by Sarah Hall
I’ve bruised you, she says.
I’ve been hoofed by bigger and worse, he replies.
He shows her a crescent-shaped scar on his leg, from a shod horse rearing and landing on him, the flesh ravelled down to the bone. He admires the scar on her back, its puckered stitching. She tries not to think about where it is all heading, what it all means, even when he puts his hand on her belly to feel the gristly little heels pushing out, the rhythmic hiccups like firework pops inside, as a father might. She is more worried, she supposes, about the prospect of motherhood. She’s never changed a nappy in her life. The plastic doll in the antenatal class she attended was so ludicrously false she set it down, made an excuse to go to the bathroom. Her mother used to tell a story about how Rachel had floated her only childhood doll off down the river. So she could go exploring, Amazon-style.
She confesses the antenatal incident to Jan.
Doesn’t matter, Jan says. That’s just entry-level stuff. You won’t know anything until you actually have to do it. No one does.
What if I’m not cut out?
Oh, hell, who is? But I think you might be surprised, luvvie. When I hand the little one to you, something’ll kick in.
As for the rest, what else is there to do but continue on as before? She carries wood in from the garden, lesser loads. She manages the project. Her wage is very generous – for the first time in her life she has decent savings – and will not stop during maternity leave, though she does not really intend to take official maternity leave. She orders newborn supplies online: nappies, a supply of clothes and various pieces of sterilising apparatus. A Moses basket. A book about animals. She gratefully accepts the Marmite jars Alexander brings, eats it spread thickly on toast, or heaped on a spoon like some kind of gory Victorian medicine.
Depraved, Alexander says, shaking his head. You’re as bad as Chloe.
He sticks his finger in the jar, licks it, grimaces. He makes her laugh, talking unromantically about peridurals and prolapses. He suggests ridiculous names for the child – Algernon, Ignatius, Veronica. The whole thing seems uncomplicated, workable, though often she feels surely she must end it. She thinks of Kyle – they have not spoken since early summer, though she receives the weekly newsletter from Chief Joseph. The baby will no doubt be dark, a quarter Indian, Nimíipuu. What of that stolen heritage, the disqualification? There are formal tribal regulations for classification, she knows, proportions of blood measured. She remembers the solitude of her own childhood, mountain-bred, a condition aggravated by decades of remote locations in the northern hemisphere. Seldom Seen is lost in the woods – is she recreating such a world for the baby? She does not feel solitary now, but that is not Alexander’s doing. She feels joined with something, viviparously, even if the physical tethers are temporary. Sometimes she speaks to whoever is inside her, after a series of insistent kicks. Hello, baby. What are you doing? They will have each other, she supposes.
After a couple more weeks playing phone-tag, Lawrence comes up to the estate to visit. He has been avoiding her, she suspects, so she pins him down. There might not be much time before the baby is born, she tells him. She makes sure he knows Emily is welcome, too, but Lawrence seems not to want to ask her. He makes an excuse as soon as the offer is made – she is busy, has a hair appointment, then yoga. Rachel suspects the invitation will not be passed along; he wants to come solo, perhaps to explain, or because relations are still fraught.
The following week – the day of the referendum – he arrives looking tired and pallid, but bearing gifts: a set of organic baby sheets and an attractive bird mobile to hang over the cot, which she had not thought about.
Wow, he says, when she opens the door. You’re big.
Thanks!
No, I mean, nicely big. You look big because you’re so small. Proportionally.
OK, point made. Anyway, it’s good to see you.
You, too – that’s what I meant to say. Not the big thing.
She doesn’t mind the comment. It’s true – her belly seems vast, a high, front-sitting dome, the skin stretched taut and scribbled with blue veins, still expanding. She is pleased to see him, relieved. They attempt a short walk up Hinsey Knot, a manageable altitude, and with the support belt not too painful. Even so, Rachel pauses regularly. She remembers walking with a backpack full of equipment on the Reservation. Her heart coped with the weight and bulk. Now it feels boomy, labouring away. Lawrence feeds her chocolate, a banana. Halfway up the hill, there’s the sound of a rifle shot, barely more than a soft crack in the valley below. The deer cull has begun.
She waits for her brother to raise the subject of Emily, but he doesn’t. He is withdrawn, quiet, though not unfriendly, and he is still attentive.
You doing OK? he asks. Want to stop again? We can head down.
No. I’m determined to get up there.
We can stop again, though.
I’m fine. Just slow.
Slow, and vulnerable-feeling, though she will not give in to it.
You seem fine, he says. Still stubborn. But you seem different.
Different?
I don’t know. Less angular. Sorry, that sounds rude.
I can bite your head off for old time’s sake, if you like.
He does not laugh. Nor does he read the note of encouragement in her voice, the invitation she keeps subtly issuing, to confide in her. She steps carefully up the tiers of rock and over the turf gulleys on the path. Near the summit of the hill, webbed lungs of cloud begin to obscure the view. They glimpse fields and forest, but no sea, no Isle of Man. The breeze is fresh, suggestive of cold currents streaming in from the gulf. They sit and rest, eat more fruit. Rachel unlaces her boots, leaning forward awkwardly, pulling the tongues forward to relieve her swollen feet.
