by Sarah Hall
Whoa there, Alexander says. ‘Hi, Rachel, can I hold him.’ That was a bit quick.
Chloe shrugs. Rachel smiles at her.
Yes, of course you can. Do you want to sit over there and I’ll pass him to you?
The girl moves to the neighbouring chair, sits, repositions her bottom several times in quick succession, forward, backward, side to side, and readies herself for the load.
Coat off, her father instructs.
She shrugs out of the anorak and hangs it on the back of the chair. Lanky arms to go with her legs, but not graceless or malcoordinated. She’ll be good at sport, Rachel thinks, probably the star shooter on the netball team. Chloe puts her feet on the crossbar of the table so that her thighs are flat – no doubt the correct position for holding orphaned lambs. There’s a high degree of confidence to her – the confidence of a ten-year-old. She lifts her arms in a receiving position and Rachel passes over the baby.
He might be a bit burpy.
Charlie stirs as she releases him, but doesn’t wake. Chloe takes him, not entirely supporting the head, and with a slightly loose grip – the baby sprawls either end. She tightens her arms so that he is bunched in her lap. Good enough, Rachel thinks. Chloe looks up at her father, smiling, missing her front teeth. I’m holding a baby, the look says. This is her boyfriend’s daughter. If only every introduction were as easy, Rachel thinks.
Have you eaten? Alexander asks. We thought we might take you to the pub with us. I promised this one some chips.
And Cumberland sausages, Chloe says.
Obviously.
Rachel is about to turn him down, leaving to go anywhere with the baby seems laborious, then changes her mind. The cottage and the winter darkness have begun to close in. She must keep sounding ahead, get used to travelling with Charlie.
Chips sound pretty good, she says.
The baby’s things are packed and he is fitted into the carrier and into the car, the seat belt secured – an elaborate ritual for a five-minute drive. Rachel sits on the back seat with him, her hand over the blanket. Chloe sits up front with her father, her legs crossed on the seat. She jabbers freely on the ride, tells Rachel about her school – she is one of the oldest children in the village; there are only twenty-nine pupils. The school is in danger of shutting and the district is constantly campaigning to keep it open. She herself has written to the local MP.
There are too many old people instead of young couples with kids, Chloe explains, leaning round the seat. I’m good at maths and library.
This one is a brainbox, Alexander says.
Sounds like it, Rachel says.
Dad and I have good conversations because we only see each other half the week.
Alexander reaches over and musses her hair.
Hey!
Chloe takes her hairband out, smooths her locks back into a ponytail, and refastens it.
I might be a brainbox but I still smashed my teeth out, she says. They weren’t even baby teeth! I’ve got to wait till the dentist makes me new ones.
Well, it won’t be long, her father says. Meanwhile, no more galloping Sorrel down the fell, you maniac.
I wasn’t galloping, I was barely cantering. Sorrel is my horse, Chloe explains. It wasn’t his fault I fell off.
I should hope not, Rachel says.
She listens to the father–daughter chatter. It is interesting to see Alexander parenting – all of a sudden there is a new side on display. He seems adept, suited. He’s no walkover, but neither is he untrusting – if his daughter is allowed out riding alone.
The Horse and Farrier is festooned with lights when they arrive, like a cheerful galleon, very inviting in the gloom. The bar is busy. They find a quiet table in the back dining room by the fire and Rachel keeps the carrier next to her chair. Charlie wakes up, shouts; she lifts him and holds him against her, and he settles but remains awake. Chloe dangles a multicoloured scarf in front of him and he concentrates hard on it. Their meals arrive.
Want me to take him so you can get stuck in? Alexander offers.
That’s OK, thanks.
She picks up her fork and begins. She is getting good at one-handed cutlery use. They eat a vast meal, slabs of battered fish looming off the edges of the plates, a wheel of sausage, huge cut chips, extra vegetables. Dozens of sachets of ketchup are squeezed empty by Chloe and strewn over the table, red dashes everywhere like a battlefield. It is good to be out. The meal takes on the air of celebration, a feast. Chloe has a few sips of Alexander’s beer, as does Rachel. He watches her across the table, clearly pleased with the way the meeting is going. They have not slept together properly since the birth, trying a few times and abandoning the act. Yet he still comes, exhibiting connubial patience; she doesn’t know why. The answer is not complicated, were she to consider the question properly.
Dad says maybe I can ask you to see the wolves sometime please, Chloe says between mouthfuls.
It’s the please that charms Rachel most.
Yes. Definitely. Next time I go into the enclosure, I’ll take you along. We can either use the radio transmitters to find them, or if you fancy a challenge we’ll track them ourselves – old school.
Chloe’s face lights up.
I’ve got my own binoculars, she says. I can bring them.
Excellent.
Excellent.
