–amarauding pike, he thought.BillysearchedhisWildernessfrom end to end. He calleddown every rabbit hole; he

evenclimbedthewallsoftheruined chapel to check anywindow-ledge where a foxmight be lying up. Itwas allfornothing.

Towards dawn he foundhimself wanderingdisconsolately towards thecanalbankwherehesatdownand at last accepted that allhisfoxeshadbeentakenfromhim, that none of them hadsurvived. The great whitemoon shone up at him from

the water and he threw astone at it angrily to stop itstaring at him. It shatteredinto a million jewels beforepiecing itself together onceagain. He had no tears leftnow. Exhausted and drainedof all care, Billy lay downandslept.

The swancameoutof thereeds, gliding across thewater, and looked on as theboy slept. In his sleep Billydreamedshewasthereandhe

smiled.

CHAPTERSEVEN

ACOLDNOSEINHISEARTRIEDTODRAGhim fromhisdreams.Hewasdreamingthattheswanhadbroughtthefoxes to him, and he did notwantthedreamtoend,forheknew he was dreaming andthatnothingnowcouldbringthemtohim.Hedidnotwantto be interrupted and so hepushed the cold nose away.

But the nose would not bedenied and nudged himawake.Billyopenedhiseyes.The fox sat beside him, histail curled round his feet,looking down at him. Billystill revelled in his dream. Itwas only when the foxyawnedandcametoliedownbeside him, laying his headonhisarmthatBillybegantounderstandthathewaslivinghisdream,andthathisdreamwas not a dream at all. Billy

sat up at once and looked atthe canal to see if the otherpart of his dream was true;but there was no swan, onlythewhitemoonstillstaringathim from the water. ‘You’retheonlyone,then?’saidBillylooking around him. ‘You’rethe only one that got away,and I bet I know which oneyou are. You’re the biggestone, aren’t you? You heardthem coming, didn’t you?Knew it wasn’t me, didn’t

you? Bet you told the otherstofollowyouandtheydidn’t.Where you been hiding allthistime?’Thefoxseemedtowelcomehis caresses, rollingontohisbackasBilly’shandran through his fur. The furwas wet to the touch. ‘Notraining is it?Oh, so that’s it.You swam the canal, didn’tyou?Nootherwayyoucouldhavegotwetalloverlikethisis there? Foxed them, didn’tyou? Foxed them good and

proper. Now I’ve got to getyou out of here. AuntyMaysaid they’d be back. Can’tleave you here. There’snowhereelsetogobuthome.I’llworksomethingout,don’tknow what, but something.’Hekneltupandputhisarmsaround the fox and huggedhim close. ‘I’m never goingto let them get you. Never.Butyou’llhavetodoasItellyou.Firstyou’llhavetowalkon a lead, so that I can get

you home. You got to learn,and learn fast. Only got mybelt. It’s a bit short but it’llhavetodo.’

Billy slipped thebelt overthe fox’shead,pulled it tightsothatitfittedsnuglyaroundhis neck, and then gentlylifted the fox to his feet.Therewassomeresistanceatfirst,ashakingof thehead,afew attempts to gnaw at thebelt,butaturnortwoaroundthe graveyard and the fox

seemed happy to be led, justso long as Billy did not jerkthe lead too sharply.As theypassed the vixen’s grave,Billywanted to tell herwhathad happened but he couldnotfindthewords.Hehadlether down and he could notbringhimselftoconfessit.

Theestatewasjustwakingup when Billy came out ofthe Wilderness with the fox.Themilk floatwashummingthrough the streets and the

lights were on in the papershopon the corner.Theonlycar he saw was a police carcruising slowly around theestate.Billydarednotruntoofast for fear of pulling toohardontheleadandupsettingthe fox; so he trotted gently,keepingtheleadslack.Everyfew paces though, the foxwould stop and look abouthim.Billyhadtotalkhimon,calminghisfears,strokinghishead and ears until he was

happytogoonagain.The journey seemed

interminably long to Billy,but they reached the door tothe flats without beingspotted. Nothing wouldpersuade the fox to followBilly through the doors nomatterhowhardBillytriedtomakehim. In theendhewasforced to pick him up andclimbtheechoingstairwaytothe tenth floor. Aunty Mayneverwokeupuntilthealarm

wentateight,sohefeltquitesafe as he stole into the flatand closed the front doorbehind him. But even as heput his hand onto hisbedroomdoortopushitopen,hefeltsomeonewatchinghimfromthekitchen.

The light went on andAunty May was there,standingbythekitchentable,her face pasty white anddrawn without its make-up.Billykepthisbacktoher,one

armholdingthefoxtightlytohis chest. ‘Billy, Billy,’AuntyMaywascrying;Billywasnotsureifshewascryingwith fury or with relief.‘Where’ve you been, Billy?All night I’ve been up, allnight. The police are outlooking for you, have beenever since midnight, when Ifound your bed empty. Nowwhat am I going to say tothem, Billy? It’s too much,Billy, too much.’ She came

towards him, gathering herdressing-gown around her.‘What’s that you’re hidingthere,Billy? Showme, showme at once.’ And she tookBilly by the shoulder andswunghimroundtofaceher.Billy expected her to screambut she did not. Her mouthgapedinhorrorasshebackedaway from him, knockingover thekitchen stoolbehindher. ‘Get that thing out ofhere,’ she whispered. ‘Get it

out.Billy,eitheryouput thatthing out of that door thisminute or . . . or . . . Billy,either it goes atonce,oryouboth go. Do you understandme,Billy?DoyouunderstandwhatI’msaying?’

‘Yes, Aunty May,’ saidBilly. And with the foxcradled against him hewalked to the front door andopenedit.‘Goodbye,’hesaid,and he was gone before shecouldcollectherself.

Billy ran towards thecanal, the onlywayhe couldgo.Theestatelayinatriangleof two main roads with thecanal behind. The roads ledonly into the city and therewasnorefugethereforaboyand a fox on the run. Billyhad often looked out acrossthe canal and seen the hillsrising into the clouds on thehorizon, and common sensetold him that this waswherehe had to go. There were

scarcely any houses on thosehigh hills, and that meantfewer people. It was thecountryside, an empty placewherepeoplewentforpicnicsin the summer time andwhere he had always longedto go. Billy had seen itfleetingly, flashing by out ofcoach windows, but he hadneverbeenthere.Itseemedtohim the kind of place a boyand a fox could losethemselves and never be

found.AsBillyranacrosstheestate, the fox trotting outalongside him, he could hearAunty May calling out afterhim to come back. It onlymadehimrunfaster.

Quite how he planned tocross the canal Billy did notknow,andhehadnothadthetimetothinkaboutit.Evenashe stood now, looking outacrosstheweed-chokedwatertothefarbank,hestillhadnoideahowhewouldgetacross,

forBilly couldnot swim.Hecouldsplashandkickenoughto keep himself afloat for afew brief seconds in theshallow end of the pool inswimming lessons, but thenpanicinvariablyovertookhimand his legs would reach forthe bottom. It had beendifferentwhenherescuedtheswan. Then he had had notimetothinkaboutit.Thefoxstood beside him pantinghard, glad of the rest. ‘All

right, soyoucanswim,’ saidBilly.‘ComesnaturaltoafoxI suppose. Nearest bridgeover the canal is the mainroad and they’d catch usbefore we got there. Nochoice, have we?’ Heremembered then thathehadnot drowned the last time hejumped in. He rememberedhehadfeltthemudunderhisfeet and he had managed tokeep his head above thewater. That memory and the

sight of Aunty May bearingdownon him, dressing-gownflying out behind her,screamingoutforhimtostop,wasallthespurBillyneeded.He pushed the fox out intothe canal and watched himpaddle away before jumpinginafterhim.

He sank at once, his feetkicking out desperately forthe bottom, which did notseem to be there as he hadexpected. He came up again

gasping for air and flailingthe water to keep himselfafloat.Aheadofhimhecouldsee the fox’s white muzzlenosingthroughtheweedsandhe struck out after him, legsand arms working franticallyin an untidy dog paddle.Butthe far bank came no closerand he was tiring fast. Hepounded the water furiously,but no matter how hard hetried he seemed unable toprevent his body from

sinking. By the time hereached the middle of thecanalhehadswalloweda lotof water and was choking.The weeds were wrappingaroundhis legs anddragginghimdown.He could see thatthe foxhad reached thebanksafely and was shakinghimself, and that gave himnew heart, but his legsseemed incapable now ofobeying him. He knew thenthat he was going to drown,

that there was nothing hecoulddoaboutit,nopointinstrugglinganymore.

Hehadsunktwicealreadywhen he saw a branchfloating slowly towards himand reached out for it. Hecaught at the twigs andhauledittowardshimuntilhecould cling to the branchitself. He hooked his armsover it and kicked his legsfree of the weed, and as hedid so he found he was

moving slowly towards thefox on the bank. So he keptkicking and kicking until thebranchedgeditswayintothereeds and would go nofurther. Billy threw himselfdownon thebankby the foxandcoughedthewateroutofhislungs.

Onlythefoxsawtheswanglide away, in under theshadow of the hanging aldertrees, and he stiffenedmomentarilywithsurprise.

