The Wolf Border (35 page)

Please pass on all our sympathies, Rachel says.

Yes, Huib agrees. We're all terribly sorry.

Thank you. Now, I'm afraid on this unfortunate note I must leave you.

Another trip across the border, where secession negotiations are still taking place and Thomas is embroiled. On the way out he leans towards Rachel, asks quietly if today's notes could be sent to Honor. There are matters on the agenda he would like to discuss with the team – he does not specify which. She nods – the minutes are always sent, though he often doesn't read them. Then he is gone. The meeting is concluded. The volunteers quietly disperse. Huib gives Sylvia a hug. She is suddenly teary and leans against his shoulder; he talks to her quietly. Rachel is surprised by her discomposure and their closeness. Talk of interfering with wolves and terminal cancer has upset her. Rachel recalls the way Michael and Lena helped steward Leo at Christmas – covetously, as if no pedigree separated them, as if they were related. Sylvia
has known them since birth. Or there's possibly more to it – the underlying anxiety about her career, some other trouble. She stands back and lets Huib comfort her, at a loss.

Over the following days, Rachel learns the extent of Lena's illness, from Huib, who is privy to the Hall staff's gossip. The diagnosis came late, by which point the endometrial cancer had metastasised throughout her system, into her bones. A radical surgery was performed, pelvic evisceration, removal of her organs and bowel, followed by plastication – still experimental, ultimately palliative, but designed to give her as much life as possible. Barbie doll treatment: controversial, perhaps not even ethical, and paid for privately by the Earl. Suddenly Sylvia's reaction to the idea of sterilising the female pups, the intimate barbarity, makes sense.

The next time Rachel sees Michael, it is outside the Hall, getting into the utility vehicle. They are in plain view of each other – their eyes lock. She approaches, feeling she must say something, and he steps back out of the van, swinging the door closed. Tess, the ever-present lurcher, looks through the window inquisitively, tongue out. Michael squares himself and nods at her.

Mr Stott.

Mrs Caine. How's the little one?

Since Charlie came along, Michael has used him as a way of seeming to greet her civilly, while avoiding pleasantries that actually include her. Still, it is progress of a sort.

Yes, he's OK. Getting big. How is your wife?

He stares at her, assessing the question, not replying. He looks bleary-eyed, thinner; perhaps he has been cooking for himself, or missing meals; caring for the terminal patient is taking its toll. His hair is greasy at the roots; his cockerel chest has sunk. He
seems now to inhabit his age: a man in his seventies, old enough to suffer under extra physical and mental burden. But he still has on a tie and jacket for going into the big house – the old ways of the estate prevail.

I don't mean to pry, she says. It's not my business.

It's not.

I just wanted to say I was sorry –

She stops short. She does not want to offer pity, nor would he accept any from her. They are not friends. She will do him the courtesy of not simpering. The approach was ill-judged, and she can see he suspects her, thinks her nosy or callous.

Anyway, my best wishes, she says, and turns away.

I heard your brother was sick, Michael says. Heard he'd moved up here permanent. There's a lot of bad business about.

She turns back. Now it is she who regards him cautiously, wondering whether he is genuine or goading her, quid pro quo. What has he heard about Lawrence? The whole sordid mess, or only an outline? No doubt he has his opinions about drug users, and they are unforgiving. Michael's face is set like granite. She holds her own expression in abeyance. They are as guarded as each other.

He was ill, she says. He's on the mend now.

That's good. Nice fellow. And good to have some young folk moving in, cut up the pastures a bit.

This surprises her. She would not have thought him keen to have any more of her associates on his turf. But then, he has more to worry about than the march of liberals or a petty dispute with a colleague, even wolves. He makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and a sigh.

Lena's putting up a fight. She's making mine and her sister's life a bloody nightmare. It is a bloody nightmare – all of it.

His voice is flat, and open. There is not much more to say; they both know it. He offers her his hand, willingly, for the first time, as if this is their true introduction, or they have agreed something. She takes it and they shake. The dog barks inside the van.

Good luck then.

And you.

