Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

Since Mandela’s death, aren’t people reassessing, Alexander asks, about whether or not the vision has been accomplished? What to do to get things back on track?

Well, that’s easily answered: it hasn’t. We have some pretty terrifying youth leaders. Terrifying and popular. It’s a different mindset completely; it’s not pedigree politics.

The mood becomes sombre. They finish their drinks and troop back to the Hall. Huib bids them goodnight and walks towards his river campsite, Sylvia to the big house. Rachel and Alexander head towards her cottage and his car. As they get closer a feeling of disinhibition descends; she offers him some tea.

I’d have a cup of tea, he says.

His tone is not convincing: polite and reserved — perhaps she has misread the signs. He follows her inside and she puts the kettle on, fiddles with cups and teabags. He leans on the counter, looks about. He seems very tall in the low-ceilinged room. She is aware of her plain decorating tastes. The walls are not elaborately adorned: a calendar, on which there are midwife appointments marked, the Chief Joseph carving, an embroidered cloth from Spain — thoughtful souvenir from Lawrence. On the kitchen table is a laptop and a few printed sheets — the eternally unfinished book chapter.

Nice place, he says.

Yes. I was going to look for something else, but I’ve settled in, and there doesn’t seem to be any pressure to leave. I think it probably suits Thomas to have me on site.

Too right, stay put, he says. You won’t want to move when the baby comes, anyway.

His shirt is partially unbuttoned, dark hair beneath. There’s the faint discolouration of sweat in the blue cotton under the arms, a brownish smudge on one of the rolled-back sleeves — something the plastic veterinary apron has failed to deflect, perhaps. She mashes the teabags against the sides of the cups with a spoon, drops them into the sink, bends, and gets the milk out of the fridge. She catches his look as she stands — the bump is sitting entirely to the front and she has not gained weight elsewhere yet; her backside is still as it was. She feels surer.

Not a miffy then, he says.

What?

Milk in first. The Keighley method, as my mother would have said.

No.

I don’t mind. I’m not a true Yorkshireman, just a halfie. It’s been scientifically proven, though — the tea stays hotter if the milk goes in first. So, you’re, what, six months now? Must be an interesting phase. Lots of weird stuff happening?

Yes, some.

She wonders if he is acknowledging her current state of arousal; he has a daughter, he may know the stages. She may be less subtle than she thinks. He sips loudly from the cup.

Had all your scans?

Yes.

Do you have a picture — can I see?

She is a little taken aback at the request. She had not imagined this would be part of the evening’s choreography. Could it be a way of closing the proceedings down — talking about the baby, as if to undo any rogue fantasy, any denial? Perhaps he is simply acknowledging the situation, a courteous bow before their taking up the positions. She goes to the drawer and finds the latest ultrasound copy. The bones are brightly lit, luminous, like a sea creature, except that the creature looks remarkably human. She hands it to him.

Amazing, he says. Look at that head.

His voice drops to a tone of sensitivity she has not previously heard.

Dad’s not around then?

No.

Alexander nods. She begins to feel awkward, and on the verge of trying to explain, or of stopping everything before it starts. He puts his hand to the side of her face.

OK. Just checking. I’m not a bastard, by the way.

He smiles.

Unless leaving the loo seat up counts as bastardly.

She looks at his mouth, the fuller upper lip with the white scar. She says nothing. He moves round in front of her and stands with his legs splayed. He kisses her, lifts her slightly. A slow, plush mouth, not quite what she expected. The mound of her stomach feels hard pressing against his groin. He draws back.

Are we drinking this tea? he asks.

No, probably not.

He kisses her again, less gentle, a kind of deliberate gambit. They do not take their time — whatever has been set up has been done so with licence. He untucks her shirt and touches the skin of her back. He unfastens her bra, pulls it and the shirt off together. Then he pulls off his own shirt and drops it on the floor. His skin is incredibly warm, a shallow depression between his chest muscles, dark hair. He lifts her onto the counter and begins to kiss her breasts, which are hard and full, the nipples incredibly sensitive. It is too much; she has to stop him. She unbuckles his belt and undoes the trousers, moves his boxers down. There’s a heavy erection, the exterior seems too fine and silken for the amount of blood held, almost artisan, like medieval machinery. She pushes herself off the counter, bends, begins to move her mouth over it; under the soft bundle of skin is fluid, polished flesh, membrane and musk. He grips her hair, lets her, then asks,

Where should we go?

He follows her upstairs, his hands on her shoulders, as if blind and being led. Now it has started and they are touching, he does not seem to want any kind of separation. On the bed he is careful, but confident. He strips her out of the remaining clothing, goes down on her. Then he moves up the bed, leans in, not heavily, but without anxiety, and fits himself. A murmur of appreciation. He begins to move. She senses restraint, concentration — a man for whom it has been a while. He is sweating, breathing hard. His chest is hot and damp and immense, the heel of her hand fits into the hollow. He lets her dictate. Her orgasm is expansive, the contractions in her uterus mildly painful. A grating sound in his throat, as he comes he pulls out. He lifts up, aware he might be crushing her; underneath, her body is slicked wet, and small curls of his black hair are sticking to her breasts.

He props himself on his elbows and they lie for a while. Everything shrinks back, wetly. An owl is calling hollowly into the darkness. He rolls over, taking her with him, so that she is lying on top. She sits up. He is smiling.

That was great.

His chest rises and falls. She puts her fist in the cavity, which is deep, but not deep enough to mean heart problems.

Pectus excavatum .

Come here, Miss, he says.

He pulls her down by the shoulders and kisses her — her stomach only just allows it. Then he traces the dark line running up her lower abdomen, to her belly button. Her legs are folded beneath, the muscle of the left begins to twitch and cramp.

Ouch. I think I have to move, she says. Ouch.

He tips her gently to the side, one hand holding her back, then squeezes her calf muscle. They sit up against the headboard. She stretches her legs out, flexes her feet. The mood is light, permissive, strangely comfortable.

Are you one of those guys with a pregnancy fetish? she asks.

He laughs and touches her stomach.

Maybe I am. I hadn’t thought about it. What a pervert. Are you one of those women with a James Herriot fantasy? You want the old vet to fuck you in the stables?

Of course.

She feels giddy, wary of standing. There’s a chemical brilliance in her body. On and off, a breath of cooler air drifts through the window, not enough to refresh. She wants ice. The owl continues its empty lamentation, or the mate is replying. Alexander looks in no way as if he is considering getting up and going home. She begins to imagine the awkward conversation around departure, then puts the thought aside.

Better drink some water. Do you want some?

Yes, no more tea. I wouldn’t say no to a beer.

I might have some. I’ll look.

She gets up slowly from the bed and crosses the room. He watches her. She does not feel self-conscious, though she is still getting used to the new form, the stiff waist, having to kneel to pick things up, trouble lacing shoes. She is larval, half-staged, swollen at the central interval. She looks for something to put on, but it seems silly to cover up.