Billy looked up to findAunty May standing on thebank opposite. ‘Now youcome back here this minute,Billy Bunch,’ she shouted.‘This minute, d’you hear?’Billysaidnothing,butwalkedaway through the long grass,the fox at his heels. ‘Wellgood riddance then, BillyBunch,’ she screamed.‘There’s plenty more whereyou come from, always willbe.Don’tthinkyoucancome

running back to me whenthey pick you up either. Iwon’t have you, you hear? Iwon’t have you. You takeyourfilthyfoxandrunforallI care. P’raps that’s whereyoubelong,BillyBunch,outthere in the wild with theanimals, with that fox.’ ButBilly was out of earshot bynowandrunningand leapingthroughthegrass,hiseyesonthethingreylineoflightthatwascreepingupoverthedark

anddistanthills.Those hills beckoned him

allmorningashe trudgedonthrough the grass-wavingmeadowsandacross thesun-spangled streams, but theyseemed to come no nearer.Ofteninthevalleyshewouldlose sight of the hillscompletely and becomeswallowed up in theimmensityofthecountryside;and when the hills didreappeartherealwaysseemed

tobevillagesorfarmyardsintheway,betweenhimandthehills, places where he knewtherewouldbepeople,placeshe knew they had to avoid.That the police would belooking for themall over thecountryside Billy had nodoubt;andhecouldnotdoubtthat they already knew inwhichdirectionhehadgone.They would know wellenough where to look forthem.Ifheweretobesighted

now it would be the end ofeverything. They would takehisfoxawayfromhimandhewould never see him again.With that terrible threathanging over him he movedonly under cover, as far aspossible keeping to thehedgerows and thewoods. Ifthat meant going the longway round, then hewent thelongwayround.

Only once that morningdid he stray too near a

farmhouse. He was not toknowthatthesmellofthefoxwould carryon thewindanddraw the sheepdog towardsthem.Theyweremakingtheirway stealthily across a farmtrack and then into a cuthayfield the other side whenthe sheepdog came at themsuddenly,hacklesup,itsbodystiff with fury at them. Thefox jerked away violently,snapping the lead,andboltedinto the hedgerow. Billy’s

instinct too was to run, butthedogwas toocloseandheknew he could not run fastenough. So he stood hisground, his spine warmwithfear, and faced the hystericalbarking and the bared teeth.When it went for his ankleshe lashed out viciously,landing a lucky kick on itsside that sent it scamperingaway, tail tucked abjectlybetween its legs. It tookseveral minutes of patient

persuasion for him to cajolethefoxoutfromthesanctuaryofthehedge.

Billy had nothing to usefora leadnowandwonderedif the fox would follow himup the track. Walkingbackwards, he whistled himupandcalledhim.Atfirstthefox sat watching him in themiddle of the track, head onone side, thinking.Billykeptwalking and whistled again.Whether the fox grasped the

idea or whether he just didnotwanttobeleftalonethereBilly did not know, but thefox came loping up the laneafter him. After that heseemed not to want to straymore than a few paces fromBilly’sfeet,andifheeverdidBilly’swhistlewould alwaysbringhimback.

CHAPTEREIGHT

AS THE DAY WORE ON,THESUNBEATrelentlesslydown on their backs. Billywasgladofit,foritdriedhissoakingclothesashewalked;but with only stream waterinsidethembothboyandfoxbegantoweaken.Ashetired,Billy began to take morerisks,andinhisanxietytogetas far as possible from the

city before nightfall hebecame careless. Wherebefore he had kept close tothe edges of fields, huggingthehedgerows,nowhewouldtake the shortest route,walking openly out acrossfields where they might beseenfromthefarmhouses.Heknew well enough that theywere more exposed todiscovery on the roads thananywhere else. Until now hehadbeenscrupulouslycareful

to ensure there was no oneabout,notrafficapproaching,before crossing; and he hadalwayspickedupthefoxandcarriedhimacross.Butwhenin the late afternoon theycame to a narrow, windinglanehedidnotevenbothertopickupthefoxandgaveonlya cursory glance down thelane. Hewas about half-wayacross, and whistling for thefox to follow him, when thelittlegirlonthebicyclecame

round the bend fast. Sheskidded to a halt on thegravelly road, using her feetforbrakes.

‘Didn’tseeyou,’shesaid.‘Haven’t got no brakes –busted.’Asshespoke,thefoxwalked nonchalantly outacrosstheroadtowardsBilly,belatedly obeying his call.‘Hey, isn’t that a fox?’ shesaid.

‘No,itisn’t,’saidBilly.‘He is,’ she said. ‘I seen

’em in books, and my dadshot one once when it camearound the fowls. ’S a fox,thatis,’safox.’

‘Justlookslikeafox,’saidBilly. ‘’T’isn’t really.’ Thegirl, he thought, was a littleyounger than he was, withlong blond pigtails and anopen smiling face, the kind,Billythought,thatwouldtalka lot. He would have to beconvincing.‘Lookslikeafox,I know,’ he said. ‘Everyone

says so, but it’s just a funnykind of sheepdog – still apuppy he is really. I meanyou’ve never heard of a foxyoucouldstroke,haveyou?Imean they’re wild animals,foxes are. Like wolves theyare, sort of, take your handofftheywould,give’emhalfa chance.’ And he croucheddown and stroked the fox’sneck, burying his fingers inthe soft fur. ‘Good dog,’ hesaid. ‘Good dog. See? Quiet

asamouse,heis.Noneedtobe frightened of him. Hewon’t hurt you. Wouldn’thurt a fly, would you, boy?Come on, you have a go.’The girl stepped off her bikeandlaiditdowninthemiddleoftheroad.

‘You sure he’s all right?’she said, approachingnervously. The fox sat quitestill, looking up at Billy forreassurance. Billy felt hiswholebodystiffenasthegirl

touched him, and when hisears went back on his headBilly feared he might bebetrayed, but as the girlrelaxed, her petting becameless tentative and she wassoon smoothing him all overandenjoyingit.‘Neverseenadoglikethisbefore,’shesaid.‘’Sposeit’lllookproperwhenit’sgrownup.’

‘’Spose so,’ said Billy,much relieved at the successof his ruse but conscious of

thefactthatacarcouldcomedowntheroadatanymomentand that the drivermight notbe so gullible as this girl.‘You’d better pick your bikeup before someone comesround that bend. Got to begoing now.’ And he openedthefieldgateandwhistledforthefoxtocomeafterhim,andthenwalkedawayoutintothefieldascasuallyashecould.

‘Whereyougoing?’calledthegirl, followinghim to the

gate.‘Home,’ said Billy,

waving his hand above hishead.

‘Where’s that?’ she cried.But Billy pretended he hadnot heard and walked on alittle faster,notsofast that itcould be thought he wasrunning away, but fastenough togetaway fromherquestions.‘Mydad’safarmerandhesaysyoushouldoughtto keep dogs on the lead,

they’ll end up chasing sheepelse. And you ought to shutgates, don’t you know that?’On thebrowof thehillBillylookedbackoverhisshoulderto be sure he was not beingfollowed and she was gone.He broke into a run, cursinghimself aloud for hiscarelessness.

Afterthat,exhaustedashewas, he took no more risks.He had had his warning anddid not ignore it.As evening

cameonhisstomachbegantoache with hunger and hecould think of little else butfood. He thought of raidingvegetablegardens,ofstealingeggs and even of venturingintoavillageunderthecoverof darkness to rifle thedustbins. But the dread ofcapture was stronger eventhanthenagginghungerpainsthattuggedathisstomach.

He found talking helpedhim to forget, providing he

could avoid the subject offood, but somehow it alwayscame back to that. Bynightfall they still had hadnothingtoeat.Thelastredofthe sun bled into the cloudsabovetheglowingcityin thedistance. Billy sat with hisfox on the bracken hillside.‘Looks pretty from here,’ hesaid. ‘But we’re never goingback there. You and me, wedon’t belong there, do we?Only sensible thing Aunty

May ever said to me. Youremember? She said webelong out here in the wildstogether. Well, we do, don’twe?’The fox sat trimbesidehim, attentive, alert to everysound of the encroachingnight.‘Mindyou,’saidBilly,‘I coulddowith someofherbaked beans, couldn’t you?Wouldn’t even say no to acorned beef sandwich, and Iknow you wouldn’t, wouldyou? Yes, you’re right. Best

not to talk about it, onlymakes it worse.’ But he wastootiredeventotalknow.Hebeat the bracken around himinto a soft bed, and lay backin it, turned on his side, hisknees drawn up to his chinand was asleep almost atonce.

But the fox did not sleep,notyetanyway.Forhimfoodcame before sleep. He wentouthuntinginthewoodsjustabove where Billy lay. He

had been hunting before, butitwasneverasurgentthenasitwasnow.Hewasslowandinexperienced, but hungerhad sharpened his reactions,andafterbeinggiventherun-around by an irritatingfieldmouse thathadmasteredthe art of vanishing, hecorneredandatlastexhaustedafieldvoleandkilled it.Butthis first kill seemed only tostimulate his appetite. Hespent most of the night high

upinthewoodsabovewhereBilly slept, stalking andpouncingineffectually,tryingto repeat his early success;but with the dew comingdownintheearlymorningthewormscamewrigglingtothesurfaceinthesoftearthoftheforest tracks and the foxtreated himself to a feast ofthem before he returned tosnuggle up tight againstBilly’s chest. He curled histailoverhisnoseandslept.