Don’t take those off, Lawrence warns. They won’t go back on.
I know. Good grief! I didn’t think this through! It’s bloody hard!
You’re doing really well.
Am I? I feel like a whale.
She turns to face her brother. It seems stupid to hedge.
How are you? You can talk to me, Lawrence.
He nods and stares straight ahead, pinning the horizon. The look of a man afraid to deviate from his course, she thinks. He has lost weight, around his face, his chest and stomach.
I don’t know what to say.
What happened?
He shakes his head. He has not shaved – there are dark red whiskers on his chin – the prerogative of a day off work, perhaps, or an indication of continuing domestic dishevelment.
You don’t want to know.
Listen, she says, I’m sure I still hold the trophy for biggest family fuck-up.
Again, he does not laugh. The success she has had in the past with humour, entertaining her brother, breaking the ice and the tension, is not working. He seems flat, pervasively melancholy.
Is Emily OK?
We’re trying to work it out.
OK, she says. I’m glad to hear that.
Lawrence glances at her.
Really?
Really. You know she stayed with me that night. She’s not the absolute monster I thought she was.
Yeah. She said that about you, too.
There you go. Pretty soon we’ll all be sitting around the fire singing Kumbaya.
He does not seem cheered by the prospect of a new era of family harmony either. He points to her boots.
Come on. Do those back up.
OK.
She groans and leans forward, reaching round the mound of herself and fumbling with the laces. The last hook is impossible to find. Lawrence takes over the job – she watches him tying a double knot. He stands and offers an outstretched hand, and she lets him help her up.
I really do hope you work it out, she says.
It seems a wan thing to say. But her sincerity and concern must be apparent. Lawrence sighs. Penitence and frankness vie with each other in his face. After a moment, he speaks.
It was a stupid th
ing, he says. With this woman who worked with me. It wasn’t really a proper relationship. She doesn’t work there any more.
This is Sara?
He nods.
Is it finished?
Yes, I think so. Yes, it is.
Were you in love with her?
The question is in a way meaningless, she knows, but one must ask. Love in such situations is rarely real. Sex is the engine, exalting and ruining people, sex and frustration. Love is what people believe is worth the path of devastation.
No. I was just . . . off the rails. And she –
She what?
We were just into the same thing for a while. We were bad for each other.
Rachel doesn’t ask what this means, does not want the details. She can imagine, or sense, a seam of darkness, familiar to her, though she would not like to acknowledge it. Though he is finally being forthcoming, there is more to the situation than her brother is letting on. She wonders how Emily is coping. The world of women is split, she knows, between those who do and those who do not forgive. Even the willing sometimes can’t. Men, too, though adept female duplicity often saves their finding themselves in either category. As they begin down the slope, she thinks of the rancher with whom she had a one-night stand, confessing to his wife and then driving to the centre, knocking on her door. She wonders if Sara told Emily, in a moment of heat or spite, or whether Lawrence confessed.
I was an idiot, Lawrence says, his voice full of self-reproach. I’m not proud. Even your wolves do better. Didn’t you say they’re monogamous?
Rachel shrugs. Such analogies are not helpful, though she, too, has in the past made comparisons.
It’s a bit more complicated than that. There’s sexual rivalry, plural breeding – never mind. The point is, these things happen, Lawrence.
I can’t really use that as a defence.
I just mean, in the modern age, it’s not all about mutually raising offspring. It’s amazing people are as faithful as they are, given the opportunities, the appetites. As far as I know, you’ve been a good husband for years.
You’re just one of a thousand possible selves, she wants to tell him. Genetics, nurture, choice – he is nowhere near the worst version. Lawrence stops walking. He shakes his head and holds a hand up, as if defending himself from the compliment. He turns away. He does not want absolution.
Don’t.
She casts around for better advice.
I know I sound like a wonk. Sorry, that’s just my language. I’m not very good at this. I just mean, we all make mistakes, but for a lot of the time we do OK.
When he faces her again, his eyes are bright with a sheen of tears, he is struggling to keep himself together.
I know. I just feel like shit. That’s all. I’ve been feeling like shit for weeks. I don’t feel well.
His voice is soft and rough. It is surprisingly moving to see him so upset. She feels her own eyes pricking. She puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes. He tries to smile.
Thanks, Rachel.
The stories I could tell you about philandering, she says, lightly.
No, please don’t. I always worried about you.
