Fox Evil

3

LOWER CROFT, COOMB FARM,

HEREFORDSHIRE-28 AUGUST 2001

Unusually for twenty-eight years ago, Nancy Smith had been delivered in her mother's bedroom, but not because her mother had avant-garde views on a woman's right to home birthing. A wild and disturbed teenager, Elizabeth Lockyer-Fox had starved herself for the first six months of her pregnancy and, when that failed to kill the incubus inside her, ran away from boarding school and demanded her mother rescue her from it. Who would marry her if she was saddled with a child?

The question seemed relevant at the time-Elizabeth was just seventeen-and her family closed ranks to protect her reputation. The Lockyer-Foxes were an old military family with distinguished war service from the Crimea to the standoff in Korea on the 38th parallel. With abortion out of the question because Elizabeth had left it too late, adoption was the only option if the stigmas of single motherhood and illegitimacy were to be avoided. Naively perhaps, and even in 1973 with the women's movement well under way, a "good" marriage was the Lockyer-Foxes' only solution to their daughter's uncontrollable behavior. Once settled down, they hoped, she would learn responsibility.

The agreed story was that Elizabeth was suffering from glandular fever, and there was muted sympathy among her parents' friends and acquaintances-none of whom had much affection for the Lockyer-Fox children-when it became clear that the fever was debilitating and contagious enough to keep her quarantined for three months. For the rest, the tenant farmers and workers on the Lockyer-Fox estate, Elizabeth remained her usual wild self, slipping her mother's leash at night to drink and shag herself stupid, unrepentant about the damage it might do to her fetus. If it wasn't going to be hers, why should she care? All she wanted was rid of it, and the rougher the sex the more likely that was.

The doctor and midwife kept their mouths shut, and a surprisingly healthy child emerged on the due date. At the end of the experience, interestingly pale and frail, Elizabeth was sent to a finishing school in London from where she met and married a baronet's son who found her fragility and ready tears endearing.

As for Nancy, her stay in Shenstead Manor had been of short duration. Within hours of her birth she had been processed through an adoption agency to a childless couple on a Herefordshire farm where her origins were neither known nor relevant. The Smiths were kindly people who adored the child that had been given to them and made no secret of her adoption, always attributing her finer qualities-principally the cleverness that took her to Oxford-to her natural parents.

Nancy, by contrast, attributed everything to her only-child status, her parents' generous nurturing, their insistence on a good education, and their untiring support of all her ambitions. She rarely thought about her biological inheritance. Confident in the love of two good people, Nancy could see no point in fantasizing about the woman who had abandoned her. Whoever she was, her story had been told a thousand times before and would be told a thousand times again. Single woman. Accidental pregnancy. Unwanted baby. The mother had no place in her daughter's story…

…or wouldn't have done but for a persistent solicitor who traced Nancy through the agency's records to the Smith home in Hereford. After several unanswered letters, he came knocking on the farmhouse door, and by a rare stroke of fate found Nancy home on leave.

It was her mother who persuaded her to speak to him. She found her daughter in the stables where Nancy was brushing the mud of a hard ride from Red Dragon's flanks. The horse's reaction to a solicitor on the premises-a scornful snort-so closely mimicked Nancy's that she gave his muzzle an approving kiss. There's sense for you, she told Mary. Red could smell the devil from a thousand paces. So? Had Mr. Ankerton said what he wanted or was he still hiding behind innuendo?

His letters had been masterpieces of legal sleight of hand. A surface read seemed to suggest a legacy-"Nancy Smith, born 23.05.73… something to your advantage…" A between-the-lines read-"instructed by the Lockyer-Fox family… relative issues… please confirm date of birth…"-suggested a cautious approach by her natural mother, which was outside the rules governing adoption. Nancy had wanted none of it-"I'm a Smith"-but her adoptive mother had urged her to be kind.