He gets into the utility vehicle and starts the engine, pulls away, the tyres crunching gravel as he circles the drive. She stands for a moment, watching his departure. He is as ornery as he ever was, she is under no illusions. But the idea of him returning to a house of suffering, to a wife crippled by disease and exenteration, boluses of painkiller and colostomies, biding Macmillan nurses, would not be wished on anyone.

She continues towards the office. She passes Thomas Pennington, who is walking with the local bishop and Barnaby Stott in the gardens of the Hall, the three men engaged in reflective discussion. Thomas waves to her as she passes, a small, sombre acknowledgement. It occurs to her that they were all discussing Lena's funeral. You are lucky, she tells herself, don't forget it. In the blur of her new life, there are raised moments and memorable episodes – good and bad, she has been learning to fix what can be fixed, learning to accept what is broken. There is no other way.

*

Lawrence quits his job. He has savings, is paying half the mortgage in Leeds, but the house is to be sold. He will find work here in Cumbria, he tells Rachel, in one of the southern Lakeland practices. Or he will do something different for a while, reset his brain. She is nervous, but supports the decision. He needs a new
chapter. He and Emily have managed several brief, polite phone calls to discuss matters, namely the divorce. He has not tried to win her back, though his recovery is going well, and he might have asserted such. Either he does not want a reunion, or he considers himself unworthy, the damage too great. It's the right thing, he keeps saying, and perhaps it is. Binny always maintained there was a wrong dynamic to the marriage, though, in the end, Rachel has come to respect Emily – even to like her.

She watches her brother for danger signs. He seems to have built tight defences. He keeps going to the centre in Workington, calls Mitch and people from the support group from time to time, and is called by them. He reads around the subject – a book about impulse control, a book about attachment disorders, a book about neurons; all this is in order to understand the physiology of his problems. He eats well, does not drink, not even beer – those who think they can merely moderate vices usually fail, he tells her, get stuck in a cycle of binging and quitting, as he did, for years. He meditates, in his room, in the garden, cross-legged, his head held erect. And he walks. He has walked himself lean, looks like a man who has crossed deserts, who has lived on figs and goat's milk. He looks both older and younger, like the scrawny boy he was and the bypassed man he might have become, under different circumstances. He offers to move out, repeatedly, but she tells him there is no hurry.

It's selfish, in a way. The support at home is a boon. The shared childcare gives her enough time to maintain a role in the project, go on dates with Alexander. Though what is selfish about an uncle adoring his nephew? They are happy in each other's company, have developed their own systems. Lawrence slathers sun cream on Charlie's arms and legs when they go outside, changes
the most atrocious nappies, mashes baby food, a hundred thousand bananas pulverised under the fork.

Bup, where's this nom going? he says, patiently administering the substance. Four more and you get a fruitsicle. I'm going to count – ready?

She is a little in awe. The idea that paternal care is lesser, or secondary, seems ludicrous. She might have gone a little mad were it not for her brother's help. It is not the sleeplessness or the constant drill of infant duties, but the lack of privacy that has been hardest. With Lawrence on hand she can take a long bath, go out for a few hours, court, then re-enter the atmosphere of motherhood refreshed. One never knows how spoilt, how wanton with time one was, until those hours are disqualified. The closer Charlie and Lawrence get, the closer she too is to her brother. Underneath it all is a remedial feeling. She and Lawrence have survived; better, they have succeeded. No rush, she says, when he offers to leave again. Though she knows, soon, he must, for his own benefit if not hers.

Summer does not really get going, not in the voluptuous golden way of the previous year. Any heat is quickly extinguished by clouds or rain, the temperature barely reaching the twenties. Nevertheless, it is the season of plenty on the estate. The pups grow rapidly, become coordinated and swift. Rachel and Huib listen to recorded vocalisations, their high little wails and yips, barks, attempted howls. For the first time she leaves Charlie longer than twenty-four hours with his uncle, to camp in the enclosure and observe, work she has not undertaken for over a year. It is a test for all three – mother and son, and Lawrence, who is still a little sheepish about her trust, deferential, unpresumptuous. Only if
she is sure, he says. He can cope, she knows. It is she who lingers, repacking a bag, hugging the baby. In the end, while Lawrence and Charlie are engaged in loud antics with the plastic drum set, she slips out of the cottage unseen, like a fugitive.

