The Tale of Hawthorn House (13 page)

And where was he now, this fugitive fox?

He had taken an extended holiday in the remote fells, as far away as Sea Fell and Dunmail Raise and Loughrigg— names almost as wild and glorious as the mountains themselves. His days and nights had been enlivened with sportive adventures, mostly involving unsuspecting lambs and wayward voles and naive rabbits. And vixens, too, generous, seductive creatures with amber eyes and red-gold fur as soft as silk. But even with all the distractions of holiday travel in exotic places, he couldn’t get Jemima out of his mind. He’d somehow got . . . well, rather fond of the duck. She was so sweetly innocent, so wide-eyed with wonder at the various little offerings he placed before her, so grateful for his attentions. He found himself hoping that, one day, their paths would cross again.

By the time Reynard returned to Foxglove Close, he was feeling rather better. He aired the cottage, washed the linens, restocked the larder, and began to sort the post that had accumulated in his absence. Amongst the advertising flyers and out-of-date announcements and such, he found a copy of
The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck
, which had been sent to him by his old uncle Vulpes. Enclosed was a tart note, suggesting that if Miss Potter had accurately represented the facts in this latest book of hers, the affair reflected badly on foxes in general (who are supposed to be clever and crafty) and Reynard in particular (who was made to look quite ridiculous). Miss Potter even wrote that “nothing more was ever seen of that foxy-whiskered gentleman,” which implied that the fox had been so frightened that he had quit the district forever. How, inquired Uncle Vulpes, did Reynard intend to redeem himself?

When Reynard read the book, he was appalled at his unflattering portrayal, and no end annoyed at Miss Potter. If he had known what she was going to make of the affair, by George, he would have eaten that dratted duck the day she tumbled out of the sky and landed on his lawn. He was a fox, wasn’t he? Foxes ate ducks, didn’t they? No one would have blamed him if he had served her up à la orange that very night. And no one, not even Miss Potter, could have made a story out of roast duck.

But oh, no, he had to be clever. He had played Jemima along, plying her with exotic food and drink, with the intention of adding one more daily egg to the ultimate, inevitable omelette. He was, in a sense, feeding the duck that laid the golden eggs, and in the end he expected to dine on both eggs and duck, all at one glorious banquet.

But he had outfoxed himself, for Jemima (while she might not be the brightest of birds) was certainly the most delightful of companions, and over the nine days of her visits, he had developed a taste for her company.

And now, trying very hard to be honest with himself, Reynard had to admit that Jemima had become an obsession. She was the duck who had got away, which quite naturally whetted his appetite. But if he were to be completely and utterly honest, Reynard had to admit something else. He had grown far too fond of Jemima, not as the source of duck-egg omelettes and not as a roast duck upon his table, but as a companion by his side.

He shuddered as he heard the words echoing in his mind. A fox growing fond of a duck? It was unorthodox, unnatural. It was unaccountably unfoxlike. It was—

It was true. Reynard closed the book, held it between his paws, and gazed at the color portrait of Jemima on the cover, decked out in that foolish blue bonnet and shawl, on her way to their rendezvous. She was so pleasingly plump, so delectable. His heart yearned for her. He must see that duck again. He must!

He was still considering how best to go about this when he discovered, quite by accident, that Jemima had been confined to quarters. He learnt this news from a manic magpie named Jackboy, whom he met one warm afternoon in the lane. The magpie was glad to tell him where the duck was penned, but as to why—well, at the end of a half hour of listening to Jackboy’s prattling, the fox was no wiser than he had been in the beginning, and certainly a good deal more frustrated. It is not easy to understand a magpie, let alone a Cockney magpie.

This news gave our fox something to think about, but at the moment, he was occupied with the business of moving house. Male foxes have well-established territories with several dens along the boundaries, some summer dens, some winter dens, some in-between. Foxglove Close was Reynard’s favorite den, but he always spent several weeks in August at Sandy Place, a comfortable den that his grandfather had dug under the hawthorn hedge at the foot of Broomstick Lane. He chose August, for that was when the gypsies came to camp in nearby Thorny Field.