Mary Smith couldn't bear to think of anyone being rebuffed, particularly not a woman who had never known her child. She gave you life, she said, as if that were reason enough to embark on a relationship with a total stranger. Nancy, who had a strong streak of realism in her nature, wanted to warn Mary against opening a can of worms, but as usual she couldn't bring herself to go against her softhearted mother's wishes. Mary's greatest talent was to bring out the best in people, because her refusal to see flaws meant they didn't exist-in her eyes at least-but it laid her open to a legion of disappointments.

Nancy feared this would be another. Cynically, she could imagine only two ways this "reconciliation" could go, which was why she had spurned the solicitor's letters. Either she would get on with her biological mother or she wouldn't, and the only thing on offer in both scenarios was a guilt trip. It was her view that there was room for only one mother in a person's life, and it was an unnecessary complication to add the emotional baggage of a second. Mary, who insisted on putting herself in the other woman's shoes, couldn't see the dilemma. No one's asking you to make a choice, she argued, any more than they ask you to choose between me and your father. We all love many people in our lives. Why should this be different?

It was a question that could only be answered afterward, thought Nancy, and by then it would be too late. Once contact was made, it couldn't be unmade. Part of her wondered if Mary was motivated by pride. Did she want to show off to this unknown woman? And if she did, was that so wrong? Nancy wasn't immune to the sense of satisfaction it would give. Look at me. I'm the child you didn't want. This is what I've made of myself with no help from you. She might have resisted more firmly had her father been there to support her. He understood the dynamics of jealousy better than his wife, having grown up between a warring mother and stepmother, but it was August, he was harvesting, and in his absence she gave in. She told herself it was no big deal. Nothing in life was ever as bad as imagination painted it.

Mark Ankerton, who had been shut into a sitting room off the hall, was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. The Smith surname, coupled with the address-Lower Croft, Coomb Farm-had led him to assume that the family were farm laborers who lived in a tied cottage. Now, in this room of books and worn leather furniture, he was far from confident that the weight he'd given in his letters to the Lockyer-Fox connection would cut much ice with the adopted daughter.

A nineteenth-century map on the wall above the fireplace showed Lower Croft and Coomb Croft as two distinct entities, while a more recent map next to it showed the two within a single boundary, renamed Coomb Farm. As Coomb Croft farmhouse fronted a main road, it was obvious that the family would have chosen the more secluded Lower Croft as their residence, and Mark cursed himself for jumping to easy conclusions. The world had moved on. He should have known better than to dismiss a couple called John and Mary Smith as laborers.

His eye was constantly drawn to the mantelpiece, where a photograph of a laughing young woman in gown and mortarboard with "St. Hilda's, Oxford, 1995" inscribed at the bottom held pride of place. It had to be the daughter, he thought. The age was right, even if she bore no resemblance to her foolish, doll-like mother. The whole thing was a nightmare. He had pictured the girl as easy meat-a coarser, ill-educated version of Elizabeth-instead he was faced with an Oxford graduate from a family probably as well-to-do as the one he was representing.

He rose from the armchair when the door opened and strode forward to grip Nancy's hand hi a forceful clasp. "Thank you for seeing me, Miss Smith. My name's Mark Ankerton and I represent the Lockyer-Fox family. I realize this is a terrible intrusion, but my client has put considerable pressure on me to find you."

He was in his early thirties, tall and dark, and much as Nancy had imagined from the tone of his letters: arrogant, pushy, and with a veneer of professional charm. It was a type she recognized and dealt with daily in her job. If he couldn't persuade her by pleasantry, then he'd resort to bullying. He was certainly a successful lawyer. If his suit had cost less than a thousand pounds then he'd found himself a bargain, but she was amused to see mud on his shoes and trouser cuffs where he'd picked his way around the slurry in the farmyard.

She, too, was tall and more athletic-looking than her photograph suggested, with cropped black hair and brown eyes. In the flesh, dressed in loose-fitting sweatshirt and jeans, she was so different from her blond, blue-eyed mother that Mark wondered if there'd been an error in the agency's records, until she gave a slight smile and gestured to him to sit down again. The smile, a brief courtesy that didn't reach her eyes, was so precise an imitation of James Lockyer-Fox's that it was startling.

"Good lord!" he said.

