Chapter 19

The fox was standing at the gate. Its eyes glowed amber, watching Tilly’s every movement. When Tilly held out her gifts of bacon and lime and coconut cake, the fox crept forward, its belly low, and took the food delicately from Tilly’s hand without biting or hurting her. The fox gulped it down without chewing and then turned and padded toward the magic garden. Tilly watched the white tip of its tail flicker in the darkness.

Tilly picked her way through the wet grass, and climbed over the fallen tree, trying not to get the slimy green stuff on her hands. Ahead, something moved: a hand, pale, waving at her from inside the den.

“I’ve been here ages!” Helen said very quietly. “I hoped you’d come, and then it started raining so I wasn’t sure…but I’ve mended the roof, look, with some old tarpaulin I found. It’s quite dry inside.” She shifted over to make room for Tilly.

“It’s amazing!” Tilly said. “It’s as good as new! Thank you!”

“Sshh!” Helen said. “Keep your voice down! We don’t want to scare her off.”

“Scare who?”

“The vixen. She’s getting ready to have cubs, I’m sure of it now. She might even have had them. I thought I heard tiny squeaking sounds, and I stayed really quiet and still, and then the vixen came running from the trees, and she shot into the brambles.”

“It’s a she fox!” Tilly said. “I never thought of that.”

Helen laughed. “She’s a vixen, and this will be her first litter. And that’s why she’s hungry all the time. She can’t find enough food for herself; it all goes on growing the babies, inside her. That’s what I think, anyway.”

“Is she your pet fox?” Tilly asked.

“No. You can’t keep a fox as a pet. A fox is a wild animal.” Helen laughed again. “But I feed her every day if I can.”

“I’ve fed her too,” Tilly said.

“I know.”

Tilly’s face flushed. “I waited for you that time. And I’ve looked and looked for you since then…but you never came. And I realized I’ve never seen you in the daytime. It’s always the night.” She looked at Helen: her smooth pale skin, her oval face framed by her red-brown hair. “But I found the book and the candle in the tin, so I knew you must have been back.”

“Did you like the book?”

Tilly nodded.

“You can keep it if you like…” Helen stopped talking abruptly to listen.

Tilly listened too. “Do you think we’ll see the babies?” she whispered.

“Not yet, it’s too soon. And you’ll have to be very careful and quiet. The fox will be extra nervous. It’s very early in the spring for cubs; she’ll have a hard time hunting for food.”

“I gave her some cake earlier,” Tilly said.

Helen sniffed. “She needs proper food.”

“Like what?”

“Mice and baby rabbits and small birds and frogs. Worms, even.”

Tilly shivered. “What’s that?” She peered out into the dark.

Something was rustling in the undergrowth. They both leaned forward, listening.

“The trouble is,” Helen whispered, “if the vixen gets disturbed she might abandon her babies. You mustn’t go too close. And promise not to tell anyone they’re here. Grown-ups get funny about foxes. They don’t like them.”

“Oh!” Tilly had a sudden, horrible thought. She remembered the words Granny had read aloud, from the sign. “What if someone buys the garden?” Tilly said. “And then they start cutting down the trees and the brambles and everything? What will happen to the fox cubs then?”

Helen looked as if she’d been stung. For a moment she sat completely still. “What do you mean, buy the garden?” she said. Her voice was cold and hard and quiet. “The garden belongs to us! Us and the birds and the foxes and all the wild creatures.”

“There was a sign up,” Tilly said. “About land for sale, and an auction or something. There was a date too.”

Helen stared at her, her eyes dark in her pale face.

Tilly shivered. She felt sick. Something was terribly wrong.

Helen started scrabbling her way toward the entrance, bundling the candles and book and everything into the blanket in a terrible rush.

“Where are you going?” Tilly said. “Don’t go, Helen! What’s the matter? What did I say? I’m sorry…Wait!” She tried to follow Helen out through the narrow door, but it was too late. By the time she’d crawled out of the den and stood up, Helen had gone.

It was raining again: icy rain, turning to sleet.

Tilly pulled the tarpaulin over the entrance to the den, to keep it dry inside. She picked her way across the sodden garden, back toward her own house. The sleet was turning to snow, soft wet flakes of it clinging to her pajamas and her hair. Her feet were soaking wet.

If there’s snow, there will be footprints, Tilly thought, and paw prints, and then someone will find out about the fox…And I’ve upset Helen and now she won’t be friends with me and I’ll probably never see her again…She began to cry. And now she’d started, she couldn’t stop. Tears ran down her face, mixing with the wet snow, and everything was blurred, so she could hardly see the way.

“Tilly? Tilly?” Granny was saying her name and holding her arm gently, talking softly. “This way, Tilly love, everything’s fine, just along here, back you go…no need to wake up.” She was steering her along the mossy corridor into the bedroom, toward the white bed, like snow. Granny was rubbing her wet hair with a towel and pulling off her wet socks…

Tilly heard her own voice whispering back, saying something muddled about babies and footprints, and Helen…but she was so, so sleepy, drifting off, sinking back under the warm blanket, and Granny was tucking her in, smoothing her hair, soothing her back to sleep.