Tom walked through Jackdaw woods kicking crisp burnished leaves in hues of gold and orange; beauty that lay over rutted darkness beneath.
It wasn’t Billy that Tom saw first, but Wilbur; who always appeared from nowhere, like Doctor Who’s Tardis. Tom wondered, not for the first time, exactly how he did it.
‘Hello, Tom lad,’ said Wilbur.
‘Hi Wilbur,’ said Tom, ‘you ok?’ He was the only adult Tom ever addressed by his first name. But thinking about it, he realised he didn’t know his surname, anyway.
‘Aye. I’m alright lad, but I know a fox that ain’t. Just buried him at the graves.’
Tom knew where he meant, but thought only kids used it, not grown-ups like Wilbur. The graves were at a small clearing in the wood, not far from where they were now. Surrounded by fallen trees and banks of brambles, they were tucked away, only visited by children burying their pets. A few rough wooden crosses, fashioned from sticks tied with old string, or inexpertly nailed, stood haphazardly in the ground between ferns and tree stumps. Some graves were only marked by a large stone or upended log, some by nothing.
Tom had buried Tizer there last winter. The ground had been so hard he’d borrowed his dad’s trowel but it still took him ages to dig a hole big enough for the small rabbit, chopping through musty soil veined with tree roots. It’d been dusk when he’d finished and he was late for tea, which was good because his grief had dulled his appetite.
Wilbur must have dug a big hole for a fox. Tom looked at the man’s strong calloused hands, the fingers ingrained with dirt – and decided it probably hadn’t taken him too long.
‘How did he die?’ asked Tom.
Wilbur seemed not to hear him. They walked on together for some way before he replied.
‘Run over by the looks of it, at the side of the road just past Watties. Maybe he was after food from the bins.’
Tom glanced at the man who rarely put so many words together at once. His eyes, although dark, glistened.
‘Died in my arms,’ Wilbur said, so quietly that Tom strained to hear.
After a while Tom broke the silence. ‘Have you done him a cross?’
Wilbur raised his arm and wiped his nose across his coat sleeve, adding to the lines of snot already there, glinting in the light like snail trails. ‘Not yet. But I will. No reason why he shouldn’t have one.’
‘I’ll make it if you like,’ said Tom.
The man came to a stop and looked at the boy beside him. ‘You’d make it for me?’
‘Yeah. Well, for the fox. Only if you want me to,’ Tom said, hesitating, not knowing if he should say any more. But then Wilbur smiled, and although quite a few of his teeth were missing, it crinkled his eyes and warmed his walnut face. He looked almost handsome.
‘Aye lad,’ he nodded. ‘Aye.’
Walking on towards the Nissen huts, Tom squinted into the mellow sun looking for Billy, whilst Wilbur seemed lost in thought. It wasn’t unusual for Billy to hide and jump out on people as a joke. Once he’d jumped on Tom from the old oak tree and they had both fallen to the ground laughing, but Tom had remembered it for some weeks afterwards, his shoulder stiff and sore. As they passed below the oak now, Tom glanced up, but no boy hid among its branches.
Wilbur slowed his pace, his jaw working in concentration, his eyes scanning the woods. Facing Tom, he looked at him intently.
‘I’ve something to tell you lad. A secret.’
Tom could now smell – almost taste – the sweet tang of the pine warmed by the sun. But there was something else; an undertone of dank earth and decaying leaves, sifted by the breeze. He looked at the old man and felt his heart quicken. Wilbur was usually worth listening to, even if he didn’t always make sense. But he seemed in no hurry to tell.
Finally, he spoke. ‘The graves, the special pets buried there, the ones that were – ‘ he broke off, glancing at Tom. ‘Can you keep a secret, lad?’
Tom nodded. ‘Course. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Some…well, …some – ‘
Billy rushed from behind the tree like a whirligig, pulling Tom to the ground in a play fight. Billy and his lousy timing, thought Tom, but joined in for a couple of minutes before picking himself up and brushing himself down. He looked around for Wilbur. There was no sign of him. Tom shielded his eyes from the sun as he scoured the huts and trees. Nothing. The old man of the woods had gone as quickly as he’d arrived. Tom wondered if he’d really been there at all.
* * *
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