by Sarah Hall
Yes, Rachel says. And they couldn’t get in, anyway. They’d need industrial cutting gear.
Behind her she can hear more wolf vocalisations; a large part of the crowd is also listening and watching with interest. But there’s only so long Huib will be able to manage things, she knows.
I mean if they get out, the spokeswoman continues. If they get out, what’s to stop them running riot and plundering!
Plundering?
Rachel tries not to laugh, though the rhetoric is in fact ridiculous. She talks the woman through the specifications of the fence: height, depth, impenetrability, inescapability. The woman’s scowl deepens. Construction measurements are not what she came for. Reality is not what she came for. Rachel knows exactly what she wants – to twitter on about her nightmarish fantasy: wolves that pass like fog through the wire and head unerringly and specifically to her house, nosing open the door, and creeping upstairs, howling at the moon before tearing apart her starched and overdressed children. She should try to be more understanding, but the hysteria, the desire for a bogeyman, is tiresome.
They really can’t get out.
But if they get out, the woman repeats. I can’t have my kids walking to school in the village. There isn’t even a siren to warn people. You’re a mother? Aren’t you anxious?
The woman gestures towards Rachel’s swelling belly. Rachel feels her modicum of patience ebbing. Don’t tar me with the same brush, she thinks.
Let’s think this through, she says. A siren might cause panic and would make no difference at all, because they wouldn’t want to interact with humans anyway. But I assure you, they really won’t get out.
The woman shakes her head in denial. She is desperate for tabloid disaster, desperate to mainline all the fear she can. She is thrusting her children out like sacrifices before her. They are slickly combed and ironed. No doubt the poor kids are stewarded hither and thither, to school, to clubs, to the houses of sanctioned friends – every precaution taken to keep them safe from paedophiles, the internet, fires, and floods. There is no reasonable argument Rachel can make.
The little girl comes over and stands in front of her again. Her cape is askew, her hair wildly tattered. She peers up intensely. She is disarmingly attractive, more so for the dishevelment, the corruption of all attempts to groom her. Let me have one like you, Rachel thinks. The girl holds out her meaty little hand, fist clenched, containing a gift.
Is that for me? Rachel asks.
Nancy, come away, please, her mother instructs.
The girl does not move.
Nancy. Come here, please. Nancy!
The fairytale dress hangs off one shoulder, a size too big, and soon to be ruined. Nancy holds her hand out towards Rachel, traitorously.
Nancy! I won’t tell you again! Must I count to ten? One –
A voice that suddenly means business. The hand snaps down. The girl turns and marches back to the region of her family. The mother gathers her in, recovering her form in response to being obeyed.
Tell us then. If they get out, what are we to do? Hide in our homes? Go and get a gun? Or is there going to be some kind of government helpline?
Behind Rachel, the wolf-headed man has begun a howl, saving her from fielding the question, or from calling the woman idiotic. She glances over at Huib. He shrugs apologetically. He has held the actor off valiantly but it was never going to last. The crowd refocuses its attention; even the spokeswoman shuts up. The costumed man gets down on his knees and tips his head back in baying parody. The howl sounds hollow and muffled inside the head. Crawling on all fours, he moves to the spot where he dropped his briefcase. The photographer is snapping away again, glad of some proper action. Nancy breaks free of her mother, roams forward, and watches the performance at close quarters. With deliberate theatricality, the man snaps open the briefcase clasps. He lifts the lid of the case and takes out a gun. There are murmurs in the crowd, then mild laughter – it is fake, a toy. The man puts the gun to his large, leering head and pulls the trigger. The cap pops loudly and the gun emits a wisp of smoke. Nancy jerks with shock at the noise but remains in the same position, watching the man tip over to the ground, twitch horribly, and then lie still. Rachel looks over at her mother, who is shouldering her way forward. One of the boys has started crying. The woman fetches Nancy away from the scene, roughly by the hand. The show is in poor taste with children present; the crowd knows it. A slow sarcastic handclap begins and then dies away – Huib.
