Story Two - The story of Radjel

1948

   
The story of Radjel

Dad kept a few chickens in a small field in the nearby farm, selling the eggs around the estate. One evening, returning from the farm, he brought home three brown and white hens. One chicken, he said, was for Jimmie, one for me, and one for baby Charles. Me and Jimmie were so excited. We knew what this meant: we could have a boiled egg for breakfast, everyday. Yummy! Brill!

Dad took the chickens out to our small back garden and made a makeshift shelter for them to sleep. saying he would make a better home for them at the weekend when he had more time. Before we went to bed that night, me and Jimmie made sure that the chickens had plenty of food and water.

The next morning, bright and early before school, Jimmie rushed downstairs and out to the back garden to see if we had our first eggs.

The chickens hadn’t laid a single egg. Jimmie was really disappointed. He looked at me and said,  “None. No eggs. No boiled eggs for breckkie.”

But, the very next day, Jimmie’s chicken laid two white eggs, and, as promised, Mum boiled them for us. We sat around the kitchen table and  had the very best of breakfasts. Smiling and looking pleased with ourselves, we dipped a slice of white bread, covered with margarine, into a runny egg wedged in a small cup.

That night as we looked up to the bedroom ceiling and talked about how many eggs we would find in the morning. we heard a piercong screeching noise. Jimmie leapt out of bed and rushed to the window, pushing the grey curtain to one side. “Something’s got our chickens!” he shouted, and ran across the landing to our parents’ bedroom. Dad quickly got out of bed, grabbed his thick brown and white  jumper, and went downstairs, out through the back door, into the garden.

When he came back upstairs, Dad said: “Your chickens are dead, killed by a d- fox!” He looked really upset. I started to cry. To calm me down, Dad said he’d get even with the fox.

The next afternoon, when he got home from work, Dad borrowed a shotgun from Mr. Jones, our neighbor. When it got dark, Dad waited for the fox to return. Sure enough, around midnight, the fox came into the garden. My father pointed his gun and fired.

We ran downstairs, closely followed by Mum. Dad was standing over the fox which was writhing in pain, blood oozing from a gaping wound in its leg. “I didn’t mean to hit it, Hazel. Just wanted to scare it off. What shall I do?” he asked, as the tears ran down his face. Jimmie and I looked down at the poor fox and looked up at Mum. We knew Mum knew what to do. She’d make it better like she made us feel better when we were sick. She fetched an old sheet, put it over the fox, and gently lifted and carried it to the kitchen. Dad poured some warm water into a bowl and Mum, making the fox as comfortable as she could. bathed the leg wound.

Over the next couple of weeks, Dad kept the fox in the home he’d made for the chickens. He gave our new pet a name, Radjel, the Cornish word for fox. Mum nursed the fox every day, gently rubbing and cleaning his wounded leg until Radjel could stand and walk a couple of paces.  

Every day Dad exercised Radjel until he was able to stand and walk on his own.

One morning, about a month later, Dad patted Radjel’s head, turned to Mum and said, “Bet he’ll walk with ‘e, like a dog. I’m going to try. What do you think, Hazel? I gotta collar somewhere.” Dad searched in the gardent shed and found just what he was looking for – a collar from a dog we’d had a long time ago. Very gently, not wanting to upset Radjel, he put the leather collar around Radjel’s neck. Radjel whimpered, then stood up and tried to scratch the collar with his good back leg.

Dad patted him on the head and then pulled gently on the lead. At first, radjel resisted but then followed Dad out into the garden.

Walking very slowly, and, talking to Radjel, Dad eventually led the fox two or three times around the garden.

When Radjel was strong enough, Grandma walked me and Radjel down the hill to school. Everyone in the school yard stared at us. When Miss Harvey heard all the commotion outside her classroom window, she came out, took one look at me, Grandma, and Radjel, and shouted: “Oh, no, Mrs. Paull, you don’t bring that fox in the yard. It’ll scare the children. It’s got fleas! Take it home. NOW!”

Grandma did exactly what she was told, not wanting to incur the wrath of Miss Harvey. She turned, gently pulled Radjel’s lead, and started to walk back up the hill. Upset, I went into school. No one was allowed to say a word to me until we had our cod liver oil and went out to play. Then, the questions came thick and fast. One of the boys nicknamed me Radjel.

Miss Harvey asked about Radjel the fox every day, but would always add:

“You are not bringing him to school.”

Sadly, Radjel died a few weeks later and Dad buried him in a deep hole in Bejowan Woods. Everyone was really upset because Radjel had become an important part of our family.