The Lost Art of Gratitude

They took Brother Fox into the house. In the kitchen, Isabel covered the table with newspapers, copies of the Scotsman that Grace saved for the weekly recycling collection. Brother Fox lay prone across a front-page picture of the First Minister of Scotland. He is in your hands too, thought Isabel; this creature, this fox, is one of yours too—not one to whom you have ever said anything, but one of your constituents.

Simon washed his hands, dried them carefully and put on a pair of latex gloves. Then, very gently, he probed at the wound on Brother Fox’s flank. It was not a large wound; a cut of some sort, he said, that had become infected. He took a pair of scissors from his bag and snipped the fur away around the wound; there was congealed blood on the fur, a blackness. Then with a small scalpel he cut at what looked like small bits of string around the wound; dead tissue, he explained. Isabel watched, but Jamie turned away in his squeamishness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t like this sort of thing.”

“It won’t take long,” said Simon.

Isabel had moved a lamp over to the table and was holding it above Brother Fox so that Simon could see more clearly. He worked nimbly, and was soon ready to suture the top part of the wound. “I’ll leave this lower part open to act as a drain,” he said. “And then all we need to give him is a big shot of antibiotic and that’ll be it.”

Now Isabel studied Brother Fox on the table. She stared at the pads of his feet—rough and scarred—and the imperfections in his coat. His fur was rough and unkempt, but thicker than she had imagined. His tail, she thought, was beautiful; she had admired it so many times when she had seen him walking along the top of the high wall that surrounded the garden at the back, as firm-footed and assured as … as a funambulist. Bruno. She had not thought of Cat’s fiancé recently as she had been too preoccupied with the Minty issue. Now he came vividly to mind, and she imagined him, absurdly, on her garden wall, walking along in his elevator shoes with Brother Fox behind him.

Simon spoke. “Something amusing?”

She shook her head. “No. Just thinking about something else.”

“Isabel’s mind works in wondrous ways,” contributed Jamie, from behind her.

Isabel half turned to Jamie. “I was thinking about our friend Bruno,” she said.

Jamie smiled and raised an eyebrow. Now that Simon had finished attending to Brother Fox’s wound, he was taking the opportunity to study the animal at close quarters. “He’s lovely,” he said. “He really is.”

“They’re interesting creatures,” said Simon, standing back from the table. “They might have become domesticated way back—like dogs—but kept their independence. They’re survivors.” He moved forward to pick up Brother Fox, whose eyes opened briefly, but then shut again. “We can leave him out under the bushes,” Simon went on. “It’s a nice summer night. He’ll come to in due course and wonder whether he dreamed it all.”

“He’s going to be all right?” asked Isabel.

“I would have thought so,” said Simon. “He’s tough, and he’s got a bit of fat on him. Some of these chaps are half-starved, but he’s been getting a reasonable diet.” He paused, looking enquiringly at Isabel. “You?”

“Perhaps,” said Isabel. She knew that there was a view that one should not feed wild creatures as it interfered with the balance of nature, but how could she not give Brother Fox the occasional treat?

“I’m sure he appreciates it,” said Simon.

Isabel and Jamie followed Simon as he took the limp form of the fox out of the house and laid it carefully under the rhododendron bush. Then they accompanied the vet back into the house to retrieve his bag, and while Jamie went to check on Charlie, Isabel saw Simon to his car. “Will you send the bill?” she asked. “Or just let me know how much I owe you.”

“Nothing,” said Simon.

She looked at him. “You don’t have to,” she said gently.

“I know. But why should I charge you for looking after a wild creature? He belongs to nobody. And there’s no point sending him a bill.”

Isabel laughed. She imagined Brother Fox hiding a purse away somewhere, a purse with a few gold sovereigns, perhaps—his life’s savings.

“You’re very kind,” she said. It was true. People who looked after animals were by and large kind people; they simply practised kindness, unlike those who made much of it. Thus, thought Isabel, are virtues best cultivated—in discretion and silence, away from the gaze of others, known only to those who act virtuously and to those who benefit from what is done.

She went back into the house to find that Jamie, having checked on Charlie, was clearing up in the kitchen. As he removed the newspaper on which Brother Fox had lain, a small piece of fur fell to the floor. Isabel picked it up. “A memento,” she said, handing it to Jamie. “The Victorians loved putting hair in jewellery. I could put it in a locket.”

Suddenly she smiled, and Jamie, for whom smiles were as infectious as yawns, grinned. “What are you thinking about now?” he asked.