1948
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.”
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