Show’s over, he says. No encore.
He’s not with us, someone in the crowd says.
Huib moves to intercede, but the man suddenly stands. He swiftly gathers the gun and the briefcase and starts away. The role is over, but he does not unmask. He walks past Huib, towards Rachel. As he passes, she tries to see inside the cut-out eye holes. Blue eyes, maybe, impossible to distinguish. He says something as he passes – a threat, perhaps – but the head obscures the words. Then he is gone, down the road, past the parked vehicles and into the trees.
A feeling of unease is left behind. The amateur dramatics of the day have gone wrong. No harm has been done, but the incident has derailed everything. The crowd is dispersing; people are lowering placards and heading to their cars. The little velvet-suited boy is still wailing, louder now, committed to the act, while his mother checks Nancy over and Nancy strains to get away. The photographer is packing up his gear.
Let’s go, Rachel says to Huib.
She tells the remaining protesters that she can be reached by email or phone. They walk back to the Saab.
Who do you think he was? Huib asks. Some kind of activist?
No, she says. Well, maybe. I don’t know. He let that toddler get a bit close for comfort.
That made me uncomfortable, too. And he didn’t have a car, did you notice?
She starts the engine and pulls away.
Right. No way of tracing him by number plates.
As she drives down the road, she glances in the rear-view mirror, half expecting to see the man materialise from the trees again, suited and waving at them, the red tongue of the wolf’s head lolling out.
It’s interesting, though, Huib says.
What is?
You can just pull a gun out here and nobody goes crazy. Back home, that guy would have been taken out.
In America, too, she says.
I don’t know whether it’s a good thing.
No. I’m not sure it’s worth coming down here any more, she says. These people’s minds are made up.
She decides she will not come back to meet the protesters again, not even for a show of diplomacy. The fearful will always be afraid; the ideological will believe until the last shred of evidence is offered. Only time will prove them wrong. The unrest will peak and end, she gauges. There will be the inevitable entropy of energy, and the swing of anxiety towards a new inflammatory source will put paid to the gatherings. Or the Lakeland weather will.
*
Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Lawrence asks.
Why?
I don’t know. I would have helped or something.
Rachel shrugs.
Helped with what?
Her brother is vexed, and a little upset, but not angry. He frowns gently, looking down at her.
I don’t know.
Rachel shuts the front door of the cottage and they stand in the lane outside, facing each other. It is a hot May day. She still feels a little awkward being in his company, but she’s glad he came, and glad to have finally broken the news. She has undone the belt of her cardigan so that her small bump is visible, pushing against her T-shirt. Lawrence starts to say something, stops. Then he says,
I could have helped you with the move or something. Carrying stuff. And we didn’t have to go up a bloody mountain!
She smiles at the sentiment, his charming and misguided chivalry.
I’m fine. Really. I feel fine. And we did go up a mountain.
He sighs and the frown line above his nose deepens.
/> Oh, Rachel.
He is clearly concerned and won’t be brushed off. It’s difficult to navigate the new relationship. They have spoken a few times on the phone – she’s even exchanged coolly polite words with Emily. In not telling him, maybe she has been too defensive, too excluding again. She is simply not used to having a brother, let alone one now trying to take care of her. All around them, in the woods, is the racket of birdcalls and squawks, like a playground.
Listen, I’m fine, she says. I just wasn’t ready to tell people. OK? Come on, let’s go this way.
She leads him down the lane. They walk past his car – a new silver Audi – towards the lake and the wolf enclosure. The ground is lush underfoot, the grass is young and has been softened by a recent shower. It’s humid, notes of thunder in the air, though the sunshine prevails. She takes off her cardigan and knots it around her hips. Lawrence has on a long-sleeved shirt, rolled to the mid-forearm. He has patches of bad skin below the cuffs, picked and sore-looking, like when he was a boy. They make their way through the woods.