She stared at him with a small frown before lowering herself into the other chair. "It's Captain Smith," she corrected mildly. "I'm an officer in the Royal Engineers."

Mark couldn't help himself. "Good lord!" he said again.

She ignored him. "You were lucky to find me at home. I'm only here because I'm on two weeks' leave from Kosovo, otherwise I'd be at my base." She watched his mouth start to open. "Please don't say 'good lord' again," she said. "You're making me feel like a performing monkey."

God! She was like James. "I'm sorry."

She nodded. "What do you want from me, Mr. Ankerton?"

The question was too blunt and he faltered. "Have you received my letters?"

"Yes."

"Then you know I'm representing the Lock-"

"So you keep saying," she broke in impatiently. "Are they famous? Am I supposed to know who they are?"

"They come from Dorset."

"Really!" She gave an amused laugh. "Then you're looking at the wrong Nancy Smith, Mr. Ankerton. I don't know Dorset. Off the top of my head, I can't think of anyone I've ever met who lives in Dorset. I certainly have no acquaintance with a Lockyer-Fox family… from Dorset or anywhere else."

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "Elizabeth Lockyer-Fox is your natural mother."

If he'd hoped to surprise her, he was disappointed. He might as well have named royalty as her mother for all the emotion she showed.

"Then what you're doing is illegal," she said calmly. "The rules on adopted children are very precise. A natural parent can publicize his or her willingness for contact, but the child isn't obliged to respond. The fact that I didn't answer your letters was the clearest indication I could give that I have no interest in meeting your client."

She spoke with the soft lilt of her Herefordshire parents, but her manner was as forceful as Mark's and it put him at a disadvantage. He had hoped to switch tack and play on her sympathies but her lack of expression suggested she didn't have any. He could hardly tell her the truth. It would only make her angrier to hear that he had done his damnedest to prevent this wild goose chase. No one knew where the child was or how she'd been brought up and Mark had advised strongly against laying the family open to worse problems by courting a common little golddigger.

("Could it be any worse? " had been James's dry response.)

Nancy ratcheted up his discomfort by glancing pointedly at her watch. "I don't have all day, Mr. Ankerton. I return to my unit on Friday, and I'd like to make the most of the time I have left. As I have never registered an interest in meeting either of my biological parents, could you explain what you're doing here?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd received my letters."

"Then you should have checked with the post office. They were all sent by registered delivery. Two of them even followed me out to Kosovo, courtesy of my mother who signed for them."

"I hoped you'd acknowledge receipt on the prepaid cards I enclosed. As you never did, I assumed they hadn't found you."

She shook her head. Lying bastard! "If that's as honest as you can be, then we might as well call a halt now. There's no obligation on anyone to answer unsolicited mail. The fact that you registered delivery-" she stared him down-"and I didn't answer, was proof enough that I didn't want correspondence with you."

"I'm sorry," he said again, "but the only details I had were the name and address that were recorded at the time of your adoption. For all I knew, you and your family had moved… perhaps the adoption hadn't worked out… perhaps you'd changed your name. In any of those circumstances, my letters wouldn't have reached you. Of course I could have sent a private detective to ask questions of your neighbors, but I felt that would be more intrusive than coming myself."

He was too glib with his excuses and reminded her of a boyfriend who stood her up twice and then got the elbow. It wasn't his fault… he had a responsible job… things came up… But Nancy hadn't cared enough to believe him. "What could be more intrusive than an unknown woman claiming title to me?"

"It's not a question of claiming title."

"Then why did you give me her surname? The implied presumption was that a common-or-garden Smith would fall over herself to acknowledge a connection with a Lockyer-Fox."

God! "If that's the impression you received then you read more into my words than was there." He leaned forward earnestly. "Far from claiming title, my client is in the position of supplicant. You would be doing a great kindness if you agreed to a meeting."

Loathsome little toerag! "The issue is a legal one, Mr. Ankerton. My position as an adopted child is protected by law. You had no business to give me information that I've never requested. Did it occur to you that I might not know I was adopted?"

