The Wolf Border (19 page)

Where should we go?

He follows her upstairs, his hands on her shoulders, as if blind and being led. Now it has started and they are touching, he does not seem to want any kind of separation. On the bed he is careful, but confident. He strips her out of the remaining clothing, goes down on her. Then he moves up the bed, leans in, not heavily, but without anxiety, and fits himself. A murmur of appreciation. He begins to move. She senses restraint, concentration – a man for whom it has been a while. He is sweating, breathing hard. His chest is hot and damp and immense, the heel of her hand fits into the hollow. He lets her dictate. Her orgasm is expansive, the contractions in her uterus mildly painful. A grating sound in his throat, as he comes he pulls out. He lifts up, aware he might be crushing her; underneath, her body is slicked wet, and small curls of his black hair are sticking to her breasts.

He props himself on his elbows and they lie for a while. Everything shrinks back, wetly. An owl is calling hollowly into the darkness. He rolls over, taking her with him, so that she is
lying on top. She sits up. He is smiling.

That was great.

His chest rises and falls. She puts her fist in the cavity, which is deep, but not deep enough to mean heart problems.

Pectus excavatum
.

Come here, Miss, he says.

He pulls her down by the shoulders and kisses her – her stomach only just allows it. Then he traces the dark line running up her lower abdomen, to her belly button. Her legs are folded beneath, the muscle of the left begins to twitch and cramp.

Ouch. I think I have to move, she says. Ouch.

He tips her gently to the side, one hand holding her back, then squeezes her calf muscle. They sit up against the headboard. She stretches her legs out, flexes her feet. The mood is light, permissive, strangely comfortable.

Are you one of those guys with a pregnancy fetish? she asks.

He laughs and touches her stomach.

Maybe I am. I hadn't thought about it. What a pervert. Are you one of those women with a James Herriot fantasy? You want the old vet to fuck you in the stables?

Of course.

She feels giddy, wary of standing. There's a chemical brilliance in her body. On and off, a breath of cooler air drifts through the window, not enough to refresh. She wants ice. The owl continues its empty lamentation, or the mate is replying. Alexander looks in no way as if he is considering getting up and going home. She begins to imagine the awkward conversation around departure, then puts the thought aside.

Better drink some water. Do you want some?

Yes, no more tea. I wouldn't say no to a beer.

I might have some. I'll look.

She gets up slowly from the bed and crosses the room. He watches her. She does not feel self-conscious, though she is still getting used to the new form, the stiff waist, having to kneel to pick things up, trouble lacing shoes. She is larval, half-staged, swollen at the central interval. She looks for something to put on, but it seems silly to cover up.

It suits you, Rachel, he says. You look like a fertility goddess. Listen, go and have a wee.

Excuse me?

She pauses by the door. His legs are sprawled, giant rimed feet sticking up at the bottom of the bed, his arms resting along the headboard. The sheets are spun about, twisted and half draped on the floor.

Helen got a few urine infections when she was pregnant with Chloe. You're more vulnerable. And after
that
–

He gestures expansively over the bed, palm open, as if to suggest an area where an extreme event or ruin had taken place. He is grinning, pleased with himself.

What? she says.

You thought I really was being a pervert. With the weeing thing. Doctor's orders.

You're not out of the woods yet, she says.

She pads down to the kitchen, the loam of semen slipping between her thighs. She opens the refrigerator door. No beer. Upstairs she can hear creaking as Alexander moves in the bed and stands up. The shunt of the window being opened wider. She drinks a glass of water at the kitchen sink. She fills another glass of water for him. Overhead, the footsteps of a hefty man walking to the bathroom, the drill of urine into the toilet bowl, and,
midstream, a casual fart. He flushes. He returns to the bedroom, gets back into bed. This is new, she thinks. She can't remember the last time she spent a full night with a man. She heads back up with the water.

