It was time to return. Over a weekend in mid-December, the trio flew back to London and reoccupied the flat. Having held it together for the trip, Nina came apart at home. Halfway through the unpacking, she slumped to the floor and cried. Brent made coffee, brought it to her, and took Ronnie out to play, bundling him into his coat and boots. ‘You’re not in Australia now, Toto,’ he said. Remarkably, Ronnie had no jet lag. He launched back into his life like a happy duckling into water. He did not ask about the foxes, and Nina realised that this was the talent of small children: their love had the character of sunlight, falling on whatever or whoever was there with them. They gave no thought to what was missing. They mourned nothing and no one. The task of grieving fell to adults.

So it’s down to me, she thought. She thought of the foxes. She was not immune to their charms. She had watched them playing in the garden and known them all by sight. She thought of the cub with the four black socks using its hind paw to scratch its ears. And of the cub with black-tipped ears and orange-white hind legs. She thought of the vixen, her tall ears drawn smartly back, in rude health with no trace of mange, a sleek white bib of fur lining her undercarriage.

They weren’t her foxes but she loved them. She wasn’t supposed to but she did. What was it about them? Their animal natures. Their ability to be themselves, which was its own sort of talent. The ease with which they moved, assuming that the world was theirs and everyone else just lived in it.

Now they were gone. She did not know where. As for the workmen, they’d left some gear rather carelessly at the back. A bag of cement, a few paving stones, a shovel. These items delighted Ronnie, who looked on them as toys. They were not at all suitable as toys but that did not stop him for a second. He thought it was Christmas – and in fact it almost was. Nina pulled herself together and they all went shopping for a tree. Choosing a furry pine that brought the smell of a forest into their home, they stood it in a pot next to the French doors.

Gazing past it to the garden, she saw no sign of the tree stump. She nodded when her husband said the new patio was nice – they could use it in the summer, eat there on warm days, and in general make more use of that part of the garden. Yes, she agreed, though summer seemed a long way off. She felt guilty about her mother, leaving her behind. She felt guilty about the foxes.