The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [71]
There were two numbers—one with (house) beside it; the other with (all other times). She telephoned the house first but there was no reply. She imagined the phone ringing in the empty corridor of the mowdie man’s house; a dog barking perhaps at the insistent ring, but the mowdie man himself out, stalking the land, driving off those armies of pests. She dialled the other number and the mowdie man answered immediately, or so she thought. But it was not him. “It’s his brither,” came a voice. “You wanting Billy?” She explained that she was, and she was asked to hold the line. So the mowdie man had a brother, she thought, who …
“Billy McClarty speaking.”
She told him who she was. Then: “I have a fox.”
“There’s a lot of them in Edinburgh. They’ve been breeding like Cath …” He stopped himself. “Like nobody’s business.”
Isabel was astonished. She had heard that a long time ago, but nobody said it these days, she thought.… And yet, his name was Billy McClarty and the Billy could be a giveaway. An Orangeman: Billy McClarty was an Orangeman.
“Like rabbits, you mean,” she said.
Billy McClarty was silent for a moment. Then he continued, “You want him away?”
She caught her breath. She felt as if she were a conspirator, contacting a hit man with a view to a contract killing—which it was, in a way. Their victim was a sentient being, with memory, plans, a family—with some sense of who he was. For a moment an intrusive, unwanted thought crossed her mind: one might invite Billy McClarty to take Minty away; to set a large trap in her walled garden, baited with … What would one bait a Minty trap with? The answer came to Isabel almost immediately: money.
“No, I don’t want him away.”
Billy McClarty continued. “Cannae kill him there,” he said. “I get into trouble with neighbours. Where are you, by the way?”
She told him, and there was a grunt of recognition at the other end of the line. “There are lots of folk there who encourage foxes,” he said. “I’ve heard of a daft wumman there who gies chicken to the fox. Those dafties wouldnae like it if I killed him, ken?”
Isabel said nothing. She was that daft woman. So one of the neighbours had considered trapping Brother Fox, for how else would Billy McClarty know about her? It was a very uncomfortable feeling; Brother Fox belonged to her.
She decided to explain. “I like him,” she said. “I know you won’t sympathise, but I actually like this fox. And yes, I do give him chicken. He has as much right to exist as you do, Mr. McClarty.”
Billy McClarty sounded unsurprised. “Oh, aye?”
“Aye,” said Isabel. “So we understand one another now.”
“I think we do.” He paused. “Nobody’s asked me to trap that fox.”
“Well, I’m asking you now,” said Isabel. “He’s been injured and I want to get the vet to take a look at him.”
“Hundred pounds,” said Billy.
Isabel had no idea what the going rate for the trapping of a fox was. One hundred pounds sounded rather a lot—fifty? He was sure to be overcharging her.
“How about fifty?” she ventured.
“That would get you only hauf a fox,” said Billy. “You choose. Fifty for hauf a fox. One hundred for a whole fox.”
She agreed, and they arranged a time. Billy would try to get into town by four in the afternoon; he had work to do until then. She would need to have a roast chicken available—or, if possible, a pheasant. “He cannae resist a pheasant. Mind you,” he warned,