Summer in February by Jonathan Smith

see no mockery at all on her face.
    ‘Oh, mine was small beer by comparison. And I must apologise again for ever mentioning it.’
    ‘No, I’m glad you mentioned it, death by drowning and death by poison are both terribly dramatic, don’t you agree?’
    Unable to frame a response, the men played inconsequentially in constrained silence. When Joey broke the long silence it was
     with an exaggerated, overcompensating heartiness:
    ‘Look, Gilbert, we’d like you to join us for supper soon, wouldn’t we?’
    ‘Very much,’ Florence said. ‘As soon as possible.’
    ‘The sooner the better!’ Joey exclaimed.
    ‘And I’d very much like to come, thank you.’
    ‘And let’s ask A.J. as well, shall we?’ Joey went on. ‘Then it’ll be even more fun, and Florence can question him further
     over the fox.’
    ‘Why on earth should I do that? I merely wanted to know if you both believed the story.’
    What no one knew was what happened in the hours after the hunt had deserted Munnings on the rocks near Morvah.
    He sat alone in the same place, with the wind bending the bracken and his shirt drying on his back. He sat there, fighting
     his anger, until the rioting behind his eyes abated. Above all, foxes should be respected. Who on earth did these ignorant
     sods think they were? And did these ignorant sods never think, in the vain glory of their chase, why there were so many legends
     and stories and fables about foxes? What about Reynard the Fox, and what about other foxes’ encounters with Chauntecleer the
     Cock, Tibert the Cat, Bruin the Bear and Tsengrin the Wolf? Why did they think there were figures of foxes carved in churches
     all over East Anglia, not that these ignorant sods even knew where East Anglia was? The fox was a hunter and he was hunted;
     he was a beast and a king, real and fabulous, andthat was why he, Alfred Munnings, second son of a Suffolk miller, had kept this particular Reynard alive – Reynard the Triumphant
     – because that little fellow stuck out there on the rock a moment ago was a triumph of the spirit. An inspiration.
    Feeling much better after his reflection on ignorant sods and fearless foxes, A.J. started to ride home, talking to Grey Tick
     about fools and foxes, and stopping as and when on the way for hot gin hollands. In one pub named, as luck would have it,
     The Fox and Grapes he hunched by the fire lost in thought about a paintable girl until he overheard some youngsters, mere
     boys, well, undergraduates by the sound of them, talking about Omar Khayyam.
    Omar Khayyam?
    There were three undergraduates in the pub: a ginger-haired one, a bearded one with a pipe, and, lastly, a pale exhumation.
     They all talked with heated warmth about Omar Khayyam’s merits. A.J. listened to this for a while then uncoiled his legs,
     stretched back on the settle and called over to them.
    ‘Who’s this Omar you keep talking about, then, an Arab horse thief?’
    The undergraduates looked at each other, then looked at the rough mud-bespattered rider, and decided they had not quite heard
     the question. So Alfred glared at the three of them in turn and repeated the question more loudly. Unable to ignore him now,
     the ginger-haired one coughed and said politely, ‘Um, no, he’s not, no.’ He glanced at his colleagues. ‘He’s … not an Arab
     horse thief.’
    This was followed by some laughter. Munnings decided he would enjoy himself as well.
    ‘So who is he? I couldn’t help hearing, and I don’t know who he is.’
    ‘
It’s
… it’s the title of a work, a translation in point of fact, a version by Edward Fitzgerald. From the Persian.’
    ‘Sorry, never heard of him either,’ Alfred said. ‘Who’s he? The Persian?’
    Dear-God smiles escaped from the undergraduates; small smiles of complete complicity flitted from face to face.
    ‘Fitzgerald,’ the bearded one spoke even more carefully, as if a dangerous animal was out on the loose, ‘Fitzgerald is a poet
     … a great poet.