Mark took refuge in lawyerspeak. "There was no mention of adoption in any of my letters."

Any amusement Nancy had found in pricking his rehearsed defenses was rapidly giving way to anger. If he in any way represented the views of her natural mother then she had no intention of "doing a kindness." "Oh, please! What inference was I supposed to draw?" It was a rhetorical question, and she looked toward the window to calm her irritation. "You had no right to give me the name of my biological family or tell me where they live. It's information I've never requested or wanted. Must I avoid Dorset now in case I bump into a Lockyer-Fox? Must I worry every time I'm introduced to someone new, particularly women called Elizabeth?"

"I was working to instruction," he said uneasily.

"Of course you were." She turned back to him. "It's your get-out-of-jail card. Truth is as alien to lawyers as it is to journalists and estate agents. You should try doing my job. You think about truth all the time when you hold the power of life and death in your hands."

"Aren't you following instructions, just as I am?"

"Hardly." She flicked her hand in a dismissive wave. "My orders safeguard freedom… yours merely reflect one individual's attempts to get the better of another."

Mark was stung to mild protest. "Do individuals not count in your philosophy? If number bestowed legitimacy, then a handful of suffragettes could never have won the right for women to vote… and you would not be in the army now, Captain Smith."

She looked amused. "I doubt that citing the rights of women is the best analogy you could have drawn in the present circumstances. Who has precedence in this case? The woman you represent or the daughter she gave up?"

"You, of course."

"Thank you." Nancy pushed herself forward in her chair. "You can tell your client I'm fit and happy, that I have no regrets about my adoption, and that the Smiths are the only parents I recognize or wish to have. If that sounds uncharitable, then I'm sorry, but at least it's honest."

Mark moved to the edge of his seat to keep her sitting down. "It's not Elizabeth who's instructing me, Captain Smith. It's your grandfather, Colonel James Lockyer-Fox. He assumed you'd be more inclined to respond if you thought your mother was looking for you"-he paused-"though I gather from what you've just said that his assumption was wrong."

It was a second or two before she answered. Like James, her expression was difficult to read and it was only when she spoke that her contempt was obvious. "My God! You really are a piece of work, Mr. Ankerton. Supposing I had replied… supposing I'd been desperate to find my biological mother… when were you planning to tell me that the best I could hope for was a meeting with a geriatric colonel?"

"The idea was always to introduce you to your mother."

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Did you bother to inform Elizabeth of this?"

Mark knew he was handling this badly, but he couldn't see how to retrieve the situation without digging bigger holes for himself. He deflected attention back to her grandfather. "James may be eighty but he's very fit," he said, "and I believe you and he would get on well together. He looks people in the eye when he speaks to them and he doesn't suffer fools gladly… rather like yourself. I apologize unreservedly if my approaches have been-" he sought a word-"clumsy-but James wasn't confident that a grandfather would appeal over a mother."

"He was right."

It might have been the Colonel speaking. A quick, scornful bark that left the other person floundering. Mark began to wish that the golddigger of his imagination had been the reality. Demands for money he could have dealt with. A complete disdain for the Lockyer-Fox connection fazed him. Any minute now she would ask him why her grandfather was looking for her, and that was a question he wasn't at liberty to answer. "Yours is a very old family, Captain. There have been Lockyer-Foxes in Dorset for five generations."

"Smiths have been in Herefordshire for two centuries," she snapped back. "We've farmed this land without interruption since 1799. When my father retires, it'll be my turn. So, yes, you're right, I do come from a very old family."

"Most of the Lockyer-Fox land is rented out to tenant farmers. There's a lot of it."

She fixed him with a furious gaze. "My great-grandfather owned Lower Croft and his brother owned Coomb. My grandfather inherited both farms and incorporated them into one. My father has been farming the entire valley for the last thirty years. If I marry and have kids, then my father's grandchildren will own the two thousand acres after me. As I fully intend to do both, and add Smith to my children's surname, then there's a good chance these fields will be farmed by Smiths for another two centuries. Is there anything more I can say that will make my position clear to you?"

