The night air is rent by unearthly shrieks... It sounds like witches are murdering some poor soul deep in a well at the end of my garden.
The night air is rent by unearthly shrieks. Stammered yelps and horrid guttural whimpers cut through the silence. It sounds like witches are murdering some poor soul deep in a well at the end of my garden. The foxes are out in force tonight.
The first time I ever heard those calls, over 40 years ago, I really did have visions of witches in my mind. I could only have been eight or nine, standing on the attic stairway of my grandfather's farm, Holywell, with the skylight open, and peering out across the dark meadows towards Lower Halstow and the North Kent Swale marshes. My uncle was trying out his new gadget, a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder and he was hanging out of the window with the microphone as these eerie noises drifted over the house. I never quite believed it was only foxes until I moved to London and was startled by a gang of males trotting up the road only feet away from me, coughing and barking and yelping as they went.
Now I don't even have to hear them to know that they've been about. I usually look for muddy footprints on the slide of the kids' climbing frame, or across the roofs of cars parked in the street.
I make sure the rabbit is securely covered up though. There was the time when we were looking after some friends' guinea pigs and one escaped. Even with neighbours flood-lighting the gardens from their balcony we could not find the dratted animal. All I could hear was snails eating the nasturtiums. I slept fitfully that night. The calling foxes were louder than ever and I could not contemplate how to tell the six-year-old owner what had happened to her fluffy pet. Early next morning I went looking for the blood-soaked remains of the pig's furry skin, only to be met with the creature calmly munching the same nasturtiums that I had shredded the night before in my frantic search.
The blood curdling calls hold no fear for me now.