Reynard enjoyed his stay at Sandy Place, not only because it was amusing to watch the dark-eyed gypsy children at their ball-and-stick games and the crafty old gypsy grandmothers at their fortune-telling cards, but because the gypsy fathers took large numbers of rabbits and birds from the nearby fields and the gypsy mothers stewed them with dumplings and plenty of paprika in large pots over open fires. The fox found it easy to get a tasty meal without going to the trouble of catching and cooking it for himself. Afterward he stretched out in the grass to listen to the gypsies’ songs and stories, feeling as you might feel if you lived next door to a Hungarian restaurant that featured a fine goulash and the best in after-dinner entertainment.

Sandy Place was located on the southern boundary of Reynard’s territory. On the northern boundary was an animal hostelry known as The Brockery at Holly How, where Reynard had stayed from time to time. The fox always enjoyed himself at The Brockery, for the proprietor, Bosworth Badger, set an excellent table and poured an outstanding wine. And since the hostelry was a convenient stopover for animals traveling through the Land Between the Lakes, it was always a good place to hear the most recent gossip—such as news about a certain duck. It was with these things in mind that Reynard decided to visit his friend. And it was no accident that he dropped in just at dinnertime.

 
If you have ever examined a badger sett (that is what a badger’s house is called), you know that it is an extensive arrangement of underground living, sleeping, and eating chambers, linked by tunnels leading to various exterior entrances and exits, strategically placed for emergency escape. A sett is the work of not one but many generations of determined badgers who are very experienced at this earth-moving business, excavating astonishingly large amounts of soil without any shovels or spades or scoops or steam-powered diggers. All they have is a badger’s strong claws, a badger’s indomitable spirit, and a badger’s dedication to duty.

At The Brockery, this habit of continuous daily industry is honored in the badger family emblem:

 
De parvis, grandis acervus erit
 

which is inscribed upon the famous Badger Coat of Arms (twin badgers rampant on an azure field) hanging over the fireplace in the library. In English, this Latin motto is translated as “From small things, there will grow a mighty heap.” This motto says a great deal about the digging skills and the dogged (so to speak) perseverance of Bosworth Badger’s family, whose story is set down in twenty-four leather-bound volumes of the
History of the Badgers of the Land Between the Lakes
and its companion work, the
Holly How Badger Genealogy
, all of which are shelved in orderly fashion in The Brockery’s library.

And that is exactly where we find Bosworth at this moment in our story, in front of a pretty fire of sticks brightly ablaze in the fireplace. But he was not lolling in a chair, toasting his toes. No, indeed, he was hard at work at his writing table, his pen in his hand and his tongue fast between his teeth. He was making an entry in the
History
, which has evolved over the years from a mere compendium of badger doings into a comprehensive and authoritative account of all important activities, animal and human, in the Land Between the Lakes.

As Badger-in-Chief (a title conferred upon him by his father, together with the Badger Badge of Authority), the
History
and the
Genealogy
were Bosworth’s responsibility. He had many other obligations, of course—maintaining the security of the sett, overseeing the staff, and ensuring that his guests were well fed and well taken care of. But the
History
was his most significant duty and Bosworth performed it with enormous seriousness, often pausing as he worked to look up at the portraits of his badger ancestors that hung on the library walls. He imagined that they were smiling down at him and approving his diligence and accuracy.

Bosworth had just laid down his pen and taken a sip from his evening sherry when he heard the brassy
clang clang clang
of The Brockery’s front door bell. This was followed by the scurry of feet, the opening of the front door, and the murmur of friendly voices. Bosworth relaxed, for as Chief Badger he was always wary, always bearing in mind the Seventh Badger Rule of Thumb:
One may hope for friends at the door, but one is well advised to anticipate enemies.
He glanced at the sherry decanter. Yes, there was enough for another glass or two, since this promised to be a friendly call.