He gave a resigned sigh. "Have you no curiosity?"

"Absolutely none."

"Can I ask why not?"

"Why fix something that isn't broken?" She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't: "I may be wrong, Mr. Ankerton, but by the sound of it it's your client whose life needs fixing… and off the top of my head I can't think of a single reason why that burden should fall on me."

He wondered what he'd said that had led her to so accurate a conclusion. Perhaps his persistence had suggested desperation. "He just wants to meet you. Before she died his wife asked him several times to try to find out what had happened to you. I think he feels it's his duty to honor her wishes. Can you respect that?"

"Were they party to my adoption?"

He nodded.

"Then please reassure your client that it was completely successful and he has nothing to feel guilty about."

He gave a baffled shake of his head. Phrases like "unresolved anger" and "fear of rejection" hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he had the sense not to say them. Even if it were true that her adoption had left her with a lingering resentment-which he doubted-psychobabble would only irritate her more. "What if I were to repeat that you'd be doing a great kindness if you agreed to meet the Colonel? Would that persuade you?"

"No." She watched him for a moment, then raised a hand in apology. "Look, I'm sorry, I've obviously disappointed you. You might understand my refusal better if I take you outside and introduce you to Tom Figgis. He's a nice old boy, and he's worked for Dad for years."

"How will that help?"

She shrugged. 'Tom knows more about the history of Coomb Valley than anyone. It's an amazing heritage. You and your client might like to learn a little of it."

He noticed that every time she said "client" she lent a slight emphasis to it, as if to distance herself from the Lockyer-Foxes. "It's not necessary, Captain Smith. You've already convinced me that you feel a strong connection to this place."

She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "There was a Roman settlement here two thousand years ago. Tom's the expert on it. He rambles a bit but he's always willing to pass on his knowledge."

He declined politely. "Thank you, but it's a long drive back to London and I've a stack of paperwork in the office."

She flashed him a sympathetic glance. "You're a busy man… no time to stand and stare. Tom will be disappointed. He loves chewing the cud, particularly with Londoners who have no idea of Herefordshire's ancient traditions. Round here we take them seriously. It's our link to our past."

He sighed to himself. Did she think he hadn't got the message already? "Yes, well, with the best will in the world, Captain Smith, talking to a total stranger about a place I'm not acquainted with isn't a top priority for me at the moment."

"No," she agreed coolly, standing up, "nor for me. We both have better things to do with our time than listen to elderly strangers reminisce about people and places that have no relevance to us. If you explain my refusal to your client in those terms, then I'm sure he'll understand that what he's suggesting is a wearisome imposition that I could do without."

He'd walked into that with his eyes wide open, thought Mark ruefully as he, too, rose to his feet. "Just for the record," he asked, "would it have made any difference if I'd said from the start that it was your grandfather who was looking for you?"

Nancy shook her head. "No."

"That's a relief. I haven't made a complete dog's breakfast of it, then."

She relaxed enough to give him a smile of genuine warmth. "I'm not unusual, you know. There are as many adopted children who are perfectly content with their lot as there are who need to go looking for the lost pieces in their jigsaws. Perhaps it has something to do with expectation. If you're satisfied with what you have, then why court trouble?"

It wouldn't do for Mark, but then he didn't share her confidence in herself. "I probably shouldn't say this," he told her, reaching for his briefcase, "but you owe the Smiths a lot. You'd be a very different person if you'd grown up a Lockyer-Fox."

She looked amused. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Yes."

"It'll make my mother's day." She led him to the front door and held out her hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Ankerton. If you have any sense you'll tell the Colonel he's got off lightly. That should kill his interest."

"I can try," he said, taking her hand, "but he won't believe me… not if I describe you accurately."

She pulled out of his grip and stepped back inside the doorway. "I was talking about legal action, Mr. Ankerton. I'll certainly sue if you or he ever approach me again. Will you make that clear to him, please?"

"Yes," he said.

She gave a brief nod and closed the door, and Mark was left to pick his way through the mud, less concerned with failure than with regret for an opportunity missed.

