Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

I could have helped you with the move or something. Carrying stuff. And we didn’t have to go up a bloody mountain!

She smiles at the sentiment, his charming and misguided chivalry.

I’m fine. Really. I feel fine. And we did go up a mountain.

He sighs and the frown line above his nose deepens.

Oh, Rachel.

He is clearly concerned and won’t be brushed off. It’s difficult to navigate the new relationship. They have spoken a few times on the phone — she’s even exchanged coolly polite words with Emily. In not telling him, maybe she has been too defensive, too excluding again. She is simply not used to having a brother, let alone one now trying to take care of her. All around them, in the woods, is the racket of birdcalls and squawks, like a playground.

Listen, I’m fine, she says. I just wasn’t ready to tell people. OK? Come on, let’s go this way.

She leads him down the lane. They walk past his car — a new silver Audi — towards the lake and the wolf enclosure. The ground is lush underfoot, the grass is young and has been softened by a recent shower. It’s humid, notes of thunder in the air, though the sunshine prevails. She takes off her cardigan and knots it around her hips. Lawrence has on a long-sleeved shirt, rolled to the mid-forearm. He has patches of bad skin below the cuffs, picked and sore-looking, like when he was a boy. They make their way through the woods.

It’s gorgeous here, he says, seeming to let the subject of her pregnancy go.

It is.

I can’t imagine owning so much land.

No. But we need it. They need it.

Still, it doesn’t seem — well — fair, I suppose. Not in this day and age.

Maybe we should follow the Scottish model. Re-nationalise the big estates.

She is half joking, but Lawrence nods.

Maybe. It might not be a bad thing.

I wonder if it would be harder or easier to set up a project like this.

Depends who’s in power, he says.

Probably none of them would risk it.

She is aware she sounds like a cynic, but since returning home, none of the political parties have convinced her they are anything other than urban-centric and ecologically conservative. The pockets of English countryside are broken apart and seem to be regarded as gardens for the city; Annerdale is unusually large and unusually governed. Her brother is an optimist; she has begun to admire his spirit, though at times it seems forced, something of a mental straightjacket. I don’t think it’ll rain. Emily will come round . As they walk, she catches Lawrence occasionally glancing over, with possessive tenderness, as if she needs guarding, as if she might stumble. The attentiveness feels odd, noticeable, like a new shoe, but is not unpleasant.

You were worried about how I’d take it, weren’t you? he says softly. Because we’re trying for a baby.

Yes, I suppose I was a bit.

Are you pleased? he asks.

I’m nervous.

And you’re really fine?

Yes!

Well, I’m happy for you. We should celebrate.

Rachel snorts.

Celebrate?

What? Weren’t you trying to get pregnant?

Of course not.

Oh.

She shakes her head. He becomes quiet again, attempting to understand the situation. Rachel is aware of how it all must seem. Aware too that she has not, during any of the time they have spent together, mentioned a partner, a boyfriend, anyone meaningful in her life. Perhaps Lawrence was imagining a clinic scenario, her leafing through catalogues of donors’ attributes and genetic profiles. Most uncomfortable is the awareness that she is to some degree following in Binny’s footsteps: unmarried, independent, not at all leavened by maternity.

It is what it is, she says.

Through the trees, the lake water flashes. They cut down towards the shore, Lawrence leading. He holds tree branches out of the way for her rather than letting them lash back. A self-taught gentleman: there’s little of their mother in him, if there is in her. They walk along the lake edge, the shingle clattering underfoot. Tiny waves lap the stones, wind-manufactured seiches. There are black-faced gulls bobbing on the surface. Summer is coming on fast. The district is very green, shaggy with foliage; flowers are beginning everywhere, bluebells carpeting the older woods. The brutality of Chief Joseph’s winter feels a long time ago. Her brother seems pensive and sad. She wonders if he is disappointed in her, or whether he is imagining breaking the news to Emily. It will surely not go down well.

Hey, Uncle Lawrence, she says, to cheer him.

He turns and smiles.

Yeah, he says. I need to learn some uncle skills, don’t I?

He pauses and picks up a flat, roundish pebble, squats, and skims it across the surface of the lake. Five hops and the stone sinks, flickering down through the water and disappearing. The rings disperse.

Good start, she says. Hope you’ll teach that if it’s a boy or a girl.

Is it unkind to ask or not to ask about their own attempts to conceive, she wonders. She settles for frankness.

Any news your end on that front?

Lawrence roots around in the shore debris for another good skimmer.

No joy. Miscarriage. We’ll probably do another round, then see. We might have to call it a day.

Rachel says nothing. What can she say? Not sorry. Not good luck. There are no platitudes or reassurances. Emily may now be speaking to her on the phone, but she has not come to visit with Lawrence this time, even though there was no embargo. She is grateful, on some level, to avoid Emily’s company — the tension, the loaded comments. That’s an interesting philosophy, Rachel. Lawrence doesn’t really eat artichoke; he never has. We may need a second mortgage, if the care-home costs increase again .

Actually, it’s been pretty stressful, Lawrence says, and depressing. I’m not sure I’ve responded in the right way — I’m not in great shape. She’s pretty pissed off at me.

He looks pained, now that Rachel is studying him, a little pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He was always prone to somatisation; had childhood aches and pains of no origin when upset, and was dismissed as a nervous kid by the doctor. She feels sorry for him, but he will not want to hear that.

Hey, I’m sure you’re doing great, she says. Just hang in there.

It seems a trite thing to say, next to useless, but Lawrence nods. They keep to silence for a while as they make their way along the shore. The water is gunmetal grey under the trees, where the sunlight cannot reach, hostile-looking, though when she tests the temperature of the shallows with a hand, it is only moderately cold.

Shall we go see the wolves? she asks.

Yeah, great. Lead the way.

They head away from the lake, towards the enclosure.

How are they getting on? Lawrence asks.

Fine, she says. Actually, they’re a bit bored. Merle is being a flirt.

A flirt? How can you tell?

She keeps coming up to Ra like this.

Rachel mimics the sidestepping movement, the sidle. Her brother smiles.

That’s flirting?

Oh, yes.

Does he like it?

He’s not convinced. He’s too busy trying to figure a way out of the pen. Last week he dug up a buried tractor wheel trying to get under the fence.

Whenever she speaks about the job, her brother seems enthralled. It is as if she practises some kind of lost craft: augury, or alchemy. They make their way up towards the enclosure. When they reach the fence and the barrier, Lawrence stands for a moment, not in appreciation exactly, but impressed.

Wow, double surety. No messing around. Can people not access the lake now?

Not on this side.

He shakes his head.

It was quite a feat, getting that bill passed in Parliament.

Yes, it was.