Morning came too soonfor both of them. Billy hadslept fitfully.Whichever sidehechosetosleeponsoonlostall feeling, and the pins andneedles that followed wereexcrutiating. When he wokehisneckwasstiffandhewaswet through and shiveringwith the cold. There werechurch bells ringingsomewhere in the mistyvalleybelowhim, anda cowlowing mournfully. A

persistent invisible pigeoncalledgentlyfromabovehimin the trees and a pair ofcircling buzzards mewedplaintively overhead. Billywatchedasagangofraucousrooks moved in to worrythem.

Thefoxstiffenedsuddenlybeside him at the bark of adog. Billy was not alarmedfor it seemed to him to beharmless enough and still faraway.But then therewas the

murmur of voices, a hootinglaugh, and Billy was on hisfeetandrunning.Hefollowedthe fox up the hillside andinto the shelter of the trees.Astheyraninunderthetreesa gunshot blasted behindthem and the wood emptieditself noisily of every bird.Thefoxranonaheadthewayhehadgonethenightbefore,and Billy ran after him,stumbling over the deadbranchesthatthefoxleaptso

easily. Another gunshotechoed along the valleybehind them. Billy did notknowwhether theshotswereaimed at them. The foxseemedtoknowandthatwasenough for him. Suddenlytherewerenomore treesandBilly was out in the brightsunlight and tearingdownhilltowardsastream.Beyondthestreamwasaforestofconifertreesthatclimbedthehillsidein serried lines. There was

cover in there. If they couldreach the treesBilly felt theyhad some chance. The foxloped across the open field,hesitated at the stream butthen bounded across and upinto the trees beyond. Billysplashed through the waterafterhimandplungedintotheforestbeforeturningtoseeiftheywerebeingfollowed.Hecrouched in the shadows andwatched.

Not fifty paces from them

two men came out into thefield,eachofthemcarryingagun, a little Jack Russellterrier sniffing the groundaround them. ‘I saw it,’ saidoneof them. ‘Big itwasandbrown, I saw it, honest.Could’ve been a deer, even.Gone to cover in theBrigadier’s wood. He’s gotdozens of them in there. Hewon’t notice if there’s onemissing, will he? Come on,let’s go in after him. It’s

worth a bit, is a deer. Look,the dog’s after him, he’s gothis scent, I told you, I toldyou.’ And sure enough thelittle Jack Russell wasbustling down through thegrass towards them, yappingashecame.

Upwardwas theonlywaytogo.Billydughis toes intothe soft earth and forced hislegs to run. The fox neededno whistling on now. Hetrotted on easily in front,

tongue hanging out. Theycould hear behind them thatthehunterswereinthewoodstoo, and that the yappingterrier was coming evencloser.Billyrannowbecausethefoxran.Hedrovehimselfon,pounding the airwithhisarms, whispering throughgritted teeth, ‘Faster, faster,faster. Don’t stop. Don’tstop.’

With the forest behindthem filling with excited

voicestheyreachedtheforestpathatthetopofthehill.Thefox immediately turned rightas if he knew the way, soBilly followed him. Billysensed that the fox wasleading him somewhere, andhewasfar too tired toargue.When the fox left the trackandboundedupthebankintomore trees, Billy clamberedafterhim.

It was a different forestnow, with great tall oaks

clinging dangerously to thehillside. Many had fallen,theirrootsrippedout,leavingvast craters where youngsaplings were sproutingagain.Astheyranonandup,Billysawthefoxslowing.Hewaslookingaroundhimashewent, no longer intent itseemed on escape. Themeasured rhythm was gonefrom his stride and Billyfound himself runningalongsidehim,evenaheadof

him sometimes. Fatigueovercame Billy now as helaboured on, fatigue broughton by the knowledge that hehad not thrown off theirpursuers.Belowinthewoodstheycouldhearthemcrashingthrough the undergrowth andalways that shrill incessantyapping that was leading thehunters inexorably towardsthem.

Thefoxhadpausedbyoneof the craters, and quite

suddenlyvanishedamongtheroots. Billy whistled for himbut the fox did not reappear,so Billy went down into thecrater after him. The earthstill clung to the roots thattowered now over Billy, anearth wall of twisted roots,and at the base of it a holethatmust have been torn outof the hillside when the treefell. It seemed to lead inbehind thewall of roots, andat the mouth of the hole he

saw the white muzzle of thefox. Billy had no idea howbig the holemight be inside,but thehuntersweresoclosenow that there was no timefor debate.He thrust himselfinto the hole, arms and headfirst, but his shoulders stuckfast. He kicked out furiouslywith his legs and groped inthe dark for something onwhich he could haul himselfin,andhefound it,agnarledroot that was strong enough

to take all his weight. Onceinside he looked for the foxand found two eyes staringback at him out of the dark.He gathered the fox to himandcrawledtothebackoftheearth cave and waited.Whateverhappenedhewouldnever allow the fox to betakenfromhim.

CHAPTERNINE

THE TERRIER CAMESTRAIGHTTOTHEHOLEandwouldhavecomeinafterthem had not Billy hurled aclodofearthandstonesathissnarling snout. It took abroadside to drive him awayandhebackedoff,yelpinginsurprise.Billycrouchedinthedark with the fox breathingheavilyagainsthim,andthey

heard the hunters’ voices asthey toiled up the hillsidetowards the dog that stoodquivering and barking at thebottomofthecrater.

‘Ain’tnodeerdownthere.Youandyourdeer,Jack.Runme ruddy legs off I did, andfor what?’ said one of them.‘Rabbits, that’sall there is inthere.Cameallthiswayforaruddyrabbitwedid.Lost thescent, didn’t he, the uselessmutt.’

‘He’s after somethingthough, isn’t he?’ saidanothervoice.‘There’saholedown there, see?Big enoughforafox,thatis.P’rapsitwasa fox after all, p’raps he’safter a fox. Let’s put him inthere and see, eh?We cameall this way, didn’t we?Worthatry.’AndBillyheardthemslitheringdownintothecrater.Hegrabbedthebiggeststone he could find from thefloorofthecaveandwatched

fortheterrier’snosetoappearagain.But insteadof thedogit was a face they saw, awoolly head of ginger hairandaredface.‘Pitchblackinthere, can’t see a thing.Giveme the dog. If anything’s inthere he’ll soon bring it out.You’llsee.’

But nothing wouldpersuade the terrier toput itsnose to the hole again.Morethan once they dragged thewretched animal choking to

the mouth of the hole andheld it there, pushing it frombehind, but the dog dug itsfront feet into the groundobstinately and backed outyelping just as soon as theyletgoofhiscollar.Billyheldhisfireandhoped.

‘There’s something inthere, got to be. Got to besomething in there to makethedogturntail.’

‘He’sauselessmutt,Jack,like I said. You should get

yourselfaproperdog.Yellowasabuttercupheis.’

‘Look, if he’s frightened,then he’s frightened ofsomething, right? So there’sgot to be something downthere,hasn’tthere?Nowifhewon’tgoinafteritanddragitout, then we’ve got topersuade whatever’s in theretocomeout,haven’twe?’

‘Yeah, but how’re wegonnadothat,Jack?’

‘I’m coming to that. First

we got to make sure thereisn’tanotherwayoutofthere.Wegottoblockoffanyotherwayout.Soyougetroundtheothersideofthatoldrootandifyoufindanotherhole,kickit in so’s he can’t get out.Then we got him trapped,see?’

Billy listened to thescrambling feet clamberingaboutoutside.‘Nothinghere,’cameavoicefrombehindtheearthwall at the back of the

cave. Under Billy’s arm thefox licked his lips, gatheredhis tongueinandlistenedforamoment,thenbegantopantinshortsharpbursts,everysooften pausing to listen again.‘Hey, I think I can hearsomething. I can, I can.There’s breathing insidethere.’Billyclaspedhishandover the fox’s snout to closeit and strokedhis earsgentlyto calm him down. ‘There’ssomething in there, Jack, I

heardit,clearasday.Iheardit.’

‘If there’s somethinginside there, then it won’twanttobethereforlong.Gota little surprise for it, a nicelittle surprise. Come backhere, and giveme a hand.Afewtwigsanddryleaves–’sallweneed.’AndBillyheardthem climbing up out of thecrater sending littleavalanches of earth andstonestumblingdownbehind

them, a few of them findingtheir way into the mouth ofthecave.

When the voices were farenough away Billy crawledforwardtotakealook.Therewasjustachance,hethought,theymight be able to escapebeforethehunterscameback.He could not thinkwhy theyhad gone off to gather twigsand leaves, but whatever itwas he did not want to betrappedinthatcavewhenthe

hunters came back again.When hewas sure it was allclearhepushedthefoxoutinfront of him and prepared tofollow him out. But the foxseemed reluctant to go andstruggled to turn round. AsBillypushedhimagain,therewas a hideous growl andsuddenlytheterrierwasthereinfrontofthem,stockyonitsfour little legs, its lips curledback over its teeth thatsnapped out its machine-gun

rattle of a bark. The fox didnot hesitate, he was backthrough the hole and at thebackof thecavebeforeBillycould hurl the stone he stillheld in his hand.Hemissed,butitwasenoughtopersuadethe terrier to retreat againwhilehegatheredsomemoreammunition. And then thehunters were coming back,slitheringdowntheslopeandlaughingastheycame.

