The Fox in the Forest
Read The Fox in the Forest Online
Authors: J. M. Gregson
© J. M. Gregson 1992
J. M. Gregson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1992 by HarperCollins
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
These woods are an ancient place. A motorway runs now along their edge, but within half a mile of the roaring traffic there are streams and pools that were here when King William the Norman sent out his men to compile the first inventory of his new kingdom.
The trees are ‘managed’ now, but not too fiercely or noticeably, and they impose their own leisurely time-scale. The last great impact was the felling of great tracts of oak to replenish the fleets of Nelson and repulse the ambitions of Bonaparte. Many of the oaks planted then still stand here, though other and greater wars have made claims upon them in this century of conflict. But the area escaped the worst of the evergreen mania of the ‘twenties and ‘thirties. Conifers supplement rather than overwhelm the deciduous trees.
The foresters who have worked here have been men with a feel for the place as well as skill in their work. The old bridleways have been expanded into wider routes, using the stone that is never far beneath the surface here. But entry is still forbidden to all vehicles save those of the Forestry Commission. So the forest remains a quiet, private place, where those seeking solitude will find it more easily than almost anywhere else in this crowded kingdom.
In summer, the woods throb with life. Irregular, conflicting bursts of full-throated birdsong from the deciduous areas blend into miraculous harmony. Streamlets dribble somnolently among rushes. Wild bees murmur on clover at the sides of tracks, where the gaps in the timber permit the sunlight to beam from above. The myriad, mysterious sounds of unseen small mammals amid the undergrowth surround the walker along the quiet paths, and deer will often cross the tracks ahead of him. And always above there is the sound of summer leaves, sighing softly in the lightest of breezes, whistling more briskly when the warm wind becomes boisterous.
In winter, the forest is a very different place. There are no leaf sounds overhead now, and only occasional scratchings in the dead, dry leaves beneath the naked trees. The few animals and birds that are still here make few movements over the cold, dark earth beneath the trees. Even the red kite, circling above the leafless twigs of the highest oaks, can detect little prey in the winter world beneath him.
On the shortest day of the year, little light penetrates to the floor of the woods from a sky sullen with cloud. Only at the few points where wide tracks meet is much of that sunless grey canopy visible. Elsewhere in the forest, this seems hardly a day at all, but rather a mere interval between long nights. Despite the cloud, there is a light north-east wind, driving down the temperature, ensuring that yesterday’s drizzle has become a thin film of ice over the stony tracks.
The still, tall firs, which in summer are scarcely noticeable, seem now to dominate this part of the forest, dark and unchanging. It is a place for trolls, or those darker spirits of northern myth. This part of the wood might now be in Finland, an inspiration for the astringent strains of Sibelius rather than the Elgar who once trod here on summer days.
Yet there is a human presence here, still. When other men leave, he emerges from his hiding-place like one of the wild creatures of the forest. Then he stretches his limbs and studies the light that remains in the patch of winter sky which he can see between the trees.
***
The man heard the rabbit screaming long before he saw it. It lay upon its side, a broken paw preventing the wire from tightening to crush its neck.
He killed it with a single blow from the side of his hand. It died in mid-scream, its eyes still wide with surprise as he lifted it from the trap. He was annoyed with himself: the sound could have given him away to curious ears. Not that anyone was likely to have been near enough to hear; if they had, they would probably have assumed that a stoat rather than human interference was the cause of the rabbit’s agony.
In any case, it could scarcely have mattered much. Any human listener here would be neutral, rather than hostile. But, knowing that he had made an error, he was angry, with the pedantry of the perfectionist.
He compensated by skinning the animal with self-conscious skill. As he disembowelled and dismembered the small body, his hands were as swift and accurate as a surgeon’s. Only a very little of the warm blood coloured the fingers of his left hand. He shut his eyes for a moment, acknowledging the excitement he felt in the touch of flesh and blood that had been a living thing only moments earlier.
He made his fire now, before full darkness could make it a beacon to mark his presence in the wood. The temperature was dropping: this would be another night spent well below freezing point. He was glad to squat close to the small fire in the little combe among the trees, sheltered from that light but bitter wind and any eyes foolish enough to be abroad here at this hour.
The rabbit almost filled the square cooking tin. It took a long time in these conditions to bring the stew to boiling point beneath the close-fitting lid; at least there was no shortage here of tinder-dry sticks. He let his meal simmer for much longer, forcing himself to savour the food in anticipation, making the wait another discipline imposed upon himself.
While he waited, he set up the tiny nylon tent a little way from the fire, sheltered from the wind but towards the top of the slope, where he was least likely to be surprised. That had become a habit now. He was still dry and warm within his waterproof clothing. This would be his third night in the forest, but as he unwrapped the lightweight sleeping-bag, his hands were as dry as when he had come here.
