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Honey.”
    “Honey’s one thing,” he said, “but a bear like that is worth a lot of money to a zoo. And he’s my bear, remember?”
    Suddenly Roxanne was on her feet.
    “NO!” she cried. “You can’t!” And she looked at me again, just as she had done all those years before.
    This time there was no help I could offer her. I turned away.
    “I’ll look after him,” she pleaded. “Honest I will. We could build a proper cage somewhere. And I won’t let him out unless I’m with him. He won’t hurt anyone ever again, I promise.”
    She spoke as if her life depended on it, and we listened. To this day, I don’t know how she did it, but within minutes we were all discussing how the cage was to be paid for. Perhaps it was because everyone trusted Roxanne and likedher. She was in some way a child of the village, everyone’s child; we had all seen how well she handled Bruno, how she’d sing to him to calm him and how he’d listen mesmerised, how he’d follow her everywhere adoringly. Or perhaps it was because no one liked the idea of the old man selling Bruno and pocketing the cash. Anyhow, Bruno stayed.
    The cage was built in the village square and Bruno moved in. Roxanne looked after him as she had promised.
    Every day, she laid fresh bracken in his den at the back of the cage, and gave him fresh water, fresh vegetables and fresh fish. I would help her catch trout in the stream and the vegetables were supplied from all over the village.
    Then someonė wrote an article about Bruno in a local newspaper and there was a piece on the radio. People flocked to the village to see the bear, and the old man’s honey sold out in a few weeks. He bought more hives. After that there was never another mention of selling Bruno. He had a notice put up on the cage door, with a large collection box underneath:
    Bruno European Bear Help Save Threatened Species Donations in the box please.
    The box filled fast. There were more newspaper articles and a programme on the television. People came in droves. Now it wasn’t just honey they could buy: there was “Bruno’s Jam”, “Bruno’s Beeswax”, even “Bruno Teddy Bears” in rose-pink, lavender-blue or bear-brown. Roxanne’s grandfather was raking in the money.
    Roxanne took no notice of any of this. So long as Bruno was happy, she was too. She lived for the moment after school each day, when she would let him out of his cage and they would run together across the fields.
    Often I saw them sitting together on a hillside. She’d be talking to him or singing to him, and when she sang now, she shamed even the skylarks to silence. Roxanne sang as I hope the angels sing.
    I saw less of her these days. She was no longer a girl, but a young woman. She had long since left the village school for the big school in the valley. But somehow I had become her “bear-sitter”. If she couldn’t be there to feed Bruno, she would ask me to do it. It wasn’t often and I felt honoured to be so trusted.
    Bruno was always anxious when she was away. I would sing to him softly as she did, and in spite of my crusty old voice, it seemed to calm him a little. But he would always pace up and down when I left and refuse to settle until Roxanne returned.
    It was at the Spring Council Meeting last year that the Mayor read out the letter. A film company, who called themselves “Wonderment Films”, had written to us. The village, they said, was an ideal location for their film. They had heard about Bruno and would want to use him too. They would need accommodation for the film crew for a few days and they would need the people of the village as extras. They would need transport, they would need food. Just what sort of a film it was going to be wasn’t explained.
    Most of us were quick to agree to it. After all, there would be money in it for everyone. There was even some talk of actually “starring” in thefilm. Monsieur D’Arblay, the Mayor, said he’d done a bit of acting in his day.
    “Of