Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

When she pulls up at the cottage, Lawrence’s silver Audi is sitting outside, in the middle of the lane rather than parked in the garth. It is midweek; they have not arranged a visit, unless she has forgotten. She gets out of the car. The cottage is rarely locked, as her brother knows, but the gate to the garden is standing open. She goes in. Lawrence’s wife is sitting at the table under the quince tree. Rachel hasn’t seen her for several years, but the face is distinctive, wide, cattish, a plain kind of attractiveness.

Emily?

Emily turns and stands. Her hair is shorter than it was, cut along the line of her jaw and thatched with expensive highlights: middle-age, chic. She is wearing a cream linen trouser suit, out of place and yet somehow fitting here in the garden, a modern Edwardian look, were she to be holding a wooden tennis racquet or a china teacup. Emily greets her quietly, blinks, and looks away; her eyes are very bright against the black mascara.

Is Lawrence inside? Rachel asks. I can’t remember him saying anything about visiting today.

He isn’t here, Emily says. He didn’t come.

Oh?

It’s just me.

Oh.

What’s going on? Rachel wonders. Retribution time? Please let’s not have it all out today, she thinks, not after Michael. Emily remains standing, shifting her position on the lawn slightly, touching the back of her neck. Something is stirring beneath the surface of her face.

You look well, she says. Pregnancy suits you.

Rachel frowns, geared now for argument. The last thing she expects is a compliment — the same one Alexander made not twenty-four hours ago. Alexander, she thinks, dinner; I haven’t called him. Emily looks at her again and then away, struggling to start saying what she wants to say. Rachel notices the mascara has been smudged and reapplied around her eyes, the lashes are clotted together. Pinkness to the rims, which is why the irises look so green. Emily has been crying. She looks to the side, sighs, and seems to take hold of herself. Something is definitely not right.

I should have called you, I know, Emily says. It’s just that Lawrence and I had an argument, a bad one. I got in the car and started driving and I ended up here. I don’t know why. I wanted to see you.

Her voice breaks a little. Rachel doesn’t know what to say. She cannot quite believe her sister-in-law is here, by herself, for any reason.

Is Lawrence OK? she asks.

No, not really. He’s — got some problems. I accused him of terrible things, of not really wanting a baby. He left. He took his keys and wallet and walked out.

She makes a noise, a partial choke, as if about to weep, and puts her hand to her forehead, knuckling between the brows. Rachel stares at her. Six months ago you accused me of emotional retardation, she thinks. You cut me off from my brother. Now, this. What am I supposed to do?

I thought he’d maybe have called you, Emily says. I know you’re closer now. You haven’t heard from him?

No.

Please tell me if you have.

I haven’t.

Then Emily does begin to cry. She lets herself go, her body shaking, leaning forward, her sobs loose and repetitive, as if the appeal for help was some kind of emotional emetic. Rachel looks at her, mortified. After their years of antagonism and contraspective dislike, the bitterness, to see an adversary so reduced, submissive even, is unnerving. There is no pleasure in it whatsoever. Emily fights to speak.

Then he’ll be — he’ll be. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is.

Her shoulders hunch. Tears drip to the ground from beneath her hands. Moments of paralysed excruciation pass before something kicks in and Rachel steps forward.

Hey. Come on, she says, gently. Let’s sit down. Over here.

She puts a hand on Emily’s elbow, turns, and steers her towards the bench. They sit. She waits while the woman gets it out of her system. The weeping begins to taper off. Emily wipes her face, runs her fingertips along the soils of black make-up under her lashes.

I haven’t heard from him, Rachel says again. Is he with a friend in Leeds, maybe?

It seems an obvious suggestion — stupid, in fact. She wants to know more about the extent of the argument, which has come as a surprise, but there’s no way to ask. Simultaneously, the thought of knowing their intimate business is off-putting. Emily shakes her head.

He might be with Sara. I used to think there couldn’t be anything worse than that, but there is.

Rachel doesn’t recognise the name, or really understand the comment — is Emily alluding to an affair? she wonders. There’s still so much about her brother’s life she does not know. Emily looks up at Rachel, as if wanting confirmation, or admission, perhaps thinking she is withholding information about Lawrence. But Rachel is at a loss. She shrugs. It’s odd. In her suffering, his wife seems far more attractive than Rachel realised — beautiful, even.

I said awful things about you, and your mother, Emily says, looking Rachel directly in the eye. I said he was brought up in a household where bad behaviour was normal. I told him he was too fucked up to be a father and we should stop trying.

What did you mean, he has problems? Is he seeing someone?

Emily does not answer, but continues to look at Rachel, reading, assessing. Then, as if making a conscious decision, she recoils from the details of confession.

It’s nothing. Just that he goes through these bad times. He comes a bit unwound.

It’s a vague thing to say, but the tone is too factual to be simple deflection or a lie about her husband. What does coming unwound mean? Rachel cannot imagine her brother fucking around or otherwise acting up. But then, she has seen little of him as a grown man. And all men are capable of straying. Most women, too. Lawrence was brought up a certain way; if not instructed in the school, then let to see the possibilities, the methods, as was Rachel. What is laid down in childhood is difficult to reverse; one might spend a lifetime trying. Suddenly Rachel does want to know more, never mind the awkwardness.

Who is Sara?

Just someone he works with. A friend in the office.

What did you mean, being with her isn’t the worst thing?

It was just a stupid argument. We’ve been very stressed.

Emily wipes her face again, composes herself. It’s too late. The guard is going back up.

Whatever it is your family’s got, she says, I don’t have it.

What do you mean?

You’re so autonomous. So defended.

Is that a good thing?

Emily shrugs. Criticism or not, Rachel is out of her depth. She feels incapable of psychologising a brother she knows so little, or consoling a woman with whom she has frequently warred. Whatever window of insight into their troubles his wife might have provided has closed. Emily holds her hands tightly together on her lap.

Wait here a second, Rachel says.

She walks to the back door of the cottage and goes inside. In the kitchen she stands for a moment and tries to gather her wits. It seems bizarre that Emily has come all this way — on a whim, and to a former foe — asking for help. It makes no sense. And yet Rachel does want to help, or at least to understand. The idea of a marital rift, of her brother cracking at the seams, is unsettling. There’s certainly more to it than Emily is letting on; that much is clear. Once, she might not have cared; now, she cannot turn a blind eye. She goes into the downstairs bathroom, gathers a wad of toilet roll, collects a glass of water from the kitchen, and goes back into the garden. She hands them to Emily. After blowing her nose and taking a sip, Emily rallies a little, sits straighter. She combs her hair behind her ears.

I apologise. This really isn’t on.