Sketchy fox tattoo on the upper back

The fox came back to the top field the morning after they brought Tom up from the number three shaft, and I swear she sat on the stile looking at the winding house as if she was counting the men who were not coming out. Your mam says I am soft for feeding her. Perhaps I am. She is the colour of the copper kettle your nan kept on the range, that deep rusty orange going pink where the sun gets under her, and her tail sweeps behind her like smoke that won't settle.

Mrs Hollis down the terrace says a fox at the pit head is a sign, but she says that about the kestrels too. I told her a sign is only a thing you decide to see. Still, the old men have stopped spitting on the cobbles when they pass her, which is more than they managed for the vicar.

Last Sunday she brought something. A ribbon of black wire, knotted and dragged through the mud, dropped at my boots like a question. I picked it up. It was only a bit of cable from the gear, but I kept it, and it sits in the biscuit tin with your granddad's old pay slips.

Come up at Easter. Bring the good boots. We will walk the line together and see if she is still on the stile. If she is, we will both have something to say to her, and I expect she will have the last word.