Sandlands Read Online Free PDF

noticeable rise and fall of the ribs. He was breathing.
    Goodness knows the diseases you can catch from a fox, let alone the ticks and fleas, and this one wasn’t just filthy, he was dripping wet like a mop in a bucket, but I couldn’t leave him there. I think it was with my thinking he was dead, and then his not being; I couldn’t just let him die after that. As I picked him up, though, and he didn’t struggle or snap but just flopped there all limp while I wrapped him in my long Fair Isle scarf, I didn’t give much for his chances, either way. That scarf is for the dustbin now, too, and it took me an age to knit.
    It was Mr Napish I thought of, right away. I suppose it’s with his having been a scientist, even the wrong sort – and who else was there to ask? Folks with livestock know about animals, but they can’t abide foxes! My arms were aching by the time I reached High House, and the mud and water had soaked right through the Fair Isle and stained all up the front of my coat, and the fox still hadn’t stirred so I wondered if it was too late anyway and the whole thing had been a wild goose chase, if that’s not an ill-fitted phrase. But Mr Napish didn’t seem to think so. He didn’t bat an eyelid, which I knew he wouldn’t – nothing seems to get him in a fluster.
    â€˜Ah, Plathubis, bringer of rain’ was the first thing he said, which struck me as rather peculiar, but he took my bundle from me and carried it to the Aga, where he opened the warming oven and laid it gently inside. Then he turned to me and gave a slow nod of the head. ‘Leave him with me,’ he said.
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    The river is still in high flood, even after more than two weeks now. Mrs Jackaman kindly gave me a lift to the shops at Saxmundham in her big old estate car on Monday after I’d finished doing round for her at the rectory; she said she needed to pop into Tesco herself. As you come down Langham Lane it’s like another world, a world all turned to water. You can’t tell what’s river and what’s land. On a day like today, with the sun on it, there’s just one smooth, flat surface like mirrored glass. If it weren’t for the line of trees on one side and the fence posts on the other you wouldn’t know where the road goes at all. At least the crest of the bridge is visible now, just clear of the water, where a week ago it was submerged. ‘Something to set a course for,’ Mrs Jackaman said gaily.
    Even so, I’m glad it wasn’t me driving. There was something unnerving about striking out into all that expanse of silver without knowing what was underneath. A pair of ducks drifted alongside: life returning, I thought. We set them bobbing as we went by; we were leaving a wake behind us like a boat.
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    Against the odds, my fox is still with us, and appears to be on the mend. It has to be said, Mr Napish has worked miracles with him. He’s still rather groggy and listless, but I dare say it’s just as well or he’d have your fingers off. But with all the mud cleaned off him and his fur dried out you can see his proper colours, which are a rich orangey-red on top and soft, pale grey underneath, except it isn’t really grey at all when you look closely but white with a sort of darker down showing through at the roots; and his coat’s not straggly either but in pretty good condition, considering. Mr Napish thinks he’s a young one, maybe this year’s cub. He’s winter-thin, though: when he stretches you can see the outline of each rib. ‘We’ll soon do something about that,’ Mr Napish says. He’s giving him prime minced beef with Ready Brek and warm water mixed in. And he’s made him a box to sleep in, closed in except at one end – ‘So that he feels secure but not trapped,’ he explained. It’s a lovely piece of work is that box. It turns out Mr Napish is quite a woodworker.