How to Be Human

by Paula Cocozza

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  Copyright Page

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Before writing came reading, so I would like to thank the people who taught me how to do it. Thank you to my parents and brothers for their support. Thank you, Ges Hartley, for showing me that liking books was no weird thing. And thank you, Ralph Pite, for asking the best questions and prescribing the best reading cures. I will always be thankful to Goring Library, for allowing me to grow up reading freely.

  The first chapter of this story had its first listeners in a creative writing workshop at the University of East Anglia. I have benefited from the thoughts of many people who read a portion of this novel, but I’m especially thankful to those whose comments helped to encourage and steer it: Alice Falconer, Imogen Hermes Gowar, Rory Gleeson, Alex Goodwin, Sophia Veltfort, Poppy Sebag-Montefiore, Giles Foden, and Henry Sutton. David Higham Associates awarded me a bursary, and their generous early support was invaluable.

  Thank you to those friends who read a full draft: Richard Beard, Ayobami Adebayo, Cathy Gould, and Joe Banfield. And special thanks to Joe Cocozza, who read every draft and has lived with the fox almost as long as I have.

  Many books have been helpful in writing this one, especially David Macdonald’s brilliant Running with the Fox and Roger Burrows’s Wild Fox. Sally Charles and Trevor Allman kindly made time to talk to me about the foxes they knew. And my commute was easy thanks to the fox visitors who brought research to the back garden. (Though please note I’m finished now.) Malik Meer and Suzie Worroll made life workable with their flexibility and trust.

  I will always be grateful to Natasha Fairweather for her enthusiasm and belief, to Jocasta Hamilton for the countless considerate nudges, and to Nicole Winstanley and Riva Hocherman for keeping me thinking to the end.

  Thank you most of all to Ben, Elsa, and Gabriel: for the love, the encouragement, and the time.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a baby on the back step. A white bundle, downward sloping, spilling two arms and a head, the head looking at the edge of the step precariously. Not really looking. The eyes were shut. One hand lay beside an ear, fingers stiffened into a fist that might have held something or lost something. Such a beautiful hand: its sliver of palm was streaked with shimmers of purple and blue, veins rubbed with moonlight.

  The surprise came not from seeing the baby, but from seeing what was around her. A baby on the back step. It was the step that was wrong. She was meant—Mary turned to check that she was alone before she finished the thought. She was meant to take the child into the house.

  She stared down at the … parcel, she thought, studying but not touching the sheath of white seersucker that lay between her feet and her door. She was thinking of the way it had been left to wait for her, so carefully wrapped. She squinted into her dark garden, half expecting someone to jump out and laugh at how she had fallen for such an extravagant practical joke. She was unsure what kind of person would play a trick like that. In any case, no one moved. The bushes hunched secretively. From somewhere within the block of streets, the owl hooted again, on patrol from his warehouse. This was the first night she had heard him; now she had heard him twice.

  Just the perfect baby on the step, her mouth open as if she had said something a while back. Wrapped in white, legs shrouded inside her bedtime ghost costume, lying incredibly on a slab. Mary crouched for a closer look. She ran her thumb over the marbled forehead and traced the thread of violet that wriggled across one eyelid. There should be a note, she thought, with a sender’s name. Dear Mary. Congratulations on your new arrival. From —. Obviously she didn’t expect a note. It was the bizarreness of the situation that made her imagination busy, made her unfurl a couple of rigid fingers just to see what they held. But all they let slip was a fistful of night.

  A heavy warm breath slid down Mary’s throat. So this was what it felt like to be trusted. The proof lay here, beneath the knee that gently dropped to prod an arm, warm but still. She sucked in another draught of night medicine. The air tasted clear and dry and tangy with green spice. The baby’s face remained impervious, so she jabbed the arm again, hoping to surprise the eyes open—but the eyes stayed shut. Oh, Christ. She had assumed, but what if, what if the blood making the arm warm was not a sign of life but of life’s residual warmth cooling?

  “No, no, no! You mustn’t do that,” Mary whispered. She wished someone else were here, and she was very glad that someone else was not. With a hand hovering over the baby’s chest, she cast around the empty garden again. She was looking for help and looking to see if anyone was watching. If she touched the baby, someone could witness her—what? It was not a crime to touch a baby. Though it might become one, if she were the last person to touch her alive. Mary cupped the head and carefully rolled it away from the drop. As she did so, the scalp popped softly at her fingers.

  Her hand was slippery with sweat, so she wiped it on her jogging bottoms and shook the near shoulder, which made the head wheel back to face her with a stony roll. Mary pressed her cheek to the baby’s chest, but it was her own brain she could hear, throbbing and whistling with fear. “Psssst!” she said into the little ear. “Are you OK? Please tell me you’re OK.”

  No answer.

