Watercolour fox on upper arm

You won't believe what came through the side door during the Saturday waltzes. A fox, bold as the bandleader, trotted across the sprung boards as if she'd paid her shilling. The lads stopped mid-chorus and the couples parted like curtains. Nobody screamed. Mr Haddow just stood with his trombone lowered and said, "Well, she has better manners than the Pearce brothers."

She was a vixen, thin in the flank, her coat the colour of marmalade held up to a lamp, the edges running into the lamplight so she seemed half painted, as though someone had brushed her onto the room with a wet sable and not quite finished. Her legs and feet were black with coal dust from the yard. She didn't bolt. She walked the length of the floor, sniffed at the punch bowl, then lay down under the piano as if it had been built for her.

We let her stay until the last waltz. Mrs Doyle swept round her with a broom she didn't dare use. When the lights went up the fox was gone, but there were sooty paw prints on the wet floor leading to the back door, each one smudging into the boards like ink dropped in water.

I keep thinking about how quietly the place emptied after that. Nobody wanted to be the first to say it was a sign. I suppose I'm writing to say it anyway. Come down next month and dance with me, and bring your good shoes.

Love, Edie