Later, she lies with him behind her, his arm cantilevered over her hip. He breathes deeply, sound asleep. She lies awake, her leg aching from lying in the same position. The baby is still, has been still for the last few hours. Finally, she moves his arm and turns over. She places a pillow between her legs, and after a few moments drifts off. At some point in the night she has an anxiety dream, in which she is carrying the baby downstairs, knowing she will drop it, and then she does drop it. Panic as she rifles through the blankets and finds that the baby has shrunk, is tiny and red and vascular; she cannot tell what damage has been done by the fall. She wakes, turns over, rests her forehead against Alexander's back, and sleeps again.

An hour later his phone alarm sounds – the Doctor Zhivago theme tune – confusing and slightly ridiculous. She is half awake, watching the greenish, alchemic dawn filter into the room. He rolls and groans softly as the alarm sounds again. Then he gets up in one swift determined move, as if from his own bed, searches for his boxers on the floor and puts them on, a man on automatic, used to forcing himself into action in the early hours. Rachel lies still, wondering how to tackle the situation. Is it better to feign sleep? He goes downstairs, not silently by any means, but considerately. She can hear him dressing, the clink of his belt, a tired cough. After a few moments of quiet she is sure he will leave, or has already left, but then she hears cupboard doors opening and shutting, the clink of crockery and the throaty purr of the kettle.
He comes back upstairs. She lifts her head from the pillow.

Tea, he says. Keighley style. It's the perfect temperature in case you're wondering.

Thanks. What time is it?

Five-thirty.

She groans. He takes a sip of tea and deposits the cup on the table, sits on the bed. She puts her face back into the soft swale of bedding. She feels him reach a hand under the sheet and fondle her bottom. Then he pulls the sheet down to her midriff, sighs, and stands.

You make it difficult to leave.

I'm not doing anything. I'm just lying here.

Exactly. So, shall I take you to dinner then?

She looks up at him.

Tonight?

Tonight.

I've got a meeting this afternoon. Can I ring you when I'm done?

Great. See you later.

He has taken this as agreement: a date. She wonders if she should clarify. But it's too early to think about what might be set in motion, and what might not. He bends down and kisses her on the cheek.

Bye. I had a very nice time, goddess.

Bye.

She tries to summon sleep but cannot. The racket of birds in the garden, the insistent light, her own restlessness. There are thumps against the walls of her stomach, a pedalling sensation low down – the little being inside her, causing her to have strange wild dreams and capable now, according to the literature, of
dreaming itself. Though what dreams could it possibly have? she wonders. Textures and sounds, a man and a woman's voices like weather outside, the surrounding meat contracting and turning golden. She sits up and drinks the tea, which has become tepid. Outside the sky is primary-coloured, the red bladder of the sun coming up between the trees. Another thump, stronger, so that her abdomen jumps visibly. A reflex action, but it feels like intent. At the midwife appointment next week she will have to mention the clash of events in the diary – her due date, and the pair being released from quarantine into the main enclosure. She puts her hand on her belly, over the jerking spot. Don't you dare, she thinks, don't you dare be the first one out.

That afternoon she meets with Michael Stott and a representative from the county's deer management group, Neville Wilson, in a snug sitting room in the Hall – a rather old-fashioned venue, with leather chairs and a low table, a stag's head mounted on the wall, pictures of athletic black dogs. Rachel senses a certain pastiche irony in the décor. The two men are old friends, it seems, and are bantering when she arrives. A do at the rugby club, someone too drunk to get home,
bugger would not give up his key, so the Crusaders tipped his car onto its side
. Michael has on a tie and blazer, is dressed with respect for the venue, as is the rep, a raw blond man in a green twill suit. Coffee has been left for them, as usual, on the sideboard, and a stack of elegant shortbreads. They each help themselves; no one is willing to play mother. The room is hot, though the windows are open; the men remove their jackets, white shirts pressed by their wives underneath.

‘Stotty', the rep keeps calling Michael. He – Nev – outlines the situation for Rachel. Aerial and foot counts of the Annerdale herds have shown that numbers are too high. A cull will begin the following month. They do not want to wait until the wolves are released. They do not want to risk disease. One final shooting season on the estate is what you mean, she thinks, a last hurrah. But she does not argue; she is not in disagreement with the plan. Michael is keen to walk her through the logistics, and speaks as
if to a novice. He places the leather wallet of rolling tobacco and a box of matches in front of him, and taps the table to emphasise certain points. His fingernails are thick and clubbed, encasing the tips of his fingers.