BBC News Online-

18 December 2001, 07:20 GMT

Fox hunters and saboteurs resume hostilities

Boxing Day will see a return to fox hunting after foot-and-mouth restrictions were lifted yesterday. The sport was voluntarily suspended in February after hunts nationwide agreed to support the ban on animal movements during the epidemic. It has been the most peaceful 10 months since the crusade against fox hunting began 30 years ago, but the Boxing Day meets will rekindle the antagonism between the pro- and anti-hunting groups, which has been on a back burner for most of 2001.

"We expect a huge turnout," said a spokesman for the Countryside Alliance Campaign for Hunting. "Many thousands of ordinary people recognize that hunting is a necessary part of rural life. Fox numbers have doubled in the 10-month layoff, and sheep farmers are worried about the number of lambs they are losing."

Hunt saboteurs have pledged to be out in force. "People feel strongly about this," said one activist from west London. "All saboteurs are united in their desire to protect foxes from people who want to kill them for fun. There is no place for this kind of savage blood sport in the 21st century. It's a lie to say fox numbers have doubled. The summer has always been a closed season to hunting, so how could extending the layoff by three months result in a 'plague'? Such claims are pure propaganda."

According to a recent Mori survey, 83% of people polled found hunting with dogs either cruel, unnecessary, unacceptable, or outdated. But even if the prime minister makes good his recent pledge to ban fox hunting before the next election, the debate will continue.

The pro lobby argues that the fox is vermin and will need to be controlled whether hunting is banned or not. "No government can legislate against the fox's predatory instincts. Once inside the wire, he will kill every chicken in the run, not because he's hungry but because he enjoys killing. Currently 250,000 foxes are culled annually to keep the numbers at an acceptable level. Without hunting, the fox population will grow out of control and people's attitudes will change."

The anti lobby disagrees. "Like any other animal, the fox adapts to its environment. If a farmer fails to protect his stock then he can expect it to be preyed upon. That's Nature. Cats kill for enjoyment but no one's suggesting we set a pack of hounds on the family moggy. Where's the sense in blaming the fox when the debate should be about animal husbandry?"

The pro lobby: "Hounds dispatch cleanly and quickly while snares, traps, and shooting are unreliable methods of control, often leading to severe injury with no guarantee that the fox is the animal captured. Injured animals die slowly and painfully, and the public mood will shift when this becomes apparent."

The anti lobby: "If the fox is as dangerous as hunts claim, why do they use artificial earths to encourage their numbers? A gamekeeper recently admitted that for 30 years he's been producing foxes and pheasants for the hunt. If you're a keeper in hunting country, it's obligatory to provide an animal for the kill, otherwise you're out of a job."

The accusations and recriminations are bitter. The Countryside Alliance's pretense that it's a rural versus urban issue is as absurd as the League Against Cruel Sports' claim that no jobs will be lost if fox hunters make a "wholesome switch to drag hunting." Dislike of killing a native animal for sport is as strongly felt in rural areas as it is in the town, and the Woodland Trust, for one, refuses to allow hunts across its land. By contrast, drag hunting will only secure jobs if huntsmen, many of whom are farmers, can be persuaded that signing up to a group activity which offers no useful benefit to the community is worth their time and money.

Each side would like to paint the other as destroyers-of a way of life or of a vulnerable animal-but the verdict on whether or not hunting should be banned will rest on the public perception of the fox. It's not good news for the hunting lobby. Another recent opinion poll posed this choice: Place the following in order of the damage they do to the countryside: 1) foxes; 2) tourists; 3) New Age travelers. 98% of the respondents put travelers at the top; 2% (presumably huntsmen suspecting a trap) put foxes; 100% found tourists the least damaging because of the money they bring into rural economies.

Brer Fox in his red coat and white slippers appeals to us. A man on the dole in an unlicensed vehicle does not. The government should take note. Vulpes vulgaris is not an endangered species, yet he is busy acquiring protection status through the many campaigns to preserve him. It is the traveler who now enjoys the status of vermin. Such is the might of public opinion.

But since when was might right?

Anne Cattrell