His face becomes pained again – this is not the moment to assert their similarities, or tell war stories. He looks out over the fells, at the pluming cloud. She can’t be wholly satisfied with her efforts to help him, but at least she has tried. Inch by inch they are getting closer, undoing the past, or mitigating it. They are in the world as themselves, she knows; flawed, capable of better, and Binny cannot be blamed. They continue down the hill. Her back begins to ache and she stops to adjust and refasten the support belt. Lawrence waits patiently. Around them, the bracken is already turning reddish-brown, corroding. The wind is fresh. Autumn is her favourite time of year here – the county is at its most vibrant, flaring ruddy and golden, like a furnace. A year ago, she was saying no to this. A year ago, she could not have imagined such progression – but it does feel like progress, on the whole. As they walk slowly back to the car, she wonders about the baby. How much will she influence it, teach it, damage it? If she does damage it, will it end up hating her, blaming her? Will it go on to create a better self? No one is without choice, she thinks. No one is condemned to be changeless.
*
The next morning, while she’s running a bath and listening to the victory speech of Scotland’s First Minister on the radio, the landline rings. It is Honor Clark; Rachel knows before she even lifts the receiver. Honor is the only person who phones her at home and at this hour. Overnight there has been an attack on the enclosure – the main fence, not the wolfery. The police are on their way, and Michael, who discovered the the sabotage, is waiting down at the Hall.
I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Good. And of course, if you could treat the information as confidential, Thomas would appreciate it.
He knows already?
He does.
She turns the taps off. She is due at the hospital for an appointment at 11.30, which cannot be missed. She dresses, gets into the car, and drives down the lane. The morning sun is gilded, with mist above the lake and the river, white reefs over the fields. Frost tips the grass and the north-facing walls, and patches of yellow smoulder in the hardwoods, as if something is burning through from the other side. She takes a granola bar from the glovebox, one of the stash left over from her weeks of sickness, unwraps and eats it. Michael. She is annoyed that he is involved; any act against the project will please him. She’s seen little of him since the stalking season began – he is busy leading groups of shooters around the estate, friends of the Penningtons and other visitors who have paid extraordinary amounts of money to crawl through the heather and sedge of Annerdale.
She turns the car radio on. There is no deviation from the subject on this day of high drama and history. A slim margin of votes has cut the north of the island free. Live on the BBC, Caleb Douglas assures sceptics and unionists that he will work to include them all in the decisions and the future of a new Scotland. The morning programme host, also a Scot, conducts a typically aggressive interview, reveals nothing of his own leanings. From tabloid editors there’s idiotic talk of cars streaming south down the M74, queues outside estate agents, an exodus of second-home owners, English residents, and ‘realists’. The American president and the leaders of other nations have sent messages of congratulations, ranging from guarded to ecstatic. No one knows what the political protocol is – an expert is brought on to explain the possible stages. The excitement is terrible and contagious. Great Britain no longer exists.
Pennington Hall rises redly from a white sea of frost. Rachel drives faster than she usually would up the driveway, the tyres of the Saab spitting gravel. Michael is standing outside the main entrance, smoking. He eyes her as she pulls up. She gets out of the car, pushing herself off the doorframe as she must these days, tries and fails to button up her coat, and makes her way over. Michael has on matching jacket and trousers in dark green hunting plaid.
What happened? she asks.
He breathes the sweet cherry smoke into the air, shakes his head.
No idea. Just saw it as I was passing.
When?
This morning.
What’s the damage?
Well, they haven’t got through, but they’ve had a good go.
Who?
She is aware her tone sounds accusatory. He sniffs, pinches out the cigarette, and pockets the stub.
It’s probably kids larking about with a pair of clippers.
Clippers, she says. It would need to be something a little more industrial, don’t you think?
As I said, they’ve not got through.
He meets her eye. He does not look furtive or gloating. Still, she doesn’t trust him entirely. She wouldn’t put it past him to be involved, by proxy. But that would be stupid. He has already outed himself as a naysayer, marked his own card. And what would be the point of sabotaging the main enclosure before the wolves were in it? She would like to ask
more questions, but Huib is making his way towards them from his quarters above the carriage house, still wearing cargo shorts, despite the early-morning chill.
Are we going down to see it when the police arrive? he asks.
I would reckon so, Michael says.
Where exactly is the hole?
Back of Ulver Scar, near the woods.
That’s a long way from the main road, Rachel says.
Michael nods.
It is.
Kids, she says.
I reckon so.
Good job you saw it, Huib chips in. We might have missed it in that location.
Vexed by the conversation, Rachel leaves them for a minute and heads into the Hall. Honor Clark is in her office, on the phone. She holds up a finger, signs for her to wait. Rachel lingers in the office doorway. Honor swivels in her chair as she speaks. She’s lost a few pounds, though still remains curved, a country weight. Blue blazer with a neck-bow blouse, a very good complexion – she could not appear more suited to her situation.
It’s at Rannoch Mhor, she is saying, the flight leaves at six. No, press aren’t invited. Of course, of course. Douglas and a few others.
On the desk, next to the photographs of her grandchildren, is a white orchid in a pot of curling moss. On the laptop screen, an elaborate grid of appointments – Thomas’ diary, extremely full as always; today’s column is marked with a red background – an important day, clearly. Honor hangs up.