They stay in one of the hides that Gregor has been using, which is cold overnight, and damp, smells of utility and the chocolatey rusk of power bars. It is a thrill to be back out, to see the juveniles first-hand, gaining courage and endurance. They maul and tumble and ambush each other, more playful than dogs. The littlest male shows no signs of deficiency; he jumps on his father's back, harasses Ra until Ra stands over him demanding submission. Rachel feels peculiarly light, misses the smell and weight of Charlie, the sense of him close by. But this too is second nature; she has missed seeing wolves, missed waiting to see them. During the night their human presence in the enclosure sets off a volley of howling. She and Huib lie side by side and unmoving in their sleeping bags, like vegetables, making notes.

When she arrives home, it feels as if she has been in exile for a decade; she allows herself the indulgence of exaggeration, she is partially qualified: unwashed, weary, hungry. And she is rewarded. The immediate recognition and delight on Charlie's face is intoxicating, he leans steeply out of Lawrence's arms, towards her. Mamamama. She gathers him in and he clings on, his strong, monkey-ish arms throttling her.

Had a good time? she asks her brother.

He is smiling and looks pleased with himself – nothing untoward has occurred, no midnight meltdowns, tumbles, or other accidents. A victory.

Great. How about you? Good to get out there again, I bet?

It was wonderful. Am I allowed to say that?

Of course you are. Hey, wild woman, you've got something in your hair.

He brushes out the attached item.

Want some tea?

Oh God. Yes please! So much for doing without field comforts. Is there hot water? We want a bath!

She kisses her son on his hot fragrant neck.

Loads. How's the pack doing?

Oh, brilliantly.

It's true. There is no real danger to the litter. Not even the buzzards would have attempted a raid when the pups were smaller. The golden eagles, burly enough to have managed a steal, are long gone from the county. Regardless, Ra and Merle have created a protectorate, moving the pups from the natal den to a rendezvous site. They are closely watched and fed with regurgitated meat. They follow their parents, trotting alongside, noses up-tilted, at heel, keen little followers. They are brought to carcasses, allowed to tug at the ribcage of a deer. They make their own way back while their parents scout, sometimes roaming too far. Ra arrives hastily in response to any distress call, escorting the lost pup home. Soon they will be taught to hunt properly, beginning with the madcap chase of a brown hare. None of the pups land it, but their father does. At the ungodly screams of the kill, all four retreat over the brow of a hill. Ra carries it back to them, a shaggy, amber-eyed pelt, swinging between his teeth. Edible. Fresh. Ever after the association is made.

*

Lena dies soon after. The funeral service is very well attended, by the estate staff, family, and an older, rustic set, extending up
through the borders – Michael's associates, those who worked the previous century's agricultural landscape, attending horse shows, common ridings, hunts. Rachel also attends with Charlie and Lawrence; it seems the right thing to do. The service is held in the old Annerdale church near the lake, accessible only by unmade track, so the guests must park along the roadside and walk in a long, dark, realist procession to the grounds. Thomas and Barnaby greet the mourners, handing out service sheets and printed copies of the eulogy. Saint Mary's is newly roofed and the cemetery is neat. Inside, oak polished to a dense shine, urns of cut flowers, soft organ music, and stiff black hats. It is perhaps inappropriate to bring the baby, but Rachel feels she cannot put in an appearance without him, given Michael's fondness. Binny never protected her from such things when she was growing up; she was made to face death, to understand its common occurrence. They find a pew towards the back, try to keep Charlie entertained and quiet.

The body is brought in via traditional horse and carriage over the lake road, two squat fell ponies straining against the harness, the leather creaking, their tack tinkling. The coffin is wicker, covered with floral cuttings. Six men, including the Earl and Barnaby, shoulder it off the trap and walk it to the altar of the church, where it is set on a stand. Rachel is reminded of her childhood – the processions, gates locked at weddings until coins were flung, first-footing, harvests, and carlin suppers. There was no nostalgic irony in any of it; it was simply current practice. Michael does not greet or speak during the service, but leans fatally on the front of his pew. The music plays out and the bishop prepares to conduct the ceremony. Rachel turns to Lawrence, and says, finally,