The Fox at the Manger

Book 389: Virago Modern Classics

by P.L. Travers

Genres: Classics; General Fiction; Animals; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

For the first time since the war, the Christmas peal is ringing at St Paul's Cathedral. There is joy. There is new hope. It is Christmas Eve, the carol service has ended, and a woman with three small boys leaves the cathedral, the children swooping like pigeons. 'Why weren't there any wild animals at the crib? Haven't they got something to give?' asked one of the children. And I heard myself say, 'Yes, they have.' Was it true, what I told them? Did I dream it? Where it came from I do not know but I seemed to remember every word, just as if I had heard it . . . Outside the cathedral, the children are told the nativity story from a unique perspective: that of a fox. Despite the scorn of the other animals, he enters the stable to offer the child a gift that only he can give.

Release date: November 1, 2016

Publisher: Virago

Print pages: 96

Sample

 

No-ow-ell, No-ow-ell,

No-ow-ell, No-ow-eh-eh-ell

Born is the ki-ing of I-is-ra-el.

sang the choir, like musical news-boys, flinging their glad tidings all round the cathedral and up into the great dark dome.

Silence fell like a thunder-clap, stirred only by a shuffle of black boots under red skirts, and a decorous, almost apologetic, clearing of throats – ahem, ahem, all down the line.

Then the choir-master raised his finger. As though hypnotised, the choir gazed at it, gathering breath for the next effort. The finger wagged – one, two! And the bearers of the tale – so old, so new – were off again in full cry with another version of it.

The candles were steady in their hands, the flames bent sideways with the wind of their singing, and the carol of The Friendly Beasts pulsed sweetly through the nave, rising and falling like a lullaby. St Paul’s cathedral seemed to be rocking – to and fro, to and fro – like a cradle hung from a bough in the firmament.

 

Jesus, our brother, strong and good,

Was humbly born in stable rude

And the friendly beasts around him stood,

Jesus, our brother, strong and good.

The parents and children of the congregation who, except for the high notes, had made a good showing in Royal David’s City and The First Nowell, joined in with a modest buzz – nothing ostentatious, nothing to distract from the angelic performance of the choir, just an enthusiastic drone from a hive of giant bees.

 

‘“I,” said the donkey, shaggy and brown,’

cried the choir, dashing off on another lap.

‘But he’s not – he’s grey and quite smooth!’ said a voice, obviously struggling, but only too surely failing, to be a whisper. A head nudged my arm and a finger a good deal smaller than mine pointed to the crib.

Not for the first time this afternoon, I spoke out of the corner of my mouth, in the manner of a movie villain.

‘Sh! Don’t point!’

‘Why not? I had to show you. See, he’s quite —’

I turned my head away, hoping to give the impression of one rudely accosted by a stranger.

The choir, magnanimously taking no notice, continued the tale of the beasts.

 

‘I carried his mother up-hill and down,

I carried her safe to Bethlehem town,

I,’ said the donkey, shaggy and brown.

‘I,’ said the cow, all white and red,

‘I gave him my manger for his bed,

I gave him my hay to pillow his head,

I,’ said the cow, all white and red.

Just then, for some reason – perhaps he had a liking for cows – the smallest news-boy’s candle wobb. . .