The rabbit was worth the wait. The flesh fell from the bones without conscious physical action on his part, as if it were reacting to the impulses of his brain. It tasted better at this moment than the finest French cuisine. Tipping the tin steeply, he used his last crust of bread to mop up the gravy. Hunger was still the finest sauce: it had been many hours since his previous meal.
The ground was beginning to freeze, though in the damper parts the leafmould yielded still to the pressure of his heel through the outer crust. A few days of this and the whole surface would be iron hard. He moved to the top of the slope to look at his tent; even without the darkness, its faded green would have been almost invisible. He was well used to it now: he crawled into its shelter like a wild creature returning to its lair.
With the flap zipped firmly shut, the temperature built quickly within his tiny refuge. He read for a while; even the heat of the torch seemed abnormally high in that confined space. He was warm, even to the tips of his feet. He had kept dry throughout his time in the woods, knowing that dampness was his greatest enemy. Once it got within even the best clothing or boots, there was no easy way of getting rid of it in winter. Damp meant cold, and cold meant trouble; water was the greatest danger to his success.
Presently he put out the torch. He imagined the grey-green luminescence it must give to his tent, and was uneasy at the thought of detection, however unlikely it might be. This was the best time. He lay half in and half out of the sleeping-bag, indulging the lethargy he did not allow himself by day. In the streets of the town, the windows of the shops would be trimmed with Christmas tinsel, garishly bright amid the crowds. He was pleased to be out of all that; he took his time in relishing that thought. There were plenty of hours left for sleep in the long night to come.
At around midnight, a thin dusting of snow fell upon the trees. Then the sky cleared and winter clenched its fist even more tightly about the forest. The man slept dreamlessly beneath the white canopy, finding his progress thus far satisfactory.
There are no houses now in the forest. The last charcoal-burner’s cottage was abandoned early in the century, and has long since been obliterated by the saplings which pushed its humble walls aside.
The tiny village of Woodford lies almost within the shadow of the woods; indeed, in the last sun of a summer evening, the longest shadow from the great beech trees at the edge of the forest touches the roof of its first house. The crossing of the shallow stream which gave the place its name was replaced sixty years ago by a metalled road, but the place is otherwise little changed in its externals. The old stone church, too large like most now for the number of worshippers it attracts, still stands at its centre. The Crown inn opposite its lych-gate is nowadays in rather better repair than the church, as if emphasizing the ascendancy for the moment of Mammon in the perpetual conflict between this world and the next.
There are not many new houses here. Apart from a terrace of four council houses erected in the ‘fifties, the only postwar building is a small detached house a hundred yards from the church; a discreet tablet by the side of its gate announces that this is now the vicarage.
If the Reverend Peter Barton ever looks with longing at the ivy-clad Victorian mansion that was once the residence of his predecessors, he keeps his thoughts to himself. Probably he does not do so, for envy has little part in his make-up. He is thirty-one, one of the new breed of clergy for whom progress towards things like the ordination of women is too slow and for whom action against social ills takes precedence over the liturgy and the order of service. The six bedrooms and the three-quarters of an acre of the Victorian vicarage, which now has a secular occupant, would be an embarrassment to him. And even his wife has to concede that they could not afford the heating.
Clare Barton concedes little else. She is a year younger than Peter, but already the doll-like prettiness which was emphasized by her blonde hair and light blue eyes is draining away. Her small, pert nose is becoming a little more button-like, the corners of her mouth turn habitually downwards, her figure is in danger of crossing that fine line from slimness into wiriness. She has the animation which first attracted her husband when they were students, but she seems nowadays to be more usually aroused by discontent than pleasure.
“It’s not going to be a very lively Christmas, then,” she said.
Her husband had sensed from the start that the series of questions had been leading to this conclusion. He said carefully, “It’s a working time, you know, for a clergyman. He has to be at the disposal of his flock, to some extent. But that’s no reason why it can’t be a happy time.” He wished he hadn’t added the last, obvious thought; it sounded like part of a sermon, hanging in the air, waiting to be developed.
He made a move as if to touch her, and she moved quickly away. “It means we’re stuck here. Tied to this house.”
“We can go out, if you wish, after I’ve finished my rounds on Christmas morning.” Like most country vicars, he was now a priest to more than one church and group of parishioners. The midnight service would be in Woodford, but he would conduct Christmas morning worship in three different churches. “Or we could invite some people round here. Perhaps Boxing Day might be better. Most people will want to be at home on Christmas Day.” He tried not to imply a rebuke to her in the words.
“And what should we offer them to eat and drink? We can hardly feed ourselves, on what they mete out to you!”
“Oh, come on, Clare, don’t exaggerate. We can have a few friends in. Anyway, most of them would probably bring a bottle, and —”
“And patronize us as usual. No, thanks, I’ve had enough of that scenario, thank you.”
