Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

Well, he says.

He takes hold of her waist gently, with both hands. She flinches, draws her stomach in, though it is too early to be rounded, blushes, is both annoyed and upset. Please don’t , she thinks. He doesn’t try to kiss her, just smiles.

Get on home now, crazy lady.

Let me know about them, she says.

Sure.

He releases her. He turns and walks through the terminal and out of the building. She steps up to the gate. The stewardess tears her boarding pass, tells her to have a good flight. She walks down the short corridor, past the sign that says, Thank You for Visiting Nez Perce Idaho , and out onto the tarmac.

Seldom Seen Cottage feels suitably abandoned when she arrives. The taxi drops her off and reverses back down the unmade track. The key has been left in the front door, trustingly. She unlocks it and walks inside. The building seems not to have been inhabited for quite some time — the prevailing smell is of stone, a graphite emptiness, and recent cleaning products. Like the island folly, it is built in the same pink sandstone, and is oddly romantic-looking under the trees — whimsical almost. Pennington Hall is a mile and a half away — far enough. She drops her bags in the hallway, walks from room to room. The interior has been painted white throughout. There are new white goods in the kitchen with labels stuck to their sides. New wooden sash windows — double-glazed. Nothing on the estate, it seems, is allowed to moulder and rot. She opens the back door. Even the garden has been cut: grass clippings and boughs left in tidy piles by the back fence. There are dark patches on the slates around the chimney where moss has been scraped up, stubs in the wall cracks around the doorway where vine has been stripped. The logs in the lean-to by the porch are yellow and freshly cut, enough to last all spring, and beyond.

She goes back inside, opens cupboards and drawers. There are no souvenirs from previous tenants, trysting couples, or estate workers — no condom packets, lost shoes, or final bills. She walks into the sitting room. Something flutters up the chimney, dislodging a skitter of soot. A packet of paraffin firelighters and a stack of kindling have been left by the hearth. There’s a flat-screen television. The furniture is plain but quality. Stiff new curtains smelling faintly of chemicals. But there are no cushions, no welcome flowers in a vase on the table.

The stairs are narrow, with a dog-leg halfway. Her bags scrape on the walls as she hefts them up. She dumps them in the larger of the two bedrooms, whose window overlooks a blossoming quince tree in the garden. Petrified globes of the previous year’s fruit hang under the whitish blossoms. There are towels folded on the bed and a voluptuous, airy duvet. More linen and bedding in the airing cupboard. In the bathroom next door, a lemony tang and lurid blue bleach spanning the toilet bowl. She sits on the bed and looks out. The quince’s leaves agitate in the wind. It seems too far north for such a tree, but the estate also has its forcing houses, an orangery, alongside the traditional meadows and the rose beds. A small grey bird is creeping up the trunk, pausing, creeping up again. An ersatz paradise, she thinks. The tree, the pink house, the dense, deciduous woods — she is the wrong woman for such a story. But it is too late. She will not stay long, she tells herself, just until she can find her own house. She will rent in one of the villages nearby, and commute. She has had enough of living and working in close proximity, in a closed community — there are no borders, no escapes. Meanwhile, she has the cottage, and use of a car, a newish Saab, parked at the side of the house, its key left on the kitchen table. A converted coach house in the estate’s complex will be available as the project hub. There are funds for one full-time assistant, whom Rachel will interview and select, a hugely competitive position. She stands, opens the catch on the bedroom window, slides the pane up, and sits back down. Home . The sheets are luxurious, hotel-like — a high thread count. It is undeniably an upgrade from Chief Joseph.

The woods beyond the garden rustle and flicker; the branches mesh and lift gently. On the other side of the trees is the fence. The taxi driver had asked her about it on the way in, seeming to think it was some kind of science experiment, animal testing or the like. There have been protests already, gatherings at the estate gates. Individuals expressing concern , as it was described, somewhat evasively, by Honor Clark, when Rachel asked to be filled in. Such matters are never insignificant. She must press for more details, names. Annerdale is less than a tenth the size of the Reservation; any achievement here will be small scale, microcosmic, any hype misfounded. There will be trouble, she knows, because they are never without enemies, they are too successful a creature, too good at what they do. It will be up to her to convert suspicion and fear into something positive.

The soft purring of a telephone downstairs — she had not even realised one was connected yet. She goes in search, finds it on the windowsill of the kitchen, and picks up hesitantly, as if she hasn’t the right.

Hello?

Rachel?

It is Honor Clark, of course.

Yes.

Settled in alright, I hope? We’ve set you up.

Yes, fine, thanks.

Got everything you need?

I think so.

Excellent. Just to remind you, Thomas is hoping you’ll be able to join him and a few other guests for dinner this evening. A small welcome affair, but it would be useful for you to attend. Will that be convenient?

It is less of a question than an expectation.

Yes.

Good.

She wonders whether she will be summoned regularly to the big house, now that she is in situ, and biddable. The thought is unsettling. But this is her first night, after all.

What sort of time?

Seven for seven-thirty.

I’ll see you then.

There’s a pause.

Thomas will look forward to it. I’ll be in touch again in the morning about the advertisement — we thought the Guardian, Times, National Geographic , the usual.

She senses mild rebuke — a reminder of the separation of staff and employer, the strata of the estate. She will have to get to know the system. She will have to ascertain where she herself fits in, or doesn’t.

OK, fine.

Pop over when you’re up and about, let’s say nine?

See you then.

Rachel hangs up. Too late she wonders about dress code, then thinks to herself, No, there must be some limits, preservation of the ordinary. She is as she was the day before: the same person, charged with similar duties. Even here. She opens the refrigerator door. Inside is a bottle of fresh milk. She opens a cupboard. Gold-label tea bags, Illy coffee, sugar cubes. Set up, yes, and welcomed, but she has a distinct feeling that something may be forfeit.

The thought of a formal dinner is not appealing. She would rather settle in, be by herself, and try the fireplace. And think. She has been not thinking, and has been making a point of not thinking. She isn’t due at the Hall for a couple of hours — there’s time for a short walk first. The light is good outside: pale spring light, citrine. The cottage is near the lake, she knows, there were glimmers through the trees from the taxi window. She takes a cagoule from her bag and changes into boots. She locks the front door, though it seems unlikely anyone will attempt to break in, unlikely anyone will even pass by along the lane. A stray walker, maybe. A horseback-rider on the bridleway. She starts out along the track, which is rutted on the outside with deep tyre marks from the transit of large construction vehicles, then she cuts into the trees, walks through a beautiful stretch of old woodland. Buds and blossom; there’s a sweet, spermy fragrance in the air, a scent both exquisite and intolerable. The last few weeks she’s noticed a strange sensitivity to such things, aversions, smells that are nausea-inducing. For all that the business of pregnancy is interruptive and alarming, she cannot deny it has its interesting frontiers.