‘All talk, that dog of

yours, Jack – all mouth, heis.’

‘This’lldothetrick,you’llsee. Just put it down by thehole there. That’s it, a nicepile–onlythedrystuffmindyou. Don’t want anythingwet. Now give us that bit ofcord you got holding yourtrousersup.’

‘Butthey’llfalldown.’‘Don’t matter about that.

Who’stosee?Comeon,giveithere.Plentymoreofitback

atthefarm.Can’tgetafirelitwithout it, can we? And it’sgottobeagoodfire.Thenweput the leaveson it andpushit down that hole andwhatever’sintherewilleitherbe smoked like a kipper orcomerunningout.Andwhenit comes out, which it will,we’llbewaiting for it,won’twe, to blast it to kingdomcome.’

Billy heard amatch strikeand then the twigs begin to

crackle. Then he could smellthesmoke.Thefoxwantedtorun and began to struggle.But Billy held on tight. Hethought of kicking out theback of the cave but knew itwas pointless even to begin.Therewasnotime.ThegamewasupandBillyknewit.Hewas about to call out andsurrender when he heard adifferent voice outside, thequiet voice of an older manthat demanded andwas used

toinstantobedience.‘Putthatfireout’foreyou

set the whole wood alight,you idiots.Stampitout I tellyou,orI’llgetugly.Andyouwouldn’tlikemeugly.Idon’teven like myself when I’mugly,sojustdoasyou’retoldand put out that fire!’ Thevoice rose to a sharpcommand. There was muchscufflingoutsideinthecrater.Billy loweredhishead to thefloor of the cave and could

just see their boots stampingout the lastof the fire. ‘Verywell.Thatwilldo.Overherethe two of you so you canhearme.I’mnotgoingtosaythis twice. First, you aretrespassing onmy land. Youknow who I am and youknow you are trespassing.Second, you are poaching.Why else would you haveyourgunsandthatlittleratofadog?’

‘Onlycameafterarabbit,

didn’twe,Jack?’‘That’sall,Brigadier,honest.’‘You even lie badly. Is it

likelyyouwouldgotoallthattrouble, come all theway uphere, to smoke out a rabbitwhen there’s thousands ofthem hopping about down inthe fields? There’s morerabbits this year than there’sbeen for years. It’s lucky foryouIcamewhenIdid,’cosifyou’d have caught what you

were after then you’d havebeen up before theMagistratesMondaymorningfor poaching.Now this time,and only this time, I’lloverlook the trespassing; butif I find you in my woodsagain I’ll get ugly, ugly assin. Now take that horriblelittle dog and get yourselvesout of here before I changemy mind. And one morething before you go; there’sbeen a swan flying around

herethelastdayorso–seenit myself. Easy things toshoot, swans. If you take apotshotather,I’llknowwhoit is, remember?Ifyousee ityou leave it alone,understand? They’reprotected,aprotectedspeciesswans are; butyou’renot, soget going before my triggerfingergetstwitchy.’

Billy’s hunched shouldersrelaxed as he heard thehunters runningoffdownthe

hill, the terrier yapping asthey went. But he could seeonepairofbootswerestillinthecraterandastickwalkingwith them, and they werecoming towards the hole.Therewasasoundofsniffingandthelightwasblockedoutbya facepeering in at them.‘Can’tseeyou,’saidtheface,that sported a neat whitemoustache, ‘but I knowyou’reinthere.Smellafoxamile away, I can. ’Spect

you’re out of that earth overinInnocentsCopse–sawyouwhen you were little, six ofyou there were, weren’tthere?DashedluckyforyouIcameby.Onlycamethiswayto find that swan. Saw itcomedowninthewoodsthismorning – funny place for aswan to come down, Ithought. Then I spotted thesmoke. Came just in time,didn’t I? Come Septemberyou’llmakefinesportforthe

hounds.SoI’llbeseeingyouagain, my fine foxy friend.I’llbetheoneonthechestnutmare leading the hunt. Firstover every fence I am: theMastertheycallme.Beallinpink so you can’t miss me.We’llmeetagain,youcanbesure of that. And don’t gogetting yourself shot in themeantimewillyou?Alwaysapitytowasteagoodfox.’

The boy and the foxwaited all day in their earth

cave until the daylight at theentrance began to fail. Billyhad made up his mind nowthatitwasdangeroustomoveby day. In future he wouldtravel only under cover ofdarknessandfindsomewhereto lie up during the day. Hewaited until dark had fallenoutsidebeforeclamberingoutof thehole.Theyclimbedupthrough the woods and outonce again into opencountrysidebeyond.Hecould

see the city glittering faraway below him and knewthat if he turned his back onthelightsandkeptwalkinghewould be going in thedirection he wanted. Thatnight they put many milesbetween themselves and thecity for they were able towalksafelyenoughalongthelanes.Ontherareoccasionsacar did disturb them theycould see its headlightscoming and had plenty of

time to climb a gate or jumpintoaditch.

Billykeptthefoxonaleadagainnow, apieceoforangetwine he had found by theside of the road – hewantedno repeat of their encounterwith the little girl the daybefore. The fox baulked at itmore and more as the nightwent on, and from time totime would sit downobstinately in the middle ofthe road and refuse tomove.

It was no use jerking on thestring, and Billy knew that.So Billy would sit downbeside him on the road andput an arm around him andtalk softly in his ear of theplacetheyweregoingto,howit would be a wild countrywhere there were no people,where theycouldbe togetheralways and where no onewould hunt them because noone would even know theywerethere.‘Andwhenweget

there,’ Billy said, ‘You’llneverhave tohavea leadonyou again – won’t be anyneed for it, will there? Andthere’llbefoodenoughforusboth, I promise you. I’ll seeto it. Come on now, it’s notfar. I know you’re tired, butafterallyougotfourlegsandIgottwo,soyoucanonlybehalfastiredasIam.Onyourfeetnow.’

CHAPTERTEN

BY DAWN THEY WEREOVER THE HILLS ANDdropping down into a broadvalley of grey shadows. Theriver that wound its wayalong it could be seen onlyfleetingly, glimpsed throughwandering mists. For sometime now Billy had been onthe lookout for a place theycouldhideupthatday.Lights

were coming on in thefarmhousesalloverthevalleyand the birds had alreadyfinished their dawn choruswhen he heard a tractor startup in the farmstead to oneside of the road. He spottedits funnel belching blacksmoke and pulled the foxbehind the safety of ahedgerow. The tractorrumbled up the farm tracktowardsthem.

Billy watched as the

farmer off-loaded the milkchurns from the trailer ontothestandby the roadside.Ashe did so he bumped one ofthem down too hard and thelid flewoff, slopingmilkoutdown the side of the churn.Thefarmercursedroundlyashe jumped down off thetrailertorecoverthelid.Untilthat moment Billy had noteven been thinking aboutfood – he had alreadyaccepted that they would be

going hungry again that day.But this was an opportunitythatwastoogoodtomiss.Hewaited until the tractor haddisappeared down the farmtrack, its trailer rattlingbehindit.Thenhewasacrossthe road, hauling the foxalong with him. He left thefox sitting by the roadsideandjumpedupontothestand.He pulled the lid off one ofthechurns,dippedhiscuppedhandsintothemilkanddrank

untilhecoulddrinknomore.An impatient bark below

him reminded him that hewasnotalone.Thechurnwasheavierthanheimagined,buthe managed to tip it and fillthelidforthefoxwholappedit eagerly, licking it cleanbeforelookingupatBillyformore. Billy obliged onceagain, but in his hurry hetipped the churn just toomuch this time.Suddenly thechurn was leaning too far

over and his numb fingerscould no longer hold it. Thecrash and the clatter as it hitthe ground echoed down thevalley and the churn wasthundering down the farmtrack leaving a great whitetrail of milk behind it. Billydidnothavetotellthefoxtorun, he was gone alreadyunder the gate and itwas allBilly could do to catch himand retrieve his lead. Thefields round about were too

open.Theywouldbespotted,so he pulled the fox downintoafieldditchandwaited.

Billy peered out throughthe long grass and could justsee the farmer and his wiferunningupthetrack.Shewasstamping her foot with fury.‘I’ve told you times, Albert,times I’ve told you. Thatstand is too small, I said.Onlybuilt for tenchurnsandyou’ve tried to squeezefourteenonthere.Well,what

doyouexpect?’‘Ican’tunderstandit,’said

thefarmer,whohadretrievedthe rolling churn. ‘Can’tunderstanditatall.’

‘I’ve told you, and I’vetold you,’ said the farmer’swife. ‘Howmany times do Ihavetotellyoubeforeyou’lllisten?’

‘Iknowdear,Iknow.But.. . no, I won’t say it . . .You’llonlybecrossifIdo.’

‘No I won’t,’ she said.

‘Look at thismilk. It’s goodmoneywasted,Albert.Makesmecrytolookatit.’

