Glyn Frewer's 'Fox' 1984

 

Patrick Hardy Books first edition - 1984

It is rare that I comment on the actual appearance of the book itself. This time, however, it was a pleasure to both look at and handle Glyn Frewer's Fox and sincere compliments must be paid to Patrick Hardy Books of 1 Newburgh Street London. I couldn't find anything about the publisher on the Internet, but it is forty years' later and much dirty water has gone under the amalgamate-at-any-cost book world. The photoset by Rowland Phototypesetting of Bury St Edmunds and the printing by Ebenezer Baylis & Son of Worcester matched the standards set by both author and publisher. The cover (both on the book itself and replicated on the dust wrapper) is striking, the print font and size is pleasant and the paper of a commendable quality. I found the two, clearly drawn, maps at the front helped in the understanding of Flik's wanderings and the narrative benefitted greatly from the superb line drawings - two of which are reproduced below - of the Illustrator William Finch. A 5* award to all!

 

It was W.E. Gladstone who wrote: Books are a delightful society. If you go into a room filled with books, even without taking them down from the shelves, they seem to speak to you, to welcome you. Kindles? Bah!

The book starts with a very apt quotation about the fox from Buffon (not the Italian football goalkeeper, but an author writing in 1767): All his resources are within himself. Acute as well as circumspect, ingenious and patently prudent, he diversifies his conduct and always reserves some art for unforeseen accidents. Of his own preservation he is extremely vigilant.

Flik is born, with three siblings, in a badger's sett in a spinney above White Lodge Farm, (somewhere in the South Midlands). Ruf, the dog-fox, and Vara, the mother had been joined by a young vixen, Deva, still in her first year, who had been accepted as a running mate. Forced to leave their earth, due to men blocking up all the badger setts, and find a new home more than a hundred metres away, Vara is unable to save the last cub, who is clubbed to death by one of the men. The author skilfully describes the learning processes for the cubs under the two vixens' tutelage - stalking and trapping voles, mice and rabbits. The family move to an old ruined chicken coop in a kale field near the Long Wendon rectory. Flik's life nearly ended when he was hit by a car. A brother and sister find him unconscious and take him to the vet. His broken left hind leg is fixed but he moves with a limp for the rest of his days. With a splint and a lead, the youngsters hope to tame him. No chance! He escapes at the earliest opportunity and the rest of the tale is about his adventures in what the map calls Fox Country - an area studded with small villages/hamlets - Great and Lower Wadcombe, Lower Barton, Middleton and Long Wendon. There are woods, spinneys and copses; downs and valleys; a reservoir and warren; a cricket pitch which figures in an amusing episode; a quarry, an electricity sub station and a caravan park - all of which Flix explores and uses to his advantage. 

The writing is clear and straightforward but also expressive, concentrating at all times on Flix - almost like an autobiography. He forages in the villagers' and campsite's dustbins and black plastic bags; he meets up with Drax, a three year old dog fox who suffers Flix to wander over his territory; he kills a pheasant which leads the keeper to set three spring-loaded gin-traps - to no avail, as it is the keeper's dog Gyp, a rangy young labrador-alsation, who is caught. By now Flix is seven months' old and fully grown: His fur was at its thickest and glossiest, ready for the winter and his head and body, some seventy centimetres long, was large even for a dog fox. He was at his most handsome, too, with his back a dark rusty red turning to pale grey below before becoming white on his underbelly. The backs of his ears were black, his feet and lower legs dark brown. His white chest blaze was vivid against the red and his brush bushed thickly to a white tip. His face and muzzle had distinctive dark markings, which gave him an unusually ferocious appearance.

He moves his killing ground to the reservoir-lake, where he catches moorhens and even devours a dead bream, discarded by fishermen. In the chapter entitled Predator, Flix develops from a mere scamp into a more ruthless hunter. He breaks into a shed and takes a white doe rabbit, a little girl's pet and then kills six Rhode Island Red hens, plump and fluffed out, seemingly safely  asleep in another coop. He also meets up with two young vixens, Vulpa and Arka (Drax's offspring) - when the inspections were finally completed to the satisfaction of all three, Flik put his mark on a nearby mound and the others followed suit. He mates with Arka and, due to snares being placed around all burrows which showed signs of fresh digging, sets up a den under a large hut, built on raised brick piles. In fact, it is Lower Barton's cricket pavilion. Here Arka gives birth to five cubs. Tragically, she dies from strychnine applied to a freshly killed young rabbit. Luckily, Vulpa takes over - like most barren vixens, she had helped the breeding vixen rear the cubs, bringing her food and grooming and playing with them.

The first cricket match of the season progresses peacefully enough, until two border collie puppies decide to explore the gap under the pavilion.

This leads to a most amusing scene (based on a real life event?) well described by the author. The cubs, terrified by the collies, race across the cricket field, closely followed by Flik and Vulpa; Tom Bowers, with a straight bat, faced the last ball of the over. The Marshford fast bowler was always tricky but if he could survive this one, then John Hollis at the other end could knock up a few more sixes. Over went the bowler's arm and Tom's eye was on the ball when a procession of fast moving animals raced across the pitch. His concentration vanished and his bat was nowhere near the ball which lifted his middle stump out of the ground. Completely foxed!

Other near escapes followed for Flik - lying in a field of long grass, he is caught up in haymaking where the combine  remorselessly reduces his cover, but he gets away. For a while he forages through the pickings of the plastic sacks on a caravan site; he is pursued by a large powerful Alsatian, but slithers and slides down the edge of a quarry to take refuge in a fissure in the rock. Eventually the villagers and farmers had had enough of the scavenging  dog fox with the limp. The last two chapters - The Meet and The Hunt - see Flix being pursued by the local Hunt, led by the redoubtable Major Garfield-Whitton, an experienced Master of Foxhounds, resplendent in red coat, white breeches and shining black boots. Notwithstanding the experienced leading hound, Pedlar, Flik - after a chase  excitingly described by the author - lives to fight another day. A stone's throw away, in the deep autumn litter of leaves below the bushes, Flik lay, too tired to lick the foul-smelling mud from his coat. He let his head fall on to his outstretched forepaws and closed his eyes; only the twitching of his ears showed that he was awake. Well done, Flik; bad luck the Major.

The author regularly conveys an excellent feel for the changing seasons. ...gradually days grew warmer and in the shelter of the gulley, new life emerged. Celandines and coltsfoot opened along both sides of the track and bumble bees, small tortoiseshells and brimstone butterflies winged their way between the flower heads. The hazel catkins at the far end by the gate swung yellow-heavy in the sun and the wind took the golden powder-pollen across the fields. Lapwings engrossed in soaring acrobatics called incessantly from the far side of the gully while...blue and great tits chased among the elders. From the blackthorn top, the missel thrush sang full throated, even during the rainstorms. The sun retreated once again as March began with a squall of rain and sleet that lasted three days.

And again: the night coming alive all around him. Pale moths cavorted above his head; a single bright star winked low on the horizon like a living eye and from high above him came the high-pitched squeaking of the pipistrelles as they flicker-hunted over hedgetops. From the heart of the whitebeam bubbled the stream of the nightingale's song and from the valley shadow came the wailing call of the lapwings.