It'll be the sickest first, those that won't survive the winter. Then we'll take a mix from the rest of the herd. Stags first, hinds and associated calves. We'll be done by close of September on the stags. They tend to get skinny after the rut.

The rep chips in.

I do assure you, it's humane, Mrs Caine. We use soft-lead expanders this side of the border. There's no chance of them limping off half fettled.

The patronising tone is annoying and offensive – perhaps deliberately so. They are communicating as if with a tourist from the city, someone for whom the untimely death of any animal is an atrocity. No doubt they have discussed her before her arrival, formulated a strategy even.

Glad to hear it, Mr Wilson, she says. Where I've been living, there's a trend for semi-automatics. Very messy. They like crossbows, too – no permits are needed. The amount of deer I've seen walking along with arrows sticking out of their backsides, you wouldn't believe.

Neville Wilson laughs – the joke is on his level. Buried in the comment, were he clever enough to interpret it, is the accusation that he is the undergraduate, trumped by the bigger business of American sport. The polite rituals of British deer hunting, the stalk, the language, the weaponry, would seem laughable to the average Idahoan – something out of another age. Michael Stott remains silent, damned if he'll be entertained by Rachel's comments. She turns to him.

And no doubt you'll be after a six-point antler, Mr Stott.

He leans back in the chair, reaches for the leather wallet. He unpops the stud, takes out the paper dispenser and a clod of tobacco.

I dare say. This going to bother you – or the babe?

He gestures to her swelling midriff.

People are awful fussy these days.

No. Go right ahead.

It is a power play. There are ashtrays on the table, there's a faint aroma of cigar; they are in the gentlemen's smoking room – probably requested by Michael. She has not tried to cover up her belly, apologetically – why should she? She won't now issue a ban. The baby will be fine. Binny smoked during both her pregnancies. Michael rolls and lights the cigarette, cupping it inside his closed hand as if against a high wind. Black cherry tobacco drifts over – a man of sweeter vices, then. He offers the wallet to Neville Wilson, who declines, but looks longingly at the makings as if having recently quit. The man looks puffy and red, a candidate for heart disease. She watches Michael, who is weathered but healthy, thinks again that his hair is too dark and glossy for a man his age. It seems like an indicator of something corrupt, an unsavoury raw diet, some kind of deviancy. She has not yet seen his wife. She imagines her pressing napkins and boiling chutney, cowed and bird-like, in some dark village cottage.

Thing is, your pups probably won't get the job done in time, he says. When are they let out?

End of September.

September. Yep.

He knows this very well. At least he understands there are limitations to the number of prey they can and will take – she would
rather a knowledgeable enemy than an ignorant ally. Oblivious to the tension, or simply part of the charade, Neville Wilson issues a surprising invitation.

You'd be welcome on the stalk, Mrs Caine. We're not fully signed up on numbers yet, are we, Stotty?

The gamekeeper's eyes quickly curtsy down to Rachel's bump and back up again.

That might be inconvenient for her, Nev. Lot of crawling about.

Thanks, Rachel says. But I'll pass. Will Thomas be joining you?

She's interested to know where her employer's right-on sensibilities end.

He will, Michael says. The Earl always hunts. Leo, too, if he's about. And Leo's grandfather never missed a season. It's in the blood. Shame it'll all end.

She nods. She does understand the disgruntlement. The traditions of Annerdale go back hundreds of years; Michael is the last custodian, a hard position to be in. In his mind, wolves are no doubt faddish, indicative of Thomas Pennington's contradictions, his liberalism and modernity, or worse, he is inadvertently sponsoring a return to the dark ages, to the primacy of the feral. The systems are cracking up. She understands, but holds no sympathy. And now it is her turn to lead the hand.

Can I ask, gentlemen, were you planning to use moderators?

Come again?

Moderators. Silencers. I'm wondering what the level of noise will be during the cull.

Got sensitive hearing, have they? Michael asks, sneering. Shall we fit them with ear mufflers?