  Mary picked up the near hand. The palm was so plump, the lines on it were like seams sewn into cushions. She flattened out the fat bits between her thumbs and rubbed wisps of silver fluff from the crevices. She kissed the baby’s forehead. Still not a flutter. Then she clasped the little nose in a firm pinch, waiting for the mouth to wake. These maulings made her feel that she was mugging the child for a breath. She hung on to the nose, but she was flailing, a thief trying all the windows and doors, and still the mouth stayed shut. Mary let go of the nose and gently laid a finger on the purple vein, stroking it upward until she had prized open the eye. She held it like that, her fingertip pinning the lid to the brow. “Wake up!” she hissed at the pupil. It was deep gray-blue velvet, replete with color yet in denial of its color. In a few months, this eye would be brown. Could the eye see her? The iris rolled into the corner of its socket, looking back at her through misty glass from some far-off place, as distant and disinterested as a dead eye must be.

  Several positional steps were necessary to lift the child. Concrete pared Mary’s knuckle as she slipped a hand under the neck, forked another beneath the legs. How light the baby was! Moonlight tinted her face blue. With her long white robe, she looked like an infant just christened in time. Mary shook her gently, listening for the rattle as you might with a stopped watch, but the shake jolted the head forward, and the blue pallor deepened.

  An outside door closed nearby, one of those sounds that hides whether it has come from left or right.

  Mary waited, but the night was silent. There was nothing and no one to see. Only a snail in the corner of the patio broke out from his hiding place behind the plant pot and began to haul his short silvery string toward them. She drew the baby tightly to her chest. She had the baby, had
taken possession of her by who knew what form of special delivery. Delivery, deliverance, she mused. Which was right? And what sort of damn brain did she have that in a moment of crisis it wanted to pick at the gaps between words? She brushed a leaf from the cap of dark hair and pressed her lips to the spot. The kiss produced a fluttering sensation in her stomach, then she realized the flutter was on the outside and that against her own stomach a tiny foot flexed. She swallowed down a silent scream, let it growl around her belly. Somewhere there, it must have tweaked the baby’s foot, because the toes twitched again, curling into the scream, and Mary let her breath go. The air and the words rushed out in one heavy stream. “You’re alive!”

  She crossed her wrists over the little one’s back and squeezed her closer. Chest to chest like this, the child’s rib cage fitted exactly inside the cavity of Mary’s own ribs. They were like two wicker baskets nested for convenience. The baby breathed inside her own breath, as if her own breath had consumed the baby’s. Together their bodies rose and fell, their insides taking care of a conversation that neither of their tongues knew how to voice. If only the moment would hold them both still in their funny belonging. An air lock popped in Mary’s stomach, a tiny bubble released, as if into the waters within her some new thing had stolen.

  Amazing the way a baby could get inside you like that.

  So here was an idea. Take her into the house. Just lie down on the bed, with the little one on top, pretty much as they were now, but horizontal. Standing out here with their bones snugly jammed, it made sense. Look at the sky beginning to lighten. Dawn was not far off. Who cared if she had no equipment, no nappies. The heat of her body, the stroke of her hand, were all the two of them needed. It would be enough for Mary to watch the baby sleep, to mind the rise and fall of her chest, to lay a hand on her heart and collect the pulse. She herself needed rest. A truck shook its heavy chains down the main road, but the poppet in her arms slept on. Mary lifted her a moment, felt the weight of her, guessing her like a package she had signed for and promised to keep safe. It seemed obvious then that that was her job—to keep the baby safe. “Flora,” she breathed into the sleeping ear.

  All she needed to do was open the door and walk inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The beginning, when you looked back from the middle, had come four weeks earlier, one miserable Tuesday in June. Mary went to work, did her work, some of it anyway, came home from work. There was not yet anything to distinguish it from other Tuesdays of that time, which were themselves hard to distinguish from Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Mondays. She walked into the lounge, shrugged her bag onto the mound of envelopes on the table, and glanced out the—

  He was lying on the grass in the center of her garden. He had chosen an ostentatious spot for a doze. But she didn’t believe he was sleeping because although his body presented itself as entirely still, his ears spiked sharply, ready to countermand his elegant sprawl.

  Mary felt her way around the table to the window. At the corner of her eye, a stray hair bobbed and gleamed, large and knobbly as a hair under a microscope, but she resisted the urge to brush or blow it away. Now that she had him in her sights, the slightest move seemed a concession. It might unlock their standoff, and she wanted to keep him where she could see him, which meant she had to stay right where she was, pinned to the rear window. She stared at him, her gaze a kind of cage, throwing down bars to the lawn to keep him trapped. One moment of inattention, and he would be free.

  The complacency of his posture struck Mary as a provocation. He gave the impression of both purpose and ease, as if relaxation were just a pose, and he might now, or now, or now, wake to quick feet. She understood his show of nonchalance was the disguise for an as yet unarticulated intention. He was curled loosely on the grass, but his head poked out from the bottom of the curve like an unfinished question mark.

  What did he want?

  He had come to her garden and no one else’s. So he had chosen her, Mary, and he must have come for something. While she had chased from meeting to meeting, trying to nudge and soothe the large egos of her midsize, midlevel university’s human resources, he had been idly sunbathing on her lawn. In a single visit he had acquired an air of permanence, as if he had been here yesterday and would be here again tomorrow. She tried to step out of her shoes, but in the heat her feet had swollen and the shoes stuck fast. She may as well have been caught in a glue trap.

