Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

Come out, come out, he says. It’s a beautiful day.

He is staring intently at the screen. This is the moment everything has been resting on — the fight to change the law, the expense, the surrender of national parkland. Suddenly they are there, emerging on the den run, blunt-faced and clumsy. Their eyes are slatey and opaque; eerily unfinished. They can only just see.

OK, how many have we got? Rachel murmurs.

They count them out — one, two, three smoky heads, a pause, and then a fourth. The last is smaller, more tentative, gets jounced about by the others. The slope is sheer below the opening, quite a challenge. The first skids down, almost tumbles, manages to brake with its front paws. The others follow its lead — the runt losing control and swinging round, bottom-first, then rolling over in the dirt. Nearby, Merle is lying in the grass, panting, unconcerned. Her mate is on duty; she need not intervene.

Where’s Sylvia? Huib asks. She’s going to want to see this.

She’s got the morning off. Studying, I think.

He takes a still of the film, converts the image and sends it to her phone.

Can you send that to Alexander too? And Stephan in Romania.

Sure. What about Thomas? He won’t be back for a few weeks, will he?

She is about to say, and not without bitterness, No, don’t bother. Thomas Pennington has not shown any interest in the project for months; he has not attended any of the team meetings since Christmas. But he is their benefactor, the man to whom everything is owed, and owned. She nods.

If you like.

It is an important day, after all, a landmark — he will surely want to know. She tries to get a good view of each pup, makes notes on their appearance, size, and sex, speculatively. They are all dirty grey, black-snouted, as if having riffled in soot, with dark tufts along their backs. Once out in the open, their father approaches. They surround him, lick his muzzle and wag frenziedly, trembling, craning upwards. The joy of recognition. Two have classic white stars on their chests. Names come to mind but she resists attaching any. They do not venture far; they follow their father, and then make their way over to their mother, nudging into her side and vying for milk. The fourth — already Rachel feels extremely interested in its plight — scrambles hard for position, is squeezed out, tries again and finally makes its way in. Merle blinks slowly, sensually, as the pups suckle. After a time, they are encouraged back inside the den. Ra lifts the runt by its scruff and it swings from his jaw. He deposits it with the others safely in the underground chamber.

Rachel turns to look at Huib. He is glowing with satisfaction.

We have our pack, she says.

Yes, we do. Let’s go and find Sylvia, he suggests. I think she should be the one to speak to the press. How do you want to handle it? Think they’ll be any trouble?

We’ll get the footage out. It’ll be fine. In fact, I think it’s just what the project needs. Everyone loves a baby.

Sylvia is not in the main part of the Hall. Honor directs them towards the lake — she has gone for a walk to the boathouse, of which she is very fond, and perhaps over to the island. They’re welcome to go and find her. She lets them through the private rear door. They walk down the long steps towards the water, the edifice of the Hall rising magnificently behind, its windows glinting. Thomas has recently had the Victorian iris water feature reinstalled — either side of the steps purple spears are flowering and small rivulets trickle and spill. The lawns leading down to the lake are exceptionally green and manicured — a lush jewel in the rough patchwork of the region’s terrain. This is not a part of the Hall Rachel often sees. She’s reminded once again of the level of luxury she lives in proximity to. How does one confront the real world after such a place? she wonders. How must it have been to grow up here? Remarkable or ruinous; either way she cannot conceive of it. They follow a stone footpath down the rolling tiers and along the shoreline. The Reiki platform looks stranded and out of place, like a climbing frame or a watchtower. Does Thomas still use it, or has that fad passed?

How’s your brother? Huib asks as they walk.

The exact details of Lawrence’s illness are not known by everyone, but she has confided a little in Huib.

He’s doing better. Still a bit emotional.

I thought maybe I would ask him to come on a hike with me. If you think he’s up to it? I’m going to go up Catbells this weekend.

That would be great. He’d like that.

The male company will be good for her brother, she thinks. Huib’s company will be good for him — so far he has seen no one but her and Charlie since his discharge. They make their way to the boathouse. It’s another beautiful construction, made of jutting stone, with a day room above the wet dock and a balcony overlooking the reflecting water. A long sloping roof, almost Swiss-looking. The door is unlocked. They call, but there’s no answer. On a table upstairs is Sylvia’s iPhone, her laptop, and a thick law textbook. Were this another location, less hermetic, less protected, the casualness of leaving expensive possessions around would be ludicrous. The quilted daybed near the balcony is rumpled. There are fresh-cut flowers in a vase, used teacups stacked by the sink. The place looks inhabited — perhaps Sylvia uses it as living quarters. In the corner is a small wood-burning stove, a wine rack, and refrigerator.

Have you taken the boats out before? Rachel asks Huib.

A couple of times, he says. It’s nice to go out with a sandwich. Shall we try the island?

She has not yet ventured out to the folly, though staff members are entitled; nor has she accessed many of the perks of the estate — the horses, the sauna. They launch one of the varnished wooden rowing crafts moored below the day room. There are cushions for the seats. The oarlocks have been recently tallowed. Huib rows expertly across the water. The land falls away, and the boat glides steadily across the cloudy surface. From the mid-point of the lake, Pennington Hall looks like a ship itself, afloat above breakers of grass, an improbable pink-stone galleon. It is very, very quiet on the water, just the sound of the oars washing. She watches Huib rowing. He seems contented, overall. She has been socialising with the project team less and less, and is out of the loop. He must still go to the pub, but with whom? Perhaps a girlfriend on the staff here, or someone local? The seclusion of the estate seems not to affect him. Cumbria is not inaccessible, she knows, not compared with some of the areas where Huib has worked, but the county somehow manages to preserve its cut-off atmosphere, selling its vision of farness and loneliness, its Romantic psychology.

Do you ever miss home? she asks him.

You mean South Africa? I haven’t considered it home for years. I probably miss the idea, but not the place. Do you miss Idaho?

She shakes her head.

I don’t. Well, maybe a few things. Corruptions — steak sauce, you know. And the straightforwardness. People say what they mean.

I love it here, he says. It’s easy. It’s easy to breathe.

There are those for whom the Lakeland spell works, she thinks, and those for whom there is no spell. Huib turns and glances at the island, pulls a few strokes with his right arm to realign the boat’s trajectory, and aims for a small shingle beach, where a wooden jetty runs into the water. Another skiff is tied to the pillars, lying almost motionless in the shallow inlet. The folly is lost between trees. As they approach, the sound of birdsong grows louder, an avian chorus. They moor the boat and follow the path through the woods. The trees are old, deciduous, possibly originals. The island feels incredibly peaceful, a botanical biosphere dense with insect life — almost too lovely to be invaded. No wonder Huib has brought picnics. As they pass through the briar, the singing stops, then starts again.