Neville Wilson laughs again; anyone's joke and any joke, it
seems, amuses him. If he understood how much money the estate will save via predation he might soon sober, reassess his job, she thinks. Michael's upper lip is hitched, revealing the pleated arch of gum above his front teeth.

Incredibly sensitive, she says. But you misunderstand me. I'd like there to be noise – as much as possible.

He stares at her. He does not know what she means.

It keeps them alert, she explains, prevents them from becoming habituated – you understand what I mean by habituated, Mr Stott. I don't want them to get used to humans. So, can we agree you'll be as noisy as you can be for me?

She is throwing her weight around a little, being cocky, but he deserves it. Walk into the pen with ear mufflers, she thinks, and they would take your fucking arm off. Neville Wilson stands and gathers his jacket.

OK, that all sounds good. If we're up to speed, I better be off, Stotty. Be in touch. Give my best to Lena and Barnaby.

They shake hands. Neville Wilson offers his hand to Rachel.

Nice to meet you, Mrs Caine. It's been fairly educational.

He takes another piece of shortbread on his way out. Michael snips the smouldering end of the cigarette with his first and middle fingers to extinguish it, and puts the leather tobacco wallet in his coat pocket.

Are we all done? Rachel asks.

Reckon so.

Fine. See you at the next meeting.

She stands, gathers her things. Michael remains seated for a moment. He looks faintly smug, has one more card up his sleeve.

Good to have a vet on hand, he says. In case anything goes wrong.

He is looking down at the table, where one hand is resting over the box of matches, its fingers horned and crab-like, nicotine-stained. When he looks up, it is without direct accusation, a trace of lewd amusement, perhaps. He has been spying, or he is speculating, testing the waters. Alexander's Land Rover was parked near the quarantine pen overnight; they are often seen together, maybe the attraction has been on display. Or he is making a dig at the wolves again – their high maintenance during quarantine. But Michael is too clever for the comment to be innocent. Rachel says nothing; her face remains neutral, unreadable. If he cannot undermine her professionally, there is of course the traditional realm of sexual disparagement. Michael is a misogynist, for all his sitting at the negotiating table with her. Her neck feels hot, as if colouring with annoyance. She bites her lip, says nothing. Binny comes careening into her thoughts. Her mother would have risen to a comment like this, given up information.
Think of us like dogs, Mr Stott, like bitches that come into heat
. But she is not her mother – there are more artful ways to fight. If she is not careful, the running conflict with Michael will make her careless and weak. Binny never learnt how not to fan the flames with her anger and indignation. She always admitted to her indiscretions when accused. Rachel moves to the door, opens it.

I very much doubt anything will go wrong at this stage, she says. Goodbye, Michael. Good luck with the cull.

Driving away from the Hall, her annoyance builds. She grips the steering wheel, imagines all the things she might have said, satisfyingly cutting. Even at Chief Joseph, with its seclusion and hothouse gossip, and the Reservation's wider system of finding things out, she could maintain a degree of privacy. There is
nothing Michael Stott can do, other than try to shame her with his knowledge. But she was not taught to feel ashamed, far from it; Binny was adamant on that front. Any time she got wind of an attempt, she would go into battle – marching down to the junior school to extract Rachel from bible studies, horrifying the vicar and baffling the other kids.
You're not filling her head with that rubbish, you tight old git. Original sin, my backside. Pick up your coat, my girl, we're leaving
. Heat prickling Rachel's face as she followed her mother outside, to the school gate, where she was made to wait until the lesson was over and the vicar had fled past. The feeling that came after such exposure wasn't shame, either – more like the flinting of aggravation, red filling the brain. Not unlike the feeling now.

She takes the long way home, over the moors. The baby kicks. She slows down a little and breathes, tries to let the anger disperse. The road is vividly blue against the yellow, friable grassland, the parched landscape. Haze vectors the distance. The heat is approaching American standards; it is being worried about on the radio, a brutal new climate. In the west the sky is darkening. A storm on the way. Meanwhile, the air conditioning in the Saab does little. She rolls the front windows down and aromatic moorland air buffets in. The heat feels land-made, furnace-like, as if some great portion of the island is burning, tracts of coppice and forest, a final solution.

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?