‘Well if you’re sure youwon’t be cross, then dear, Iwas going to say that there’sno point in crying over spiltmilk.’ And she laugheddespite herself, chasing thefarmerbackthroughthelane,splashing through theelongating puddle ofmilk asshe ran. In his ditch Billylaughed too, laughed till he

wasweak.Thefoxlookedupat him amazed, but that onlymade Billy laugh longer andlouder.

FromtheditchBillycouldsee a four-bay Dutch barnstacked high with hay, somedistance from the farmhouse.The barn, he thought, wouldbe as good a place to sleepthat day if they could climbupintoit.Thebarnwasonlythreebaysfull,andtherewasahayelevatorstandinginthe

fourth bay.Billy did not likeheights but it was gettinglighter all the time and therewasnowhereelse tohideup,sohetuckedthefoxunderhisarm and began to climb up.The elevator wobbleddangerously, but he clungonand kept climbing until hereached the top, where hecrawledawayintothemiddleof the stack and lay down,exhausted. The corrugatedroof was so close above his

head he could reach up andtouch it. The fox stole aboutthe haystack peeringnervously over the edge andthen backing away. Heseemed interested inexploring, but Billy calledhim back, and he camewillingly enough and laydown beside him and joinedhiminadeepanduntroubledsleep.Neitherthepricklyhaynor the heavy heat of thehaystack disturbed them.

Billywasalmostrousedonceby what sounded like asudden gust of strong windpassingoverhead,butitcameonly as an intermissionbetween dreams and did notwakehim.

Voices woke them thatevening, voices that Billyrecognised at once as thefarmer and his wife. ‘Got toget it in tonight,’ she said.‘They speak of rain beforemorning.’

‘They always speak ofrain,dear,’hesaid.‘It’stheirjob to be gloomy. I’d behappier to leave it tilltomorrowandriskit.’Sabitgreen that hay, you know.Could do with the sun on itfor another day at least I’dsay. Don’t like to stack haytoogreen–seentoomanyofthese barn fires in my time.That’s what happens if youbring it in too green.’ Butwhen she mentioned

somethingaboutwastedmilkandricketymilkstandsitwasclearly sufficient to changehismind,for thetrailercamerocking back and forth allevening,highwithitsloadofhay.

Billywatchedanxiouslyasthe hay in the fourth baybegantopileeverhigherandhigher. It was hot and closeunder the roof of the barnwith little enough air tobreathe. He retreated to the

darkest corner of the stackandhoped theywouldnotbeseen. More help had arrivedand there were half a dozenpeople swarming around thebarn as the clouds gatheredgrey and thick over the treeson the far side of the valley.Andallthetimethehaystackwas growing, higher andhigher.Anyminutenowtheywould reach the top of thestack and Billy and the foxwould be spotted. Therewas

nothingforit.Hepulledasideafewbalesuntilhehadmadea trench wide enough andlong enough to take the twoof them. Then he pulled thebales back over the topleavingonlyenoughofaholefor them to breathe through.Billypeepedoutfromtimetotime tokeepwatch, butoncethestackhadreached the topin the fourth bay and therewere men working on thesamelevel,hedarednoteven

do this, but lay buried in hisgrave of hay with the fox,sweating tillhis clotheswerewetwithit.

Thunder rolled around theskies and ricocheted acrossthe valley and with it cametorrentialraindrummingwitha deafening force on thecorrugated roof above them.Within a quarter of an hourall the haymakers haddispersedandBillythoughtitsafe to push away the

covering bales and climb outfrom his hiding place. Heventured to the edge andfound they were alone. Billysatwithhislegsdanglingoutovertheedgeofthestackandbreathed the cooler airoutside the barn. As he satthere he saw the first of thelightningcracklingintheskyoverthedarkeningvalleyandhe counted the secondsbetween the thunder and thelightningtoseehowfaraway

the storm was. One secondfor one mile, someone hadoncetoldhim.Hecountedtenand it was getting closer allthetime.

Itwasthefoxwholedhimtohisonlyfoodfortwodays.Absorbedbythestormhehadnot noticed that the fox haddisappeared andwhen at lasthe turned round to look forhimhesawhimstalking lowover the hay bales. The henflewupbeforethefoxsprang

and ran away, squawkingwith terror before taking offinto the night. Billyscrambled over the bales onhis hands and knees andarrived at the nest of eggs atabout the same time as thefox. There were six warmeggs, and Billy shared themout equally, cracking theminto his hand so that nothingwas wasted. He had neverbeforeeatenaraweggandtobeginwithhewasrevoltedby

the idea, but he watched thefox devour one with relishandfollowedsuit.Noegghadevertastedthatgoodbefore.

CHAPTERELEVEN

WITH A GOOD SLEEPANDAMEALINSIDEthemat last, they were in highspirits as they climbed downoutofthehaybarnthatnight.Billywaiteduntiltheworstofthe rain had passed and thenwith a fresh spring in hisstride he set off to cross thevalley that night. ‘Got tocross the river tonight,’ he

toldthefox.‘Thefurthertheygot tosearch, thelesschancethey got of finding us.’ Butthe fox needed noencouragement. He walkedon ahead, the lead always atfull stretch, pulling Billyalongbehindhim.Therewasnomoon now soBilly couldsee little except the greysliverofroadinfrontofhim.They left the road when itbegan to twist uphill andaway from the river.Once in

the fields again Billy let thefoxoffthelead.

There were no alarmsexcept for a sheep thatcoughed from behind ahedge.Itwasahumancough,a perfect imitation of AuntyMay’ssmoker’scough,anditwas enough to send themscurryingintoafloodedditch.And more than once somegreat white bird wafted byover their heads; a barn owlBillyimaginedittobeatfirst,

but then he remembered thebarn owl in his Wildernessflew more silently than thisone, whose wings whistledgently as they beat the air.Billy thought it must be abigger barn owl and thoughtnomoreaboutit.

The fox glanced up at itandknewexactlywhatitwas.

Theyhadnotgonefarthatnightwhen the rain began tofallagain,afewsparseheavydropsatfirst,butasthewind

got up it lashed down andtheywere soaked to the skinwithinminutes.Billy thoughtof finding somewhere toshelter, but he wasdetermined to cross the riverthat night, and anyway, hereasoned, he was already aswet as it was possible to be,so what was the point? No,theywould battle on throughtherainuntiltheyreachedtheriver.

And so indeed they did,

somehours later.Butby thistimeBillywasshiveringwiththe cold and his legs werenumb from the knees down.He was suffering frequentstomachcramps,andknewhecouldnotgoonmuchfurther.The rain had turned to hailnowasBillyskirtedtheriverbank, lookingdesperately fora bridge across, or forsomewhere to hide up. Thefox walked alongside him,nose to the ground to avoid

the stinging hailstones. Hewould stoponly to shake thewetfromhisfur,andthenhewastrottingonagain,turningtowaitforBillytocatchhimup. His companionship thatdreadfulnightkeptBillyfromgiving up. He was alwaysthere to talk to, and thenwhenever they rested for awhile under a tree or underthe lee of a hedge he wouldpush his head under Billy’sarmasiftocomforthim.

‘Got to be a bridge soon.Got to be,’ Billy said, morefor himself than for the fox.‘Can’t be far now.’ It was ahope rather than a promise,but because itwas spoken tothe only fellow creature heloved in the whole world, itwas enough to spur him on,enough to drive him to hisfeet once more and out intothewildnight.

The rain eased at last justbefore dawn, the thunder-

clouds disappearing undercoverofthenight,leavingthefields sodden and the treesstillraining.Billyandthefoxfound themselvesstartingoutacross a broad sweep of flatwater-meadows that followedthe winding course of theriver uninterrupted as far asthe eye could see. Still therewas no bridge, and nowhereat all for them to hide out inthe open water-meadows.Evenatitsnarrowesttheriver

was far toowide for them toswimacross,andyetthatwasjust what Billy wascontemplating when the foxbeside him froze, one pawlifted in the air, his earspricked. Billy stopped tolisten. At first he could hearonlytherushoftheriverandthe croaking cry of a risingheron as it lifted out of thereedsnearby.Thenthroughitall, unmistakeable now,thoughdistant,thesoundofa

strangeunearthlymusic.Suddenly the fox was no

longer by his side. He wasrunning over the fieldtowards the music. Billycalled him back, but the foxignored him. ReluctantlyBilly followed, whistling allthewhile for the fox to stopand comeback.Even thoughhe was weak with cold andfatigue Billy had noinclinationwhatsoevertogivehimselfup,andwhenhesaw

the dark silhouette of thebarge moored at the bend ofthe riverhis instinctwasstillto hide. The music waswarmingandwelcoming,butitwasnotthatthatdrewBillyon now towards the barge, itwasthesightofhisfoxsittingdown only a few paces fromthe barge, head on one side,listening to the music. Thefox was showing himselfquite openly towhoeverwasonthebarge,soBillythought

there was little point in hishidinganymore.

As he walked slowlytowards the barge Billynoticed that thewateraroundit was alive with birds –moorhens,mallards,herons,afleetofCanadageeseandonelarge white swan. Every oneofthemwasfacingthemusic,listening intently to it;and inthefieldsonbothsidesoftheriver the cows and the sheepstood quite still, gazing

hypnotically at the barge,some of them legless in thelow-lyingmist.