The door was opened by Flotsam, one of the twin rabbits who were in charge of hospitality.
“Mr. Reynard Vulpes to pay his respects, sir.”
And with that, she withdrew and a sandy-whiskered gentleman in green tweeds entered the library.

“Hullo, Fox!”
exclaimed Bosworth in hearty welcome, taking his friend’s green tweed cap and hanging it on the peg beside the door.
“Good to see you, old chap! Do come in and warm yourself. It’s damp out.”

“Kind of you, Badger,”
said the fox, going to stand in front of the fire.
“I’ve been staying down at Thorny Field for the past few days. But I was up this way and thought I’d just pop in and say hello.”
He lifted his coattails to warm his backside.
“Trust I’m not intruding on your dinner hour, old man.”
(If you have noticed that our fox is no longer speaking in that French accent he used in the company of the duck, you are correct, although I regret the impression this must create.)

“Not in the slightest,”
Bosworth said hospitably, handing his guest a glass of sherry.
“In fact, we’d be pleased if you’d join us for dinner.”

“Delighted.”
The fox lifted his glass.
“Cheers.”

“Cheers to you,”
said the badger, and they sat down on either side of the fire.
“I must say, dear fellow, you’re looking well.”
In speaking thus, Bosworth was observing the Thirteenth Badger Rule of Thumb, which asserts that it is impolite to inquire about missing ears (or parts of ears), torn fur or feathers, missing paws, and other injuries. Animals are prone to accident and the world is full of traps, snares, and hunting parties. Most would agree with Bosworth’s mother, who always liked to remind him,
“Least said, soonest mended.”

“I’ve been on a bit of a holiday,”
the fox allowed, swirling his sherry.
“Nothing like a change of scene to renew the old spirit, what?”

“Glad to hear it.”
Bosworth gestured diffidently toward a table, whereon lay a copy of Miss Potter’s book,
The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck. “I was a bit concerned that perhaps you had suffered some serious damage when you made good your escape.”

“Oh, blast,”
said the fox disgustedly.
“You’ve read it, then?”

The badger nodded.

“A wretched book, of course,”
the fox went on in an irritable tone
. “The author may know a thing or two about ducks, but she has not an idea in her head about foxes.”

Bosworth might have protested, for he thought Miss Potter’s story quite amusing. She’d got the fox to a T. But he could see why Reynard might have taken offense, so he said nothing.

There was a moment’s silence, as the fire cracked and popped.
“Speaking of ducks,”
remarked the fox,
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard what’s happened to that one, have you? Jemima, I mean.”
He said this with such a studied carelessness that Badger immediately understood that it was the very question he had come to ask.

“As a matter of fact, I have,”
said the badger slowly.
“I understand that she is beginning a new family.”

“A new
family
?”
exclaimed the fox, and the badger heard the consternation in his voice. But nothing further could be said, for at that moment the door opened, and Jetsam, Flotsam’s twin, put her head through.

“We’re on our way,”
Badger replied heartily, pushing himself out of his chair
. “Tell Parsley we’ll need another plate. Fox will be with us.”
To the fox, he added,
“Come along, Reynard, old fellow. Everyone will be glad to see you.”

The other animals—Primrose Badger and her daughter Hyacinth and son Thorn, a pair of itinerant hedgehog brothers, Old Templeton Toad, and an assortment of mice—had already gathered in the dining hall, a capacious chamber, which boasted a large table, a roaring fire, and a mantle hung with twinkling brasses and decorated with drinking mugs and bits of interesting moss and pretty rocks collected by various visiting youngsters. The ceiling soared up into the dusky darkness (badgers like to construct high-ceilinged rooms for their social gathering-places) and tunnels shot off in various directions, most of the entries hung with heavy draperies to keep out the drafts.

Badger made introductions, and everyone exchanged pleasant greetings. And in case you are concerned, I must tell you that when animals are gathered together under the aegis of comradeship and hospitality, predator and prey restrain their appetites (on the one hand) and their terrors (on the other), and get along quite nicely, which I daresay ought to be a lesson to us all.