Outfoxed

I used to live in South London, the leafy mirror world of North London that is populated mostly by foxes. Once, I lived in a flat with a garden. The flat was more expensive than I had intended, but I was desperate and it was nice. The garden was definitely not part of my plan. I do not enjoy gardening and gradually it became overgrown. That would be a problem for me when I moved out, but in the meantime it became a haven for the local foxes. I would watch them from the kitchen window in the mornings. There were at least three, and they were a cheerful sight before getting the train to work. 

The foxes in the area were used to people. Sometimes, walking home along a narrow pavement, with nowhere else to go between a wall on one side and line of parked cars on the other, a fox would nonchalantly squeeze past my legs. Occasionally the brush of its tail would tickle my hand. It was thrilling, like being admitted to a secret society. The foxes were my friends.  

After the garden flat, I moved to a flat on the top floor of a terrace house that could only be accessed via a fire escape at the rear. The legality of this wasn't something I questioned. The flat was cheap and I needed it in a hurry. It was so draughty that whenever it was windy outside my curtains would flap around as though possessed by psychic ducks. Still, I reminded myself, a bargain is a bargain. 

One day I returned from work to find a fox waiting by the door. It must have climbed up the two flights of stairs to get there, and now that I was blocking its escape it looked panicked. I moved to one side and indicated the space I'd created with a nod of my head. The fox looked confused. I backed off a little, but not too much because it was my flat after all and I would very much like to be able to get inside it, even if the inside experienced somewhat similar weather to the outside. To my shock, the fox sprang onto the sloping roof that jutted out past the fire escape. Its claws clattered on roof tiles as it skidded in a barely controlled arc. I was afraid that it was fly over the edge, but at the last second it leapt onto the fire escape below me. Then, with a frantic scramble down the remaining steps, it was away into the night. 

The drama over, I went to unlock the door and noticed something on the doorstep. I squatted down to take a closer look and a familiar smell caught in my nostrils. It appeared that the fox had climbed up two flights of a fire escape to do a poo on my doorstep. Perhaps the foxes were no longer my friends. 

Not long after that incident, I was walking back from St Johns Station when I noticed a fox ahead of me. It was dark, and the fox was at first oblivious of my presence. However something must have caught its attention because it paused and looked over its shoulder at me. Then it carried on along the pavement. Eventually it crossed the road and turned down a side street. On a whim, I decided to follow it. It led me down another street before glancing at me again and ducking under a hedge. Feeling foolish. I continued walking even though I was now heading away from home. When I reached the spot where the fox had dashed under the hedge, I paused and bent over to peer through the branches. 

I let out a small gasp when I saw two golden eyes looking at me. 

"Hello there foxy," I said, delighted with this bonus encounter. 

"Excuse me?" the fox replied. My heart skipped a beat. My mind wrestled with the magical possibility of a talking fox. The fox had a woman's voice. It sounded vaguely Welsh. Like sunlight rushing into an unshuttered room, my momentary confusion cleared. Obviously the fox wasn't speaking to me. There must be someone on the other side of the hedge. 

"Sorry," I said, trying a little too desperately to sound sensible. "I was talking to a fox in your hedge." 

"Bloody foxes," said the unseen woman. "If there's one in my hedge, you shoo it out." 

I looked into the fox's eyes. I felt there was a conspiratorial bond between us. It tried to silently impart that I was on its side and there would be no shooing from my side of the hedge. 

"Sorry to bother you," I said to the woman. "It's gone now anyway." 

"Bloody menaces they are," she grumbled. "Shrieking and wailing all night, and you know what?" 

"What?" I asked. 

"The other day one of them shat on my doorstep." 

Perhaps you deserved it, I thought, uncharitably. That would of course have meant that I had also deserved it, but logic had no place in the fox conspiracy. I winked at the fox, straightened up and walked back down the road towards home. 

That night I was woken up by a piercing wail that sounded like babies being murdered. Maybe the woman behind the hedge had a point. Or maybe all magic has a price, and this is the price I pay for the magical moment when a fox spoke to me.