Thedarkhulkofthebargetook on features as Billycame closer. It was paintedfromendtoendwithwreathsof flowers, and perchedamongstthem,almosthidden,Billycouldpickouttheshapeof swans, dozens of them,wonderfully painted. Andsitting in a deckchair by thewheelhouse was a man,

dressed,Billy could see, in acollarless shirt, a tatty darkjacket and a wide straw hatwith several holes in it. Hecouldnotyetseethefaceforitwasbentforwardundertheshadow of the hat and wascoveredentirelybytwolargehandsthatseemedtomassagethe music out of the mouth-organ. Only when the tunewas finished did the man sitback in his chair and at lastlookup.

‘Christopher!Christopher!’ said the man,pushinghimselfupoutofthedeckchair and comingtowardsBillyacrossthedeckof the barge. ‘Is it reallyyou?’

‘I’m Billy, Billy Bunch,’said Billy, perplexed by theman’s question. The mannoddedslowly, tried to smilebut could not. There was inhiseyes thefar-away lookofa solitary kind ofman. Billy

decidedhewasquiteold,notyet grandfather old but oldnone the less. The sad, linedfaceunderthestrawhatgavehim the appearance of aweary scarecrow that stilltriedtolookthepart,buthadlong ago lost the art offrightening the birds away.For there was nothingalarming about hisdishevelled appearance,nothing wild in his eyes.Whenhedid speakagainhis

voice was firmer andyounger, Billy thought, thanhislooks.

‘Caught out in the stormthenwere you, old son?’ themanasked.

‘Yes,’saidBilly.‘WetthroughIshouldn’twonder.’‘Yes.’‘Hungry?’‘Yes.’‘Thatyourfox,isit?’‘Yes.’

‘Thought so. Thought so.Better bring him on boardthen. You’ve time to dryyourselves off beforebreakfast. Bacon and eggsit’ll be. It’s all there is, all Iever have. He’ll have eggsandbaconwillhe?’

‘Helikeseggs,’saidBilly,looking down at the gap ofdarkwaterbetweenthebargeand the bank. ‘How do I geton, anyway?’ And as if toshow him, the fox leapt

nimblyacrossontothebarge.‘Like that,’ said the man

and he reached out his handandBilly took it and jumpedonboard.

Some way up-river, insight of the barge, the loneswan sailed in amongst thereeds,waddledawkwardlyuponto the bank and began topreen herself, arching herneck and twisting backwardsso she could dive her billamongst the feathers under

herfoldedwings.

CHAPTERTWELVE

THAT FIRST MEALTOGETHER WAS EATENalmost in silence. Billy wasso tired he could not evenfind the words to thank theman for the foodand thedryclothes. Anyway his mindwasonothermatters–hewasdesperately trying to dreamup a satisfactory story andthat was not easy. He was

conscious, too, of beingwatched. Every time helooked up, the man in thebattered straw hat seemed tobe shaking his head, a ruefulsmileonhislipsashestudiedBillyfromacrossthetable.Itmade Billy feeluncomfortable, almostresentful.Itwasasifthemanknew something he didn’tknow.Thesmilebrokeintoalaugh for the first time asBilly wiped his lips with the

bread,dippeditinhismugoftea and fed the fox that satpatiently beside him. Thiswas the third plate of baconandeggs theboyand thefoxhad wolfed down betweenthem,andtheyhadeatentheirway through over half a loafofbread.

IntheenditwasBillywhospokefirstbecausehewantedto forestall the questions thatwould inevitably come, andanywayhewasreadywithhis

storynow.Hehadthoughtatone point of telling the manthetruth,butheknewthat totellthetruthwouldbetheendof everything. He might stillbe able to bluff it out. ‘Youlive here on this boat,Mister?’heasked.

‘Mister?’ said the man,laughing.‘Mister?Can’thavethat. I’m called Joe to myfriends. When people arecross with me they call meJoseph. But I’m Joe to you.’

Hesatback, foldedhisarms,and considered the boy andhis fox in frontofhim. ‘Andit’s a barge, old son, not aboat. I think it’s best not toask questions, don’t you? Imean if I were to ask younowwhereyou’vecomefromandwhyyou’reherewiththatfox, either you wouldn’t tellme or you’d make up somestorywhichyou’dwantmetobelieve. The trouble withtellingsomeoneastoryisthat

itmeansyoudon’ttrustthem.So I’m not going to ask youany questions. When you’rereadytotellmewhereyou’vecome from or where you’regoing to, then I’ll listen, I’llbe happy to listen. Agreed?’Billy nodded, and set aboutscrapingupthelastoftheeggyolkonhisplatewithhislastcrust.

Billythoughtthenofusinghisstory,thestoryabouthowhewasoutcamping,andthis

fox had wandered up to histentonenight,andthentherewas this storm and it blewaway the tent and that’showthey came to be wanderingtogether down by the river.But as he considered it, heknew it sounded feeble. Hewasgladnottohavetouseit.

‘Now,oldson,clearlyyouwere on the way tosomewhere – otherwise youwouldn’t have been out inthat storm.Question is, am I

goingyourway?Thingis,oldson,I’veonlyenoughfoodonthis barge for myself, ’costhere’s only one ofme.Nowifyou’re staying I shall havetogointothevillageacoupleof miles away and get insome food, won’t I? Won’ttake me long – I’ve got mybike, if you can call it that.Soon as I’m back I’ll bemovingondown-river.’

‘Whichway’s that?’ Billyasked. ‘Is it away from the

cityortowardsthecity?’‘It’s that way,’ said the

man, pointing to the bow ofthe barge. ‘And that’s awayfromthecity.’

‘ThenI’llstay,’saidBillyquickly.‘Good,’ said the man,

standing up, his head almosttouching the roof of thegalley. ‘You’ve come just atthe right time. I was goingback down-river anywaytoday. Got a full house you

might say. And old Noah’sArk isn’twhat shewas– shetakes her time these days.Can’thurryher,youknow.’

‘Noah’sArk?’saidBilly.‘Thebarge,oldson.She’s

got to have a name, hasn’tshe?’

‘I canonly stay ifmy foxstays with me,’ said Billy,putting his arm around thefox.‘We’retogether,see.’

‘I can see that,’ said theman, shaking his head again.

‘I can see that. Never seenanything like it. Couple oflittle foxes come in fromnowhere. Mind you, I can’thave him wandering aroundbelow decks, not with thebirds. He’ll have to stay ondeck,justtobesafe.’

‘Birds?’saidBilly.‘Whatbirds?’‘Comeon, I’ll showyou,’

said Joe. ‘But take that foxback up on deck first of all.You’llseewhysoonenough.’

Thefoxseemedcontenttowander away to the bows ofthe boat where he sat andsurveyed the river aroundhim.Billywent below deckswith Joe. The barge wasdivided in two, with cabin,galley and wheelhouseforward and a long hold aft.They climbed down thestepladder into the holdwhich was only dimly lit bythe light from the portholes.Only when Joe opened the

skylight could Billy see thatoneachsideofhimwerewirecages and that each of themcontained a swan, sometimestwo.

‘Noah’s Ark!’ said Billy,looking round him. ‘That’swhyyoucalltheshipNoah’sArk.’

‘Barge,’ said Joe, puttinganarmroundhisshoulder.

‘What they all in herefor?’ said Billy. ‘Should beoutside, on the river. That’s

wheretheybelong,swans.’‘Most of them will go

backthere,’Joesaid,‘butI’mafraidnotallofthem.Is’poseyoucould call this ahospitalbarge,Billy,’Joesaid,tossingsome grain through the barsof a cage. ‘SeeBilly, there’speople throw all sorts ofrubbish into this river and ifit’ssmallenoughrubbish it’sgoing to end up down somepoor swan’s throat. Leadweights–youknow,thekind

theyuseforfishing–they’veonlygot to swallowa fewofthemand they’ll die, and dieslowly. Often it’s too late todoanythingfor them;butwehave to try, don’t we Billy?But the worst is people whoshoot and miss – most ofthese in here are recoveringfrom gunshot wounds.There’s something about aswan, Billy. I think it’sbecause they’re so beautiful,soperfect.Peopleresentthat.

Perhaps it’s a kind of envy.Can’t think of any otherreason why you’d want toshoota swan,canyou?Thenof course there’s the youngones that can’t look afterthemselves just yet – maybethe parent birds died ordeserted them – so I takethem in, feed them up andsendthemontheirwayagain.Feel I’ve got to do it forthem, Billy. Every yearthere’s fewer of them – I

knowbecauseImonitortheirnumbers. Hardly a swan onthisriverIdon’tknowabout.It’smy life,Billy.Mayseema funny thing to do but theswans on this river meaneverything to me.’ He spokewith a quiet passion thatimmediately earned Billy’srespect.

By the time they left thehold, Billy knew he hadfoundafriendandrejoicedatit. He climbed up onto the

deck of the barge andfollowedJoetowherethefoxlay curled up, half asleep.‘He’ll be happy enough uphere,’saidBilly.‘Only,canIhavehimsleepingonmybedat night? He won’t do anyharm,honest.’