  His rudeness riled her. He had plonked himself smack in the garden in an obvious plea for attention, and now that he had it, he was making a big show of ignoring her. He was trespassing brazenly. His very presence, his solitary sit-in on her lawn, seemed to dispute something. Her right to be here. The supremacy of humans. The subordination of foxes. She began to speculate about where this might end, briefly pictured him barking orders at her for dinner from his place at the table while she scuttled around the garden foraging for toads.

  She shook her head—just a little, so as not to unsettle her stare. There were other things she should be getting on with. She needed to eat. Or sit down. She imagined a nice, comfy chair sidling up behind her, a well-upholstered chest, a pair of firm arms outstretched. But there were only three chairs left in the house and all were hard. “What the hell is he doing?” she said aloud. Silly question because he was doing nothing.

  She bowed her head against the window frame, flaking a paint brittle, and trained her eyes on him through her favorite pane. The house had no other window like it; the fault was original. It was the fault that she loved. In this one segment, a broad wrinkle ran top to bottom, warped the glass, made the leaves look out of sequence with the branches, the picture jump like a scratch on a disc. Sometimes bits of garden life got lost within its folds. Sometimes, caught inside a magnifying seam, they grew. You could stand there and try out different ways to see what you saw. She frowned at the fox, who, despite her best efforts, was refusing to vanish into the kink. His eyes were sleepy slits; they gave the impression he had accidentally left the lids ajar. He had seen her. She supposed he had seen her. But it was impossible to be sure. And what if he had? What dull shape would she make behind the glass?

  She straightened up and gave a little sway, watching his haunches hump and subside under the wrinkle as if she had run her hand over him.

  The movement stirred the sun in the fox’s lids, and daylight leaked into the crack of an eye.

  Ah, now she had his attention. Mary rocked her head again and watched her prisoner’s back ripple in muscular spasm. The pane seemed to buck his torso halfway to standing, then force him back down. He was caught in the crease of the glass, and as she bobbed and waved, she yanked him around like a puppet.

  Time to open an eye.

  He was looking at her. Half-looking at her. Thinking. One eye sufficed to contain her; let the other eye sleep. From her swaying, he’d say a breeze blew through her pen. Strange. No breeze out here. Swaying, swaying. No threat. Just shuffling shadows so. No problem there. Her edges fuzzed in his drowse, blurred in a haze of lashes and whiskers. Tiny Female, locked up all alone and too far away to care. Darker, darker fuzz because. It was fine. To shut the eye.

  Mary gawked, strained to see through the glass. Do it again, she thought. Go on! Once more. So I know for certain. But she knew what she had seen. He had opened an eye, stared right at her, then shut it in a funny slow-motion wink. That’s exactly what it was. He had winked at her! From the way he was lying there now, with both eyes clamped shut in exaggerated denial, it seemed obvious that the wink had been deliberate. With one gesture, he had opened up a line of communication between them. As if he had heard this thought, the tip of his tail flicked on the lawn.

  * * *

  OH, MARK. WHAT would you do, if you were here now, and this beast was in the garden?

  Actually, she knew what Mark would do, because Mark had done it lots of times. He would dart to the back door, dip a quick hand into his pot of stones, and run at the fox.

  The fox tilted his head, though
his eyes stayed shut.

  Yes, life was better now. Better and worse.

  Even as Mary eyed the twitch of a ginger ear, Mark loomed before her at the wrinkled window. It was where the house began for them. They knew they were going to buy it as soon as they stood here and saw … well, saw all that couldn’t be seen. Not a building in sight. Not a chimney poked through. Even the high-rise blocks on Shepherds Bridge Walk were hidden behind a thick screen of vegetation. It was the only starter house on the market in their part of east London, right when the market slumped: a miracle they could afford it. Mark had reached round and squeezed her waist, in the way that she took to mean she needed to lose weight (she didn’t) but which he swore meant nothing of the sort (it did). It was a work habit, he claimed. He was a quantity surveyor. Lean himself. While the real estate agent paced in the hall, Mark had whispered, “It’s practically a forest!” and grabbed her lobe in his lips. She put the back of her hand to her ear and wiped off the saliva from five years ago. She had won that battle. It was her house now. Mary Green, 53 Hazel Grove, London E8.

  On the other side of the glass, a spider ran along the guy rope of his web, legs blurring into a serif scrawl at the edge of her vision.

  Her eyes stayed on the fox on the lawn.

  Sleeping or not sleeping.

  What the hell was she going to do with him? This one must have escaped from the woods that ran between the back gardens of this terrace and the houses on the road behind. “Woods,” she said, still said. It was her and Mark’s joke because if you looked from upstairs in winter, you could make out the shape of a bicycle under a heap of ivy, the arms of a wheelbarrow thrusting up through brambles like a final plea from the drowning. It was just a patch of wasteland, but magical for all that—an island of wilderness in the inner city, left to do its own thing while property prices soared and the council forgot it was even there. Trees were overlaid so densely on trees that the greens meshed and knotted, and perspective itself seemed made of leaves. Locked inside a rectangle of terraced streets, the woods kept their secret. They belonged only to those who could reach them.