Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

The fence is twelve feet high, the limit of their ability to jump, sloping inward at the top, a forty-five-degree angle. There are no barbs and it is not electric. As she walks along the structure, Rachel can see that care has been taken not to build it too close to any existing elevations, trees, walls, or hummocks. They would certainly exploit it. She’s seen them perform a running climb before, almost vertical, going after small prey, marsupials. In Yellowstone, one of the ranchers told a story about having seen one use the back of a bull elk as a springboard to take down another elk. There have been many such stories over the years. She thinks of Setterah Keep, the escape, which she does not remember. That fence was old, rusted, or perhaps it had not been sunk deep enough, perhaps one of them dug out. Underneath the Annerdale fence are reinforced foundations extending four feet into the earth. The construction is wolf-proof.

And incredibly impressive as it rises before her, reels of heavy-duty steel, green coated to lower the environmental impact. Six feet away, on the exterior, is a secondary barrier, to keep people back. Signs are fixed along it every third of a mile — like forts along a Roman wall — hazard triangles around a stylised and distinctive silhouette. It is not altogether a good message, but part of the project’s inevitable red tape. She walks a section, through the barrows, up above the lake. She had expected something more industrial-looking — penal, even. But the estate runs close to and then into the national park; such a thing would not be permissible. At each of the entry points around the enclosure — eight in all — there are digital coded locks. Access will be limited: those working on the project and special permissions. Pennington Hall, her cottage, and most of the other estate buildings lie outside the fence. No doubt Thomas would have preferred to be inside, among them.

She leaves the fence and walks down towards the river. It is warm. She strips off her jacket and jumper. Underneath, the waist of her jeans is feeling tight; she is beginning to round out, though not noticeably. The river runs at leisure over grey tumbled boulders. In a clearing on the bank, between thistles and wild rhubarb, the new assistant has pitched his tent. There’s a dark, scorched patch where he has had a fire, with turf stacked next to it. Between two bushes a laundry wire is strung; a T-shirt, socks, and boxers jig in the breeze. A mountain bike is propped up on its stand. It is early in the morning, but the tent zip is open.

Hello, she calls. Huib? Anyone home?

Huib pops his head outside and puts his thumb up.

Rachel. I’m coming out.

He emerges. He has on a pair of shorts that seem entirely made of pockets, and a flannel shirt. The skin on his legs, arms, and face is burnt a deep, sub-Saharan brown. A high, balding forehead, jug ears, warm sorrel eyes.

You picked a lovely spot, she says.

I know. It’s good of Thomas to let me pitch. He said I could go anywhere I liked until the apartment is ready.

Thomas . Huib seems to have no problem with the informality, but it still sounds wrong to her, and she avoids using his first name wherever possible. She has watched them chatting casually down at the hall, discussing politics and current affairs with no awkwardness. Post-colonial confidence meeting reconstituted aristocracy.

Do you need anything? she asks. It’s quite spartan down here.

No, I’m fine. I’m going to swim later; there’s a really great place just upstream, with a kind of diving rock.

He is smiling and pointing with a thumb. He is only thirty years old, but the African sun has already lined his skin. His remaining hair is closely shaved, the same nut-colour as his scalp. Huib was an easy choice, and if anything over-qualified. A stint in Mozambique on the leopard restoration programme — one of the most competitive and desirable in the world, a trump card. But it was his temperament that had appealed. Through the window of Abbot Museum she’d watched him cycle into the car park, swinging one leg over the frame and running a long, single-pedalled dismount, stunt-like, teenager-ish. There was an air of casual immunity about him, though he had on a helmet. Before he rolled his trouser leg down, she saw an oily tattoo of the bike chain on his calf. It is in such moments that decisions are made. Perhaps he had reminded her a little of Kyle.

I caught some signal crayfish last night, he says. They’re delicious! You just have to lift up the rocks slowly, then pinch them out.

I used to spend hours doing that as a kid, Rachel says. They were mostly white-claws then — the native ones.

Ja, he says, nodding. Terrible decline. I’m going to apply for a trap from the environment agency, if Thomas doesn’t mind.

He won’t mind, she says.

I found a website. I’ll show you.

Huib squats, reaches back into the tent, and brings out a laptop. He holds it on the splayed fingertips of one hand and opens the lid.

Here we are.

He tilts the computer round.

How are you connected?

I’ve got this gizmo. It’s a bit slow. I’ve been trying to Skype my brother in Jo’berg but his face is all fuzzy; it’s like talking to Mr Potato Man.

She looks at the web page. It’s good to have another wonk with whom she can discuss such things.

I’ve been wondering if they’ll fish, she says. The river’s full of trout.

That’s exciting to think about. Trout are super-fast, though.

True.

How are they doing over there?

Great, apparently. They’re in the same pen, being chummy.

Not long now. Do you need me to come to the office today to work on the press release?

No, that’s OK. Just enjoy your days. Enjoy this.

She gestures at the river. The water trickles by, beautifully sounding out the rocks and shingle bed. Huib deposits the computer back inside the tent. She looks around at his supplies. He’s well equipped. On the ground is a folded fishing rod, cooler, gas lamp, and a water filter. There are bags of rice and cans of lentils in a raised storage box. He has collected a stack of sticks for kindling and there’s a roll of tarpaulin. A typical, self-sufficient field researcher. She wonders if he looks at pornography on the laptop after dark. Or reads Dostoyevsky. He re-emerges.

When’s your apartment ready? she asks.

Next week. There’s some kind of bat infestation issue at the minute. I like to camp, though. I used to go to Drakensburg all the time with my brother.

Which probably means he pitched on the ledges of the highest escarpment. She is aware that he is not contracted to start work for another week, and that while he is the type to give up his spare time for the job, as she is too, she should not outstay her welcome.

Well, she says, glad you’re OK down here. Enjoy the swim.

Ja. See you later, Rachel. Congratulations, by the way.

She stares at him quizzically for a moment. He returns her gaze.

When are you due? If you don’t mind my asking.

She is startled, and for a moment thinks about lying.

Not for a while.

That’s exciting, he says.

I haven’t really told anyone yet.

OK, he says, no problem. See you later.

See you.

She walks up the slope towards the fence. She looks down at her midriff. The development is definitely not noticeable, not to anyone but her. Either she has given something away or Huib is unnaturally prescient. Soon, though, the powers of divination will not be necessary — she will be showing. And she will have to be ready with the news, know what to say to people, how to frame it. Halfway up the hill she looks back, but Huib is out of sight, either back inside the tent perusing crayfish traps, or perhaps upstream, standing on the diving rock, about to cast himself into the cold blue Lakeland water.