Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

Thomas is expansive, as usual. He greets Rachel with the encomium of an agent, extolling her marvellous talents to those guests she has not yet met, embarrassing her in front of Lawrence and Emily. Midway through the reception, he insists on an impromptu carol.

Let’s have a round of ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’.

He begins to sing. Sylvia instantly accompanies. One by one the crowd gets going. Rachel joins in uncomfortably, unused to such jolly, outward displays, then, not knowing the words, she focuses on the baby, who looks unsettled by the noise and may or may not be about to cry. Afterwards, applause. The timbre of Thomas’ laughter is that of a moral hedonist, chief of workers. It is Sylvia’s soft exclamation that announces Leo Pennington’s arrival. The young man who enters the drawing room is not shabby exactly, but he does not appear in any way like heir to one of the wealthiest estates in England. The look of someone associated with yachts and motorbikes, rough port-town nightclubs in France, Albania, and Israel. An expensive, worn leather jacket. Dishevelment to his clothing, messy unwashed hair, and a smoker’s complexion. A partying rich kid. Sylvia glances briefly towards her father, goes to her brother, hugs him. Thomas, who has been regaling a group that includes Emily, holds face. Then, loud enough for the room to hear, issues his greeting.

Leo! Wonderful! You made it!

As if he’d been expecting him all along.

Daddy, come and say hello to Leo, Sylvia calls.

Yes! Yes! Please excuse me; I must go to my son.

He was not expected, Rachel is sure. It is clear that they are pedaling to get hold of the situation. Leo shakes hands with his father, but does not smile. Though his colouring is similar to Sylvia’s, he has neither his sister’s fineness nor her symmetry. A weaker face, small chin, and strange, sandy eyelashes. His sister’s arm is threaded through his, but he does not look comfortable, as if the house and all its contents make him edgy, as if there’s a deep intolerance of his old life. Michael and Lena make their way over to greet him, too. Lena kisses him, takes him by the elbows, and Rachel overhears her gentle chastisement. Must come home more often. We all miss you .

The carousel of Christmas begins again, drinks topped up, conspicuous merriment. Thomas works the room. At one point he takes Charlie from Lawrence, and Rachel winces. There is no way that he will be dropped, but she doesn’t feel confident — the baby looks wrong in Thomas’ arms as he tries to chat to his guests, his face is startled, and begins to crumple. She is relieved when Lawrence takes him back and shows him the paintings on the walls. Some grey-haired, kilt-wearing uncle is talking boorishly to her, about plans to drive on the right-hand side of the road in Scotland, ludicrous, a colossal waste of money, he says, and a ploy to please Europe, but Rachel looks past him towards Leo. The young man helps himself to the Christmas punch, drinks swiftly, refills the goblet. He barely circulates, but stands near the serving table and engages minimally with whomever approaches. There’s a crackle around him: un-wellness, an ill mood, or his poor fit in the setting. Sylvia returns to his side often, which, on the surface, appears doting, but their talk becomes inward, and Leo agitated. Always a bloody circus , Rachel hears him say, his voice rising. A few heads turn but the guests continue to socialise. Thomas is at the other end of the room. Leo sways a little, blinks slowly, and looks disparagingly at his sister. He is well on the way to getting drunk, or the alcohol is combining with something already in his system. Just a fucking show, a great big sham . Sylvia puts her hand on his arm, says something quietly to him. Because it’s all so false and we’re all liars . Nearby, Michael hears the commotion and makes his way over. Someone steps in front of Rachel and she loses sight of them for a moment. When the person moves, she sees Sylvia, Michael, and Lena gathered round Leo, corralling him. Leo’s voice reaches an insistent pitch. Makes me sick . Thomas looks over towards the group through the sea of guests. For the first time Rachel witnesses him in a state of discomposure — the man looks nervous, as if staring at a fire gaining height and power, unsure what to do; he does not approach, does not try to intervene. It is Michael who stewards, Michael who leans in very close and speaks to Leo in warning tones, as if to a dog that has pulled something down off a table onto the floor, but not yet wrecked it. Rachel can hear one phrase repeated: your mother, your mother . Rachel’s conversation partner has asked her a question about a wildlife conference in Aberdeen; she looks back to him and tries to concentrate. From the corner of her eye she sees Michael, Lena, and Leo making their way to the door and leaving. Sylvia has soon re-entered the fray, wearing a broad smile, as if nothing untoward has occurred, as if there is no drama bubbling away elsewhere.

By one o’clock, the gathering dissolves. The baby is hungry. Rachel, Lawrence, and Emily begin a round of goodbyes. They are given a gift box on the way out by Sylvia, which turns out to have excessively expensive items inside — champagne, a silver fountain pen, an electronic reader, fine commissioned chocolates — nowhere near the alms Lawrence had joked of. They walk back across the estate grounds. The sun is already low, energy-less, unblinding to the naked eye. Mist is forming over the river and the fells are a deep, dying blue.

Nothing like a bit of family drama at Christmas, Emily comments. Good to know they’re maintaining the traditions like the rest of us.

You noticed, Rachel says.

Oh, I missed it, Lawrence says. What was going on?

There’s some bad history between Thomas and his son, Rachel explains.

The daughter seems nice, though, Emily says. She’s working with you?

Yes. I had my doubts about her but she’s proving me wrong.

She was very enthusiastic. She’s extremely beautiful, isn’t she? Sort of off the chart.

Then to Lawrence –

You must have noticed that?

Emily’s tone is not jealous, neither is it aggressive, but there is an undercurrent. Beautiful women are always on another woman’s radar, but perhaps Emily is more sensitive now, reading their allure like radiation. They walk on in silence for a while, crossing the stone bridge into the woodland. The air is colder inside the trees, frost climbing the trunks. Rachel adjusts Charlie’s fur hood. He is fast asleep, oblivious. Lawrence’s curiosity gets the better of him.

How much do you think it costs to run a house like that? I mean, how does he manage it — so many of these places are going under and being taken over by the National Trust.

I don’t know, Rachel says. He seems to have a lot of business interests. He’s the lead donor of his party.

Christ — that’s a waste of money, Emily says.

I’m sure there are tax breaks, Lawrence says. There always are. He’s probably got registered companies overseas.

The political echo of Binny in her brother. Rachel begins to feel a little uncomfortable, part of the machinery of segregation, which always enables the elite. It cannot be completely divorced from her role on the project. After the Reservation’s system of land ownership, its allocated plots and council management, Annerdale is essentially feudal, a realm so antiquated it seems impossible that it has survived the reformist centuries. An English estate still owned by an English earl; Lawrence is right: it is rare. Across the border, great swathes of foreign-owned land is being recovered, taxes levied on the distilleries, the salmon farms. She doubts such radicalism will be imported here.

The afternoon is glorious. Charlie is still asleep, and they are not eating until later that evening. She suggests they visit a Neolithic site nearby, only a small detour. There is a way of aligning the winter solstice sun with the central stone, she tells them.