She was more annoyed by his calm than she would have been by the irritation he might have offered instead. Dimly, she realized that she had been looking for the full-scale row she was not going to get. Her frustration increased as he sought to console her, until eventually she stormed out of the room and up to the low-ceilinged bedroom, where he found it equally difficult to please her these days. It had all seemed to offer a different prospect when Peter had been a personable young theology student at university, in his final year when she was only in her first. Money had seemed an irrelevance then, perhaps because with her background she had never had to consider it. To Peter it was still an irrelevance, and she could not admit that that was one of their problems.
She knew that he would have preferred a city parish, where he could confront the most urgent challenges to his faith face to face and day by day. She had been secretly relieved when he had been sent to this rural backwater, though they both suspected it was a move to enervate his radical views on church reform. Now she hated the place. She found that she was not good at conversation with people of different generations and backgrounds from her own. Few of her contemporaries came to church, and those who did seemed to her generally rather wet. Perhaps she simply did not want to make the effort that was required to be a supportive vicar’s wife.
Yet she knew she had a good man for her husband. She told herself that, repeatedly and ineffectively. And she put on her parish face with increasing desperation when she went out into the village, feeling like the woman in the song who kept her smile in a jamjar by the door. And the people of the village saw through her: she was sure they did.
She lay looking at the ceiling for what seemed to her a long time, though it was in fact no more than ten minutes. Then she succumbed to the temptation that had been with her all day. She wondered as she changed her clothes in front of the full-length mirror whether she had decided to do so at the beginning of the day, whether her protests downstairs had been no more than an elaborate ritual of preparation for a course of action that was already determined.
She put her old clothes away carefully in the bedroom suite she had brought with her from that bigger room which had been hers at home. Then she took a last, cool look at herself in the heavy Edwardian mirror, adjusting the shoulder of her jacket a fraction, making the most of last year’s smartness. These were clothes she rarely wore on her excursions into the parish; now she encased herself in her least dated, most formal outfit to get out of the place.
Peter was still there when she went down. He was like a man waiting to play out his part in a stage scene, she thought. Both of them would now go through the lines they had rehearsed too often before. She already felt the drama going stale as she launched this minor scene. “I’m going out. I don’t know when I shall be back.”
“Like Captain Oates.” His laughter was brittle as he tried to catch her eye. She understood the reference, but stonily refused to acknowledge it. He said more quietly, “Do you have to go out?”
“You know quite well I don’t have to. I choose to, which is quite different.”
He turned and came towards her; move stage right, she thought. She remained motionless just inside the door, as though she were preparing to upstage him in the dialogue to come. He took both her hands in his for a moment, in a gesture she remembered from the first days of their marriage. He was willing her to look at him, but she kept her eyes resolutely on the handbag he had made her put down. “Clare, what’s gone wrong with us?”
“With me, you mean. Nothing you can put right, I’m sure.” She willed him to accuse her directly of the damage she was doing, so that both of them might be forced to confront it. She flashed a look from her moist blue eyes full into his face, then dropped them again.
He was frightened by what he saw in her eyes. Frightened because he had no idea how to cope with it. There had been desperation in her face, and he had nothing to offer which would be strong enough to turn it away. He said, “Let’s sit down and talk it through,” and made a feeble attempt to draw her towards the sofa.
She shook him roughly away, angered more by his lack of conviction than by what he was trying to do. “We’ve been over it often enough before. There’s no point.”
Peter Barton shook his head. How could he be so competent, so helpful to others in distress, yet so unable to assuage this hurt that was close to him? “I know things aren’t right. But surely they can be put right. If only we had children —”
“It isn’t that.” She was tight-lipped, not trusting herself to more than a simple rejection of the idea.
“I wish you’d consider adoption, you know. It isn’t easy to get babies now, but we’re the ideal couple as far as the adoption commission is concerned. If we put our names down, I’m sure —”
“No. I can’t face that.”
“But everyone feels at first that it will be too much of a responsibility to take on. That’s only —”
“Leave it, can’t you?” She heard the hysteria in her voice. “I’m going out.” She snatched up her handbag, fumbling for the keys of the car.
He walked behind her to the door. For a moment, he thought of asking her not to take the car, of telling her he needed it for his day’s work. Then he shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of hopelessness which she could not see. “When will you be back?”
She did not turn to look at him again. “I told you, I don’t know yet.” She paused with her hand on the handle of the door, watching her fingers whiten as she tried to fight down her tension. “I — I know it’s hard, Peter, but I can’t help it.” She wrenched the door open and was gone, without looking at him again.
She forced herself to drive carefully through the village, presenting her jamjar smile to old Mrs Marsden as she crossed the road in front of her with her basket. She told herself as she drove to count her blessings. She would never starve, like the people on the other side of the world for whom she organized collections. She had no children to support. She had a good man for her husband.
She was lucky. Lucky to have Peter to rely on through this. Clare Barton told herself that yet again, as she drove away from him.