It’s gorgeous here, he says, seeming to let the subject of her pregnancy go.
It is.
I can’t imagine owning so much land.
No. But we need it. They need it.
Still, it doesn’t seem – well – fair, I suppose. Not in this day and age.
Maybe we should follow the Scottish model. Re-nationalise the big estates.
She is half joking, but Lawrence nods.
Maybe. It might not be a bad thing.
I wonder if it would be harder or easier to set up a project like this.
Depends who’s in power, he says.
Probably none of them would risk it.
She is aware she sounds like a cynic, but since returning home, none of the political parties have convinced her they are anything other than urban-centric and ecologically conservative. The pockets of English countryside are broken apart and seem to be regarded as gardens for the city; Annerdale is unusually large and unusually governed. Her brother is an optimist; she has begun to admire his spirit, though at times it seems forced, something of a mental straightjacket. I don’t think it’ll rain. Emily will come round. As they walk, she catches Lawrence occasionally glancing over, with possessive tenderness, as if she needs guarding, as if she might stumble. The attentiveness feels odd, noticeable, like a new shoe, but is not unpleasant.
You were worried about how I’d take it, weren’t you? he says softly. Because we’re trying for a baby.
Yes, I suppose I was a bit.
Are you pleased? he asks.
I’m nervous.
And you’re really fine?
Yes!
Well, I’m happy for you. We should celebrate.
Rachel snorts.
Celebrate?
What? Weren’t you trying to get pregnant?
Of course not.
Oh.
She shakes her head. He becomes quiet again, attempting to understand the situation. Rachel is aware of how it all must seem. Aware too that she has not, during any of the time they have spent together, mentioned a partner, a boyfriend, anyone meaningful in her life. Perhaps Lawrence was imagining a clinic scenario, her leafing through catalogues of donors’ attributes and genetic profiles. Most uncomfortable is the awareness that she is to some degree following in Binny’s footsteps: unmarried, independent, not at all leavened by maternity.
It is what it is, she says.
Through the trees, the lake water flashes. They cut down towards the shore, Lawrence leading. He holds tree branches out of the way for her rather than letting them lash back. A self-taught gentleman: there’s little of their mother in him, if there is in her. They walk along the lake edge, the shingle clattering underfoot. Tiny waves lap the stones, wind-manufactured seiches. There are black-faced gulls bobbing on the surface. Summer is coming on fast. The district is very green, shaggy with foliage; flowers are beginning everywhere, bluebells carpeting the older woods. The brutality of Chief Joseph’s winter feels a long time ago. Her brother seems pensive and sad. She wonders if he is disappointed in her, or whether he is imagining breaking the news to Emily. It will surely not go down well.
Hey, Uncle Lawrence, she says, to cheer him.
He turns and smiles.
Yeah, he says. I need to learn some uncle skills, don’t I?
He pauses and picks up a flat, roundish pebble, squats, and skims it across the surface of the lake. Five hops and the stone sinks, flickering down through the water and disappearing. The rings disperse.
Good start, she says. Hope you’ll teach that if it’s a boy or a girl.
Is it unkind to ask or not to ask about their own attempts to conceive, she wonders. She settles for frankness.
Any news your end on that front?
Lawrence roots around in the shore debris for another good skimmer.
No joy. Miscarriage. We’ll probably do another round, then see. We might have to call it a day.
Rachel says nothing. What can she say? Not sorry. Not good luck. There are no platitudes or reassurances. Emily may now be speaking to her on the phone, but she has not come to visit with Lawrence this time, even though there was no embargo. She is grateful, on some level, to avoid Emily’s company – the tension, the loaded comments. That’s an interesting philosophy, Rachel. Lawrence doesn’t really eat artichoke; he never has. We may need a second mortgage, if the care-home costs increase again.
Actually, it’s been pretty stressful, Lawrence says, and depressing. I’m not sure I’ve responded in the right way – I’m not in great shape. She’s pretty pissed off at me.
