Dad laughed at that. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, course you are! The King of England! So you’re one of those, then. Too much to drink, eh? A bit bonkers, off your rocker. I’ve met lots of your sort before, out in the city at night, wandering the streets. But I’ve never met anyone before that I can’t see. Never even talked to anyone I can’t see. Now, my little son and I have to get home. It’s getting late. Goodnight, Your Kingship.”

“No, don’t go,” came the voice again, more polite now, pleading almost. “Please don’t go. I would show myself to you if I could. But that’s my problem – I can’t get out of here. Listen, Mister Fox and Master Fox, all I’m asking is for you to do me a small favour. I want you to show those idiot archaeologists, who are doing all the digging, where I am.”

“Arky-what-a-gists?” I asked. “What are they, Dad? What do they do?”

“They do digging, son,” Dad told me, “for old stuff, old things.”

“Old worms, you mean?” I said.

“Older, son. Bigger. Old buildings, old bits and pieces, anything. They even dig up old people sometimes.”

“And sometimes even an old king,” came the voice again. “I am not bonkers, not off my rocker, Mister Fox, I promise you. I am just an old king who has been lying down here for hundreds and hundreds of years, and I want to get out. And I won’t ever get out if those stupid archaeologists don’t find me. Which is why I really need you to lead them to me. They’ve been digging for me, searching for me for months and months now, but never in the right place. They keep missing me, just can’t seem to find where I am. I’ve been calling them and calling them, just like I called you, but I don’t think they can hear me. Foxes hear better, don’t they? You must do. You heard me after all.”

“That’s because foxes do everything better, don’t we, son?” said Dad.

“Right on, Dad,” I replied. And we did our high-fives again.

“And foxes dig well too – am I right?” came the voice.

“We only dig the best tunnels and deepest dens in all the world,” Dad told him proudly. “They may smell of rotten onions, but we like home to smell like that, right, son?” We high-fived again.

“Listen, Mister Fox,” the voice said, in quite a different tone altogether now. “I’m really sorry I ever said that, about you smelling like rotten onions. Dastardly thing to say. Pardon me, please. I should be so grateful if you could please dig me one of your best tunnels in the world, towards where I am. I’ll just keep talking and you keep digging. It won’t take long. You’ll find me sooner or later. You can’t miss me. I’m not going anywhere, not until you find me anyway.”

I could see Dad was thinking long and hard. “Now, let me get this right, Your Kingship,” he began. “You want us, me and my little cub here – who by rights should be back home and fast asleep by now down in our smelly den – you want us to get digging and keep digging till we find you. I mean that could take all night, couldn’t it? Have you any idea of the trouble I’ll be in with the wife if I stay out all night, if I don’t get our little son home till morning? Trouble and strife, Your Kingship, that’s what I’ll be in for, trouble and strife.”

Dad was shaking his head and tutting away. Quite an actor my dad can be.

“But let’s just say we oblige you, Your Kingship,” he went on, “and we do what you ask, what do we get in return? I mean, just how grateful would you be, if you see what I’m saying?”

“So foxes are as cunning as they say,” came the reply.

“Oh yes indeed, Your Kingship,” Dad said. “King or fox, you have to be cunning to survive in this life, as cunning as a fox.”

“I cannot argue with you there, Mister Fox. Very well, tell me what it is you most wish for in all the world,” said the voice, “and I shall grant it.”

“With what power?” asked Dad. “You can’t even tell the archaeologists where you are.”

“Only because I have never had a king’s burial,” said the voice. “Release me, and I can do anything. Just tell me your greatest wish.”