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In the time of foxes

In London, where Nina lived, it was the time of foxes.

There had never been so many. It was said there were ten fox families per square mile. Their numbers thinned in the countryside as they migrated to the cities, a great animal migration to match the human one. They trotted into town along railway tracks, scavenged in bins, scouted territories, pissed and shat, snoozed on manhole covers, bit the heads off chickens, left corpses and intestines strewn about back courtyards, lucky-dipped for frogs, and generally sniffed about. They went from garden to garden, heeding neither man nor fence.

Hackney Council sent a leaflet. It came through the door one day.

The red fox is a wild member of the dog family.

The fox year – a month-by-month guide to fox activity and behaviour.

(There was a chart with descriptions and colour illustrations.)

Foxes are very adaptable and extremely well suited to urban environments. They have the largest natural distribution of any land mammal except humans.

‘Sorry, you were saying…’

Nina had other things on her mind the day the leaflet came through the door. She stood in her kitchen, looking through the French doors to the garden. On the phone, her faraway brother was questioning whether their mother should stay in her own house. She was trying to persuade him that yes, of course she should.

‘That’s what’s best for her. She knows where she is, she has all her things, it’s home.’

Outside, the garden was overgrown, the grass luxuriantly green. Nina spoke with her head crooked at an angle, sandwiching the phone between her shoulder and ear so that her hands were free to clean the coffee machine casket. Ronnie was at her legs, saying, ‘Mama, Mama,’ and frisking her jeans-clad thighs.

‘Wait a minute, darling, Mama’s speaking to Uncle Jared.’

When she looked up again it was to see two young foxes in a sunbeam. They were bounding and tumbling. Cavorting, she thought.

‘Foxes, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Look. They’re cubs, fox children.’

As soon as she said the words he detached himself from her legs and hurried to the doors with his funny waddling almost-run. He put his hands out, stroked the glass, and let out a breathy Oh.

‘Works like a charm every time,’ she told her brother. But she knew something must be done. Foxes were breeding in the garden. There was a nest – a den? – back there.

With Ronnie entertained, they returned to their conversation.