‘’Course he can, Billy,’saidJoe,lightinghispipe.Helooked from the boy to thefox and back again shakinghis head in disbelief. ‘Acouple of little foxes. Never

had foxes on Noah’s Arkbefore. Took in a half-drowned badger once, and ahedgehog, but never a fox.And now I’ve got two ofthem.Tworightlittlefoxes.’

Billy and the fox slept allthatmorningwhilst Joewentoff on his bone-shaker of abicycletobuysomefood.Joehad lentBilly a pair of hugepyjamas thathad toberolledupatthewristsandanklestoaccommodate him. They

were heavy and tickly andsmelt of pipe tobacco, butthat did not trouble Billy –nothing did.Cocooned underamoundofblanketshefellatonce into a deep anddreamlesssleep.

They were woken sometimelaterbyadeepgrowlingvibrationthatshooktheentirebarge before the enginecoughed, spluttered and atlast settled into a rhythmicchug.

Itwas thatslowchugofaheartbeat that propelled thebarge down-river at littlemore than walking pace, aheartbeat that missed a beatevery now and again; andwhenever it faltered Joewould coax the barge alongasifshewereahorse.‘Comeon.Giddy-up, there’s a goodgirl now. Downhill all theway now girl. Giddy-upnow.’

The days on the barge

were long and followed aregular routine. Everymorning before daybreak Joewould shake him awake andbeckon him up on deck,leavingthefoxstillcurledupasleep on his bunk. ‘Thedawn is the magical time ofday,’ Joe often told him.‘Whenyoufeelyoucanmakethings happen just bybelievingtheywill.Onlyyourage I was when I learnt toplay the mouth-organ and

thought that maybe I couldsweeten thebirds in so that Icouldsee themclose to.Anditnever fails.Sometimesyouget a big audience andsometimes just a few. Tothemit’ssuchastrangesoundthat they have to come andlisten, and to do that theyhave to come close. Andthat’s my reward, to havethem only a few feet awayand to watch them watchingme.’ And as Billy found out

each morning it never didfail.Thebirdswere reluctantto beginwith. Themoorhenswould always approach first,but within minutes otherswould come gliding in fromalldirectionsthroughthestillwater towards the barge andhover around it like beesaround honeysuckle. EitherthelightofdawnwouldbreakthespellorJoewouldfinallyrun out of breath and stopplaying. Then, the concert

over, they would drift awayslowly and disperse as if ithad never happened. Billymarvelled at it each time hewitnessedit.

Then there were the sickswans to tend to. Everymorning before they set offdown-river, Joe would takeBilly into the hold to feedthem. Each cage had to becleanedoutandabedoffreshstraw laid down. As heworked alongside Joe, Billy

longedtotellhimoftheswanhehadsavedonthecanal,buthedarednotforheknewifheoncebeganhewouldhavetotell him the whole story andhe was not yet ready to riskthat.

Formostofthedaythefoxlay curledup in the sunshinein thebowsof thebarge andBilly would sit beside him,his legs dangling over thesidewaitingforthenextlocktocomeintoview, for itwas

at the locks that Billy reallycameintohisown.Joewouldsteer the barge close enoughto the bank for him to leapoutontothetowpath.Thenhewould race on ahead and tryto swing open the lock gatesbeforeNoah’sArkarrivedsothat Joe could glide her intothe lock without having tostop. The locks were Billy’sresponsibilityandhewarmedtothetaskwitheachdaythatpassed.

Each evening at dusk,when the barge was tied upandtheyhadhadtheirsupper,Billywouldtakethefoxforalong run out into thecountryside. Chasing eachother around the thistles inthe meadows until Billyfloppedtothegroundtorest;but the foxwould have noneof it, tugging at his trousersuntil Billy had to get to hisfeet and the game would goon,andon.Andfinally,when

both of them could run nolonger, they would wrestletogether on the ground, thefox only happy to end thegame when he was standingover Billy, his tonguehangingdownandpanting inhistriumph.

Joe sat on the bargesmokinghispipe tokeep themidges away and wonderedat the two of them. The boyhad talked of little else butthe fox since the first day

they had met, and he wouldtalkabouthimnotatallasifhewereapet,butasafriendand a best friend at that. AsJoewatchedhefearedforthefuture, for he knew a foxwouldalwaysbeafox.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

ONE EVENING THE FOXDIDNOTCOMEbacktothebarge after their romp in thegrass. Billy searched in thedark for an hour, shining thetorch out over the fields,scanning the night for theglintingeyesofafox.Buthefoundonlytheyelloweyesof

sheep shining back at him,and never the glazed red ofthefox.‘Maybehe’llbebackbymorning, Billy,’ said Joe.‘Gonehunting,perhaps.’

‘Hecan’thunt,’saidBilly.‘He’s tooyoung.He’llstarveout thereonhisown, Iknowhewill.’

‘Then perhaps he’s outthere learning, Billy. He hasto learn to hunt if he’s evergoing to live alone in thewild.’

‘Buthe’snot,’Billycried.‘He’s going to staywithme,foralways.’

‘Billy, old son,’ said Joe.‘You know a fox is a wildanimal. I don’t know howyougotholdofhim,butIbetyou got him from the wild,andafoxwillalwaysgobackto thewild in the end,Billy.Youcan’tkeepafoxtameforever.’

AllthatnightBillythoughtof what Joe had said. Until

then it had simply neveroccurred to him that the foxmighteverwanttoleavehim,and when he woke in theearly hours of the morningand found the fox asleep onthe bunk beside him, he feltlike shouting with joy andwaking Joe just to tell himthat his fox had come back,thathewasrightafterall,thathe would never go off andleavehim.Buthewaiteduntilbreakfastandsaiditthen.Joe

lithisfirstpipeofthedayandsighed. ‘Billy, old son, I’vebeenlookingafterwildthingsall my life. To start with Iwanted to possess every oneof them, to collect them, tokeep them by me so that Icould look at them. Youlearn, old son, that you can’tdo it, not if you want to doyour best by them. ThismorningI’mgoing to releasetwoofourswans–youknow,the ones that had their legs

tangled up and torn by thefishing line. I don’t want toseethemgo,butI’vedoneallIcanforthem.Nowit’suptothem.Maybe they’ll live – Ihope so – and maybe theywon’t;that’snotinmyhands.Just because I helped them,Billy, they don’t belong tome.They’rewild,Billy.Youtold me yourself, remember?It’s where they belong, outthere on the river. And thelonger you cling on to your

fox,oldson,theharderitwillbeforhimtoturnwildagain.The younger he goes, themore chance he has ofsurviving out there.’ Billyknewhewas right,butcouldnot bring himself toacknowledgeitopenly.

‘He’s my fox,’ he said,‘andwe’retogether.Hedon’twanttorunoff,elsewhy’shecomeback?’

‘One day hemay not, oldson,’ said Joe, and left it at

that.Eacheveningnow the fox

would disappear earlier andcomebacklateratnight,onceso late that Billywas out ondeckatdawnlistening toJoeplaying his mouth-organ,when the fox came trottingback across the field and satdown at some distance fromthebarge to listen.Hewouldrarely come now when hewas called, and instead ofcurlingupbesideBillyin the

bows of the barge he wouldpace the decks like a cagedtiger.WhenhewaswithBillyhe seemed no less fond ofhim, no less trusting, butBilly sensed the fox wasbecoming more and moredistant, more and moreinterestedinotherthings.

On that last evening theyweresittingoutondeck,andBilly had his arm around thefox. He could feel the foxpulling away from him but

held on, reluctant to let himgo in case he did not comeback. ‘Billy, old son,’ saidJoe. ‘That fox sitting besideyou is a wild fox. He lovesyou, Billy, as much as youlovehim.Helovesyoulikeamother,Billy.Butfoxesleavetheir mothers, old son. If hecomes to rely on you hewon’tbearealfoxanymore,you’ll have taken away hiswildness, Billy, and thatwould be a terrible thing,

almost like taking his soulaway from him. Let him go,Billy.Lethimgo,oldson.’

Billy released his hold onthe fox and immediately thefoxleaptfortheshoreandranoff. Joe and Billy waited onthedeckuntilthenightsettledblack about them beforegoingtobed.

Billydidnot evencall forthefoxthatnight,heknewbynow that therewas no point.He knew hewas losing him.

Itwasahotnight, toohot tosleep,andanywayhalfofhimwasalwaysawakewaitingforthefox.Itwasthatnight thathe told Joe all about AuntyMayandall theotherauntiesand uncles he had had. Hetoldhimeverythingtherewastotell,foritwaseasiertotalkinthedark.Hetoldhimaboutthe swan, about the luckygreyfeatherhekeptunderhispillow, about his stutter,about Mr Brownlow and

about theWilderness, andallabout the four fox cubs hehad tried to keep alive. Joelistened in silence and neversaid a word when he hadfinished except: ‘GoodnightBilly,oldson.’

The fox was not back byfirst light nor by breakfasttime. Billy could eat nobreakfastthatmorning.Muchagainst Joe’s advice he wentoutintothefieldscallingandwhistling for him to come.

When he returned to thebarge Joe could see the boyhad been crying. Nothingwould comfort him and Joeknewit,sohedidnotattemptit. As he watched the boysittingdejectedinthebowofthebargewaitingforthefox,Joe made up his mind whathewoulddo.

