Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

You know what I think, he says. They should give you an instruction manual when you’re born. How to navigate all this shit. It’s like running headlong downstairs in the dark otherwise.

She smiles and nods.

That’s true.

Can I ask you something?

Sure.

Is he called Charles because of your dad?

She was not aware Lawrence had known; Binny excised Rachel’s father from the family dialogue long before her second child was born. There is so much of their upbringing still to unearth.

He is. I didn’t know him, she says. But he’s on my birth certificate.

If it’s an unknown quantity you can choose your approach, Lawrence says. It’s a great name. Mitch keeps telling us to make the past positive. You can tell me to shut up, by the way. I know I sound like a fanatic.

I don’t mind. I like the name, too. What I worry about is the lack of everything else.

What do you mean?

Lack of a dad. Whether I did alright without mine. Whether Charlie will do alright.

You did fine, Rachel. What about Alexander? He seems keen.

Oh, I don’t know.

You’ll be fine, Lawrence says, again, definitively. So will Bup.

He picks up his cutlery. He is, once more, the brother of restored optimism, at least where she is concerned. But she cannot allow herself to imagine the full happy scenario, not yet. They continue with dinner. She wonders how her brother will fare, back in the real world, whether the new policies will hold. The first stars are seeding brightly above the horizon — Venus, Vega, the North Star. From upstairs in the cottage, Charlie’s long unsettled wail begins. She stands, but Lawrence tells her to sit back down.

I’ll go. We’re leaving the lights off and not picking him up, right?

Right. Thanks. Thank you, Lawrence. This is really delicious, by the way.

You’re going to miss me, he says.

After he is gone, Seldom Seen falls back into gentle disarray — toys scattered, crockery crusted in the sink, soggy bath mats and towels left in heaps. Charlie looks around for his uncle, confused by the sudden absence. He asks for him in the morning and at night before bed, Lor? Lor? Then, as if a magnificent feat might summon him back, he lets go of the coffee table he has been using as a ballast for the last month, and walks towards the sofa, several steps, before falling onto his bottom. He gets up and tries again. The biped age has really begun.

Rachel employs a part-time minder, in her fifties, very experienced, with excellent references, and not cheap, but the woman does not seem to bond and she cancels the arrangement. She brings Charlie to the office again, but he’s too big, too restive, in need of stimulus. Sylvia has gone south, to start her legal training. They have exchanged a few emails, but otherwise the relationship looks destined to fade. One of the volunteers offers to help with the baby, temporarily, giving her an hour or two each morning to catch up. It’s not enough. She’s missing the development of the wolves. She’s failing to respond to enquiries and phone calls. She has not found time to meet with Thomas, who suddenly wants to discuss aspects of the project — the neutering — after months of indifference. He seems averse now to the intervention, and she wonders if Sylvia went to work on him before leaving. The decision is irreversible and might be regretted , he writes. They agree on a Skype meeting while he is in London. In the video link he is tying his tie, preparing to go out. He glances at the image of himself in the corner of the screen and adjusts the knot.

Is it absolutely necessary? he asks.

She again explains to him, as she did to his daughter, what the issues are.

Alright, he says. All I ask is that nothing happens too soon. You never know what the future might hold.

The sudden interference is annoying — it’s a polite request but she senses the weight of the boss behind it. The future will hold exactly what I’ve outlined, she thinks. Unless he means expansion of the enclosure and the introduction of new males, separate packs, which will not be possible. He cannot encroach further into the national park — even he would be unable to acquire the land needed. She agrees to revisit the subject later in the year, but offers no further concession. A junior aid says something to the Earl and he nods and the call is finished.

There’s a belated bloom of summer. The first weekend Alexander stays after Lawrence’s departure, he walks around nude in the cottage and out into the garden, like a Scandinavian on holiday. The cottage windows are flung open, and giant white moths flicker round the climbing honeysuckle. Charlie is pleased to have another man in the house; he’s sociable, prattling, boyish already. Alexander hangs him by his chubby fists from the washing line, tips him upside down, makes him scream giddily, and vomit. He liquidises beef hearts for him, gives him a tiny, early taste of honey. She gets used to sharing the bed again. Alexander’s back is a giant slab of muscle, disproportionate to his waist, his cock flops between his legs as he strides about. He likes sex in the mornings, before she is even properly awake, before the baby is.

There’s been trouble with Chloe over the summer — hormones, early pubescence. He has not been sure how to handle it all, he confesses. She’s been moody, embarrassed by the irregular show of blood, the flowery folded packages she must now keep in her bag, and the starter bra, which she refuses to wear. She’s been fighting with her grandmother and staying at Alexander’s house more. The previous month the family of her friend Lucy took her on holiday to Portugal for three weeks — on her return, she was sullen, did not go into detail but said she hated it, hated swimming, the sun, and hated her friend.

I don’t know what went on, he says. I don’t suppose you might want to see her for a bit? I think she thinks you’re cool.

Me? Ha!

You are pretty cool.

She does not feel confident about her feminine communication skills, which are all but non-existent, but Alexander has been generous and supportive over the past year; she owes him the favour.

OK. Shall I take her to see the wolves again?

Yes! That would be great.

He kisses her.

I don’t know, he says. I thought I was New Age. I thought I was a bloody feminist. All she wants to do is hang out with her horse and tell me I don’t understand anything.

What should I say to her?

Nothing. Just talk shop. Just let her talk if she wants.

Rachel has not seen Chloe for several months, and the time has been transformative. When they go into the enclosure — only the two of them this time — the girl is less vivacious and uninhibited, though still sweet and clever. She has a layer of fat, proper, cupped breasts under her T-shirt; even her face is a different shape. Gone is the floral mac and crocheted animal jumper; she has on jeans, a white shirt, conservative high street items. She walks up the grassland slowly, as if aware of her body and its limitations.

It’s nice of you to do this, she says. I know Dad asked you.

He did. But I thought you might want to see how they’re getting on.

I do.

They take signal readings from the handheld device, locate Ra and Merle, and situate themselves on the hillside near the rendezvous point. Rachel sets up the portable telescope in the hope of getting a clear view. The juveniles are probably too big to interest a typical young girl, no longer puppyish and scruffy, getting on for two-thirds the size of their parents. They are now more guileful than playful. But Chloe is still interested, and not typical. The high definition of the telescope is enough to impress her — she can see their eyes, their whiskers. They do not remain in view for long, but run off, casting glances up at the hill.