He looks pained, now that Rachel is studying him, a little pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He was always prone to somatisation; had childhood aches and pains of no origin when upset, and was dismissed as a nervous kid by the doctor. She feels sorry for him, but he will not want to hear that.
Hey, I’m sure you’re doing great, she says. Just hang in there.
It seems a trite thing to say, next to useless, but Lawrence nods. They keep to silence for a while as they make their way along the shore. The water is gunmetal grey under the trees, where the sunlight cannot reach, hostile-looking, though when she tests the temperature of the shallows with a hand, it is only moderately cold.
Shall we go see the wolves? she asks.
Yeah, great. Lead the way.
They head away from the lake, towards the enclosure.
How are they getting on? Lawrence asks.
Fine, she says. Actually, they’re a bit bored. Merle is being a flirt.
A flirt? How can you tell?
She keeps coming up to Ra like this.
Rachel mimics the sidestepping movement, the sidle. Her brother smiles.
That’s flirting?
Oh, yes.
Does he like it?
He’s not convinced. He’s too busy trying to figure a way out of the pen. Last week he dug up a buried tractor wheel trying to get under the fence.
Whenever she speaks about the job, her brother seems enthralled. It is as if she practises some kind of lost craft: augury, or alchemy. They make their way up towards the enclosure. When they reach the fence and the barrier, Lawrence stands for a moment, not in appreciation exactly, but impressed.
Wow, double surety. No messing around. Can people not access the lake now?
Not on this side.
He shakes his head.
It was quite a feat, getting that bill passed in Parliament.
Yes, it was.
Though she is now the project’s advocate, she still has mixed feelings about the fence herself, the restrictions, the very nature of it.
Come on. Let’s go to the wolfery, she says.
The wolfery?
Quarantine. It was originally a joke someone made. But it’s sort of stuck.
They follow the fence towards the pen. She is walking slower than usual, not winded exactly, but the humidity and the extra weight of the bump are having an eff
ect, on her gait, her heart. She can feel the extra blood. Lawrence slows, obligingly.
Why does there have to be a fence on this side of the lake, anyway?
If it was open both ends, they’d swim across, she explains. We’d lose them.
They could swim across? All the way?
Yes.
Her brother turns and gazes back over the water. The rim of the lake is darkly tinted. There are patches of yellow and white light drifting like aurorae across the surface.
It wasn’t like this when we were growing up, was it? he says. It felt less – owned.
It was probably just more affordable then, less fashionable.
True. We looked into getting a house up here a few years ago, but there’s no way.
He looks over at her.
Sorry I never came to the States to see you, Rachel.
It doesn’t matter.
It does matter. Stupid to have gone years without being friends at least.
There’s upset in the margins of his voice again. She should tell him not to worry about what can’t be changed. The past damages, the old wounds. The trick is not to limp; one has to forget one was ever limping, like Ra, whose leg has healed. One day he could simply run again, without affliction. She puts a hand on Lawrence’s arm.
Quid pro quo. I’ve never been to Leeds.
He grins. They continue along the fence. Either side of the wire is an abundance of tall grass, insects ferrying between the stalks, and butterflies. The landscape is beginning to thicken and become fragrant; the heather blossoming, and the gorse bushes exploding with heady yellow petals.
You must have missed all this while you were away, he says. I know I do.
Yeah. It was a good place to be a kid. You end up wanting to be outdoors all the time, wherever you are. I sometimes slept out in John Stacy’s barn. And in the lime kiln. If I’d had a row with Binny.
Her moorland solitude. She still cannot really imagine herself as a mother, and does not regard her own upbringing as idyllic – far from it – but there is something reassuring or important about knowing the baby will grow up in the territory where she grew up. And then she thinks of Kyle, and the Reservation, and she feels the inching of guilt.
Well, I’m glad you’re back, Lawrence says. Gives me a good excuse to come up here.