He was sure that the foxwouldcomebackeventually,and so he did, at aboutmidday, padding across the

fieldtowardsthem.Joesawitfirstandhadhisgunreadytohand. He waited until it wasclose enough before firingbothbarrelsofhisshotguninthe air above the fox. Billywasonhisfeetandscreamingat Joe to stop shooting, butJoe loaded again and firedover the fox’s head. The foxturned and ran for abouttwenty paces and thenstopped again. ‘It’s the onlyway,Billy,’saidJoe, loading

thegunonce again. ‘The foxhas only one enemy, Billy;man,youandme.Ifyouwanthimtosurviveoutthere,thenit’s a lesson you’ll have toteach him yourself.’ Hehanded Billy the gun. ‘Fireinto the sky, Billy. Frightenhimsohe’llnevercomeback.DoitBilly,doitforhim,anddoitnow.’

Billy pulled the triggertwice and watched the foxbolt across the field and

vanishintothetrees.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

FOR SOME DAYS AFTERTHAT BILLY WOULDneither speak nor eat. He satin the bows of the barge, hisgrey feather in his hand, hiseyesscouringthecountrysideround about for the fox. Joeleft him alone with himself.He knew there was nothing

he could say that would notsoundtrite,sohepreferredtosay nothing until the woundhadbeguntoheal,asheknewitwould.

Billy was sitting out ondeck that last night on thebarge, trying todraghis souloutofthedarkness.HeknewJoewasnottoblame,thatheought to speak to him, thattherightthinghadbeendone,buthecouldnotbringhimselfto say anything. When Joe

came and sat beside him,puffing on his pipe, Billylookedaway.‘Billy,oldson,’he said. ‘Only last yearsomething happened to methat made me feel just likeyoufeelnow.Itmademefeelthatlifewasunfairandcruel,that the world was a terribleplacewhereIdidnotbelong.Theywere black days, Billy,but I had a friend, a dearfriend,whomademeseethatit was worth going on, that

the swans still needed to becared for, that life had to belived.You have to look at itthisway,Billy,oldson.Thatfox is out there right nowwhereheshouldbe,andhe’sthere because you kept himalive against all the odds.That’syourreward,Billy,oldson.’ And when Joe put hisarm around Billy’s shoulder,Billy could cry as he hadneeded to all that time, allthosetenlongyears.

The next day they werecruisingdownabroadstretchofriver,passinganislandthatwas white with swans. Theywere travelling faster thanusualforsomereason,engineatfullthrottle,whensuddenlytheenginedied,leavingthemfloating silently towards thebank. As the barge slowed,pushing into the reeds, Joeshouted to Billy to jump offandtieup.

‘Sounds bad,’ he said.

‘Poor old girl – she’s justabout due for retirement.Built her myself, Billy, myfatherand Idid.Nearly fortyyears old she is. I’ll have alookbelow– see if I can fixher. Tie her up properly foreand aft, won’t you Billy.Wouldn’twanttodriftonthisstretch with no engine.’ Andheliftedtheenginehatchandpeered into it, shaking hishead.Timeaftertimehetriedtostartherupbut theengine

neverevengavesomuchasahopefulcough.Herubbedhishands with an oily rag. ‘It’sno good, Billy old son,’ hesaid,‘she’shadit.Needshelpif we’re going to get herstarted again. Still, if we’vegottobreakdownsomewhereIsupposethisisn’tabadspotto do it. See that house upthereacrossthefields–mustbeatelephoneinaplacelikethat.Comeon.’

They walked from the

river,alonganavenueoflimetrees that led to an ancientred-brick house with gabledroofs and stone mullionwindows. There was a hugepond with wonderfullycoloured ducks swimmingaround in it, and the hedgeson either side were clippedout like great birds,pheasants, cockatoos. Andthere were roses, roseseverywhere. ‘Big, isn’t it?’said Billy. ‘Like a palace.

Wouldn’t want to clean thewindows in this place.’ ButJoe said nothing. He seemedsuddenly tense, almostexcited. They crossed thedeep crunchy gravel andwalked up the steps to thehugeoak frontdoor thatwasstudded with nails. But toBilly’s amazement Joe didnot knock on the door at allbut walked straight in. Hethrew his straw hat onto achair and ushering Billy in

front of him, marchedthrough the hallway into ahugesittingroomwheretherewere paintings as big as thewallsinBilly’sbedroombackat Aunty May’s. There weretwo people in the room, asmiling policemanwith threestripes on his arm, standingwithhisbacktothefireplace,his hands behind his back.And sitting in an armchairbeside him was a lady whogot up as they came into the

room.Billysensedsomekindoftrapandbackedaway.ButJoe took his handgently andledhimin.

‘Well, here he is, dear,’said Joe, kissing the ladyfondly on both cheeks. ‘Ibrought him home, just likeyou wanted me to. This isBillyBunch.Billy old son, IwantyoutomeetMolly.’

‘Youmarried then?’ Billyasked, lookingupatJoe,andJoenodded.

‘Hallo Billy,’ she said, asshe kissed him on bothcheeks.Theladydidnothavetobenddownfarforshewasshort. Her hair, which wasgreying at the temples, wasdrawnupbehindherinaplaitand pinned to the top of herhead. She smelt of flowersand wore no make-up andBilly liked that. ‘Joe’s toldmesomuchaboutyou,IfeelI know you quite wellalready.’Billyhadahundred

questions, but there was notimetoaskevenone.

‘AndBilly,’saidJoe,‘thisis Police Sergeant WilliamFazackerly. Now he has hisown very special reason forwanting to help you.And hehas been a great help, Billy,sorted it all out with theSocial Services people. Theyknowyou’rehere,Billy.Yousee,oldson,Iknewwhoyouwere that firstmorningwhenyoucametothebarge.Notat

first, I didn’t. At first Ithought you were someoneelse – but I’ll tell you aboutthat in a minute, Billy. Youwere in all the papers, Billy,on the radio. Everyone wason the lookout for you.Luckily Sergeant Fazackerlyherehadvisitedmybargetheday before. They knew youwereheading in thedirectionoftheriver;askedmetokeepa lookout for you. So I washalfexpectingyoutoturnup,

andwhen you did I rang theSergeantfromthevillagethatsame morning, told him I’dfoundyouandthattheycouldcalloff thesearch;andI toldhim I’d look after you till Igot home. After that I rangMolly here and I told her allabout you and she thoughtwhat I thought, that somethings are meant to be. Shetold me to bring you home.SoIdidandhereweare.’

‘You live here? In this

place?You don’t live on thebarge?’Billyasked, trying topieceitalltogether.

Joe shook his head andsmiled.‘SoyouseeIknewallabout you, old son, evenbefore you told me yourself,but I was glad you did that,oldson,veryglad.Youdon’tknow about us though, doyou Billy? Well, maybe it’stime I told you. It allhappened about a year ago,Billy.Itwasearlyspringtime,

Billy, and we’d found fourlittle cygnets high and dryafter a flood, no parent birdaround. My son, Christopher–hewasaboutyourage–hefed them and looked afterthem for a few weeks, andthenwhentheywerereadytofly we decided to releasethem.We ringed themaswealwaysdotheyoungonesandtookthebargeupstreamforafew miles to get them awayfrom the swannery on the

island – didn’t want to riskthem being attacked by theadult birds. We were twodays up-river, weren’t we,Molly, and Christopher wasreleasingthemfromthebank.Iwasbusytinkeringwiththeengine; Molly was in thegalley. When I went up ondeck later the four cygnetswere swimming away butthere was no sign ofChristopher. We don’t knowhow it happened even now,

Billy, but they found himdownstream later that day,drowned. That was the greatsadness I told you about onthe barge, Billy. It was thesame for you when you lostyour fox. Soon as I saw youthatmorning,Billy,soonasIknew it wasn’t Christopherwalking across the fieldtowards me, I thought tomyself that providence hadsmiled on us andwas givingusbacka son.Weneedyou,

oldson,Mollyandme,everybit as much as you need us.We know we get on, don’twe;we love the same things.And if you get on with me,you’ll get on with Molly.Molly wants to be yourmother, Billy, and I want tobeyour father, if you’ll haveus.’

Sergeant Fazackerlylooked at the boy. ‘Well,BillyBunch,’he said. ‘Can Itell the office you’ll be

staying here with these goodpeople?’

‘For good?’ Billy asked.‘Doyoumeanforever?’

‘Wemeanforever,Billy,’said Joe, putting his armaround his wife. Mollynodded.‘Forever,Billy,’shesaid.

‘Take it or leave it, son,’said Sergeant Fazackerly. ‘IknowwhatI’ddo.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Billy.And he put his hand in his

pockettofindhisfeather,butit was gone. ‘Must havedroppedmyluckyfeather,’hesaid.

‘Won’t need it any more,willyou?’ said Joe. ‘Notanymore.’

Ifanyof themhad lookedout of the window at thatmoment they would haveseenasolitaryswanstandingbytheduck-pond,lookingupat the house. Round her leftleg she wore a red plastic

ring. She waddled towardsthe pond and settled into thewater, frightening the ducksoutofthepond.Thenshewastaking off, herwings beatingthewaterbehindher,herlegspaddlingthewater,liftingherhigh into the air down thelime avenue towards theswannery, all her debts paid,her mission accomplished atlast.