The toothless grin again. The room is very warm. Chloe takes off her jumper. The first hint of breasts under her vest, but no bra. The flesh on her arms glows under a pattern of freckles. Her hair is utterly curl-less, sand-coloured, needs washing. The girl seems very happy with herself. Long may it last, Rachel thinks. When she’s older, a teenager, she might be teased for her size, her generous frame and height; they will be difficult, halting years, until she’s in her twenties perhaps, and men with proclivities for statuesque women begin to assert themselves – then she will ascend once more. Or she will sail through regardless; her intelligence and grounding will keep her safe. For now she is well liked, it seems, ethical, a champion of underdogs – defender of girls being picked on at school – Lucy and Illona, particularly, because they aren’t very popular – and as strong as boys when throwing a ball. Junior measures of success.
After huge steaming puddings with toffee sauce and ice cream, they drive back to the cottage. Chloe puts her favourite album on the stereo and sings along. Her father sings, too, and the two of them jive about in the car seats – the age of parental mortification has not yet arrived. Outside Seldom Seen, Chloe gives Rachel her mobile number – their friendship made official.
You can WhatsApp me, too, she says. By the way, my binoculars are Swarovski. They’re incredibly strong. Dad bought them for my birthday.
Great, says Rachel. Perfect. See you soon.
Alexander gets out, sees her to the door, and gives her a quick kiss. It is still early – 8.30 p.m. The baby needs changing. She bathes him in the sink. His belly is tight under his soft skin, glabrous, like stone wrapped in chamois leather. He kicks in the tepid water, looks both panicked and joyful. His eyes are changing colour, from slate to brown. In the end they will probably be as dark as Kyle’s, or maybe hazel, if the green fights through. She feeds him, goes to bed and lies listening to his breathing. Some nights he breathes like an old labouring sheepdog, keeps her awake. She sleeps deeply for four hours, until he wakes for a feed. She no longer dreams of Binny. She still does not know what to make of that strange season of appearances, so false in its compassionate instruction, a kind of golden nocturnal folie. The baby is real now, and she must learn and cope, perhaps that’s why.
*
True to her word, she arranges for Chloe to accompany her and Huib on a run through the enclosure. Alexander drops the girl off, a packed lunch in her rucksack, walking boots laced, and the famed binoculars strung round her neck. She looks every inch the zoologist’s assistant.
Good luck, he says. See you this afternoon.
Rachel leaves the baby in the care of Sylvia – not strictly part of her
job description. He has been fed, changed – there’s extra breast milk, though success with the bottle has been intermittent so far. It is the first time she has left him with a sitter. She tries not to feel anxious. Another hurdle, she tells herself.
The day is dark, with fast grey cloud obscuring the hills, but rainless so far. Giant billowing shadows move across the fells and valleys. There’s the smell of loose, black earth, and minerals in the air, incendiary, like cordite. Big weather is coming; they will have only a few hours at best. In any case, she dare not leave the baby too long. Already her left breast feels full and aching. Motherhood: there seems to be a new minor ailment every other day. They collect the handheld receivers from the office, tune to the signals. She does not want the girl to be disappointed, though disappointment comes with the territory – the first lesson of spotting. Nor can she afford to spend hours tracking. Chloe sits quietly on the back seat of the estate’s Land Rover while Huib drives. Her excitement is well contained, but obvious. She’ll have been instructed by her father to do as she is told at all times, not get too giddy. This is a special privilege. She is practically breathless.
It’s great you could come along, Huib says to her.
He has already given her one of the receivers to hold, tuned to Ra’s transmitter, with an explanation of how it works – the basic operating procedure; Chloe is not intimidated. She is of the generation that intuitively understands technology. She leans forward towards the driver’s seat.
Thanks for having me. Dad says it was his favourite thing, looking after them.
So, are you going to be a vet, like your dad?
She shakes her head.
No, I’m not quite exactly sure yet. I think I’m going to be a geneticist.
Oh, really?
Rachel smiles. She is very glad Huib is coming along; his ability to make conversation with anyone will be an asset if she herself stalls with the girl. The idea that she might be expected to bond makes her slightly nervous, much as she likes Alexander’s daughter.
I saw a programme on the telly about crops, Chloe says. It’s all very well having people and animals, but they have to eat and soon there won’t be enough food.
That’s very true, Huib agrees. We do need more disease-resistant strains. I read an article in New Scientist last month about it.
The TV programme said lots of money has been spent on making tobacco better. But we don’t actually need that.
But it’s big business, right? Smokers spend a fortune.
Yes, Chloe says, a little sadly, and leans back. If only they’d stop.
Moral, kindred spirits, Rachel thinks. It is heartening to imagine the girl could go on to such achievements, and that Charlie could too.
Do you want a mint, Chloe? Huib asks, taking a packet off the dashboard. He holds the tube over his shoulder.
Thanks. I’ve got some rhubarb and custards in my bag. We can have those later.
Good one, Huib says. But wait a minute. Is it rhubarb and custards, or rhubarbs and custards?
Chloe sucks her mint and thinks for a moment.
Rhubarbs and custards?
Rachel laughs.
You are a pair of pedants.
What’s a pedant? Chloe asks.
They drive cross-country alongside the fence for a few hundred yards and pull up at the western gate of the enclosure. Rachel gets out, keys the code into the lock, and the gate opens. They pass through, the gate closes, and the lock reactivates. As little estate traffic as possible has been inside the domain since the release; the codes are held by a handful of workers only. Rachