Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

She can carry him for longer periods in the sling now, without the ache in her abdomen and back. He lies against her side like a warm, external organ. Below, the scar itches. A majestic scratch, still red, but unbelievably small given its yield; one buckled section where the suture alignment was off, or hurried, closed by a junior — it doesn’t matter. Now and then there are sharp electric jolts as something knits back together, or nerves resurrect. The memories of those first days are hazy. The limping, stooping walk, with a nurse on her arm, to the cot to change his nappy, down the ward corridor. Sitting on the toilet, terrified to shit. Cramps as she first tried to nurse him. Small bodily triumphs she could not have imagined to be so meaningful. In the kitchen drawer is the thin subcutaneous cord with its blue beads — a surgical trophy, removed by Jan, that she has not thrown out. Her flesh sags over the wound, but is retreating daily.

She nurses the baby by the fire and reads reports sent to her by Huib and Sylvia. Ra and Merle have found their range and are tracking the herds. They have denned; a good indicator for mating come February, the coordinates almost exactly central in the enclosure. She makes a note — the pups would then be due late April, perhaps early May at Britain’s latitude, a sixty-day gestation. The abandoned deer carcasses in the enclosure weigh less than a third of their original body weight; they are being stripped, efficiently. She reads but it is hard to concentrate. Charlie is mesmeric. He draws the eye, for no reason, like a newly unwrapped gift. Everything else retreats — there are no other stories. The story is the child. She puts her mouth on the soft fusing crown of his head. She wishes he would sleep so she could sleep. She wishes he would wake, prove that he is alive and animate, see how his eyes find and recognise her face.

Just enjoy it, Huib tells her when she phones. Our guys are doing fine.

Not that she doubted it. Annerdale is a utopia for Ra and Merle: plentiful biomass, no other packs to compete with or species of similar prowess. The temperature, though low and dropping weekly, is mild compared to the bitter Romanian winter. She checks the project website, reads the messages — there has been a flush of positive responses to the release, the scales seem to have tipped. Much of the criticism has evaporated — the wolves are a success for not being a catastrophe, like the Olympics, or a piece of public art. Only the faithfuls continue to complain. The security reports from Michael have been similarly good. There’s been no more trouble around the fence periphery, and it is too inclement to protest by the main gate. Thomas passes on personal congratulations from the Prime Minister. She takes this with a pinch of salt. After the Scottish vote, Sebastian Mellor is desperate for good press, progressive policies — especially in the regions where there is growing agitation for devolved powers — and the project qualifies.

Lawrence visits almost every weekend, a couple of times with Emily. There seems to be an accord between the two of them. They bring gifts, clothes, food. Her brother is wildly in love with the baby. Bup, he calls him, inexplicably — some private pet name.

Hello, Bup. How’s Bup? Come here, Bup.

He picks him up, holds him out, dangling and kicking in the fleece bag, examining him, then drawing him close into his chest. Emily is practical around the house — cooking, offering to clean, minding the baby while Rachel takes a bath. The sad truth is she’s a natural, a childless natural; Charlie sleeps contentedly on her shoulder, against the cashmere jumper, her silk scarves dampening with his drool and possetting. Rachel passes her a muslin cloth, but she doesn’t seem to care. If it is painful, holding in her arms something so longed for, she doesn’t show it. Rachel admires her for that, begins even to like her. She has passed the test of her son, which is now the main test. She thoughtfully brings Rachel a breast pump, in order to freeze and save milk.

Rachel watches her and Lawrence. They appear stable, if slightly too polite with each other, their eyes occasionally locked in silent communication. They do not squabble in front of her or give anything away. It seems fine, but Rachel is aware that the true state of their relationship cannot be known by an outsider. Still, they are together, and she finds she is relieved.

Alexander, too, has been a regular visitor. He comes in without knocking, bringing enormous shanks of meat wrapped in plastic layers, given to him by farmers by way of thanks for difficult surgeries or merciful euthanasia. In the freezer are vacuum bags of yellow-tinted breast milk alongside primitively home-cut steaks, lamb legs — a bizarre mammalian cache.

You need 500 more calories a day, he tells her.

I never stop eating, she says. I feel like a prize pig.

Intermittently, she roasts pork and beef joints, becomes distracted, forgets to take them out of the oven, then eats them well-done, dry to desiccated. One evening, Alexander arrives with a guest. She hears the stomping of boots in the hallway, female chatter. She is nursing the baby, bra-less, her T-shirt pulled up.

Here in the kitchen, she calls.

He puts his head round the door.

I’ve got someone with me.

Right, she says. ’Fraid I can’t move.

There is not much she can do; the baby is midway, being slow as usual. She reaches for a tea-towel and drapes it modestly over her left side. Alexander walks in with his daughter, Chloe. The girl is clearly related — even pre-puberty, she is big, and tall, with her father’s forehead and mouth. She has on an unfashionable anorak, purple, unzipped, a jumper with crocheted dogs on it, wellies. Every inch the daughter of a country vet.

Hi, Rachel, Chloe says.

Hi, Chloe. Nice to meet you. Come in.

The girl takes a step inside.

Wait! Boots off, madam, her father instructs. Hope you don’t mind us dropping in.

Rachel shakes her head. Chloe heels her wellies off and stands them tidily by the door. She comes into the room and looks at the baby, what can be seen of him under the towel. He is slipping off the nipple and falling asleep. Rachel shifts him in her arms, moves her T-shirt back down, and tosses the tea-towel onto the counter. This is Charlie.

Can I hold him? Chloe asks.

Whoa there, Alexander says. ‘Hi, Rachel, can I hold him.’ That was a bit quick.

Chloe shrugs. Rachel smiles at her.

Yes, of course you can. Do you want to sit over there and I’ll pass him to you?

The girl moves to the neighbouring chair, sits, repositions her bottom several times in quick succession, forward, backward, side to side, and readies herself for the load.

Coat off, her father instructs.

She shrugs out of the anorak and hangs it on the back of the chair. Lanky arms to go with her legs, but not graceless or malcoordinated. She’ll be good at sport, Rachel thinks, probably the star shooter on the netball team. Chloe puts her feet on the crossbar of the table so that her thighs are flat — no doubt the correct position for holding orphaned lambs. There’s a high degree of confidence to her — the confidence of a ten-year-old. She lifts her arms in a receiving position and Rachel passes over the baby.

He might be a bit burpy.

Charlie stirs as she releases him, but doesn’t wake. Chloe takes him, not entirely supporting the head, and with a slightly loose grip — the baby sprawls either end. She tightens her arms so that he is bunched in her lap. Good enough, Rachel thinks. Chloe looks up at her father, smiling, missing her front teeth. I’m holding a baby, the look says. This is her boyfriend’s daughter. If only every introduction were as easy, Rachel thinks.

Have you eaten? Alexander asks. We thought we might take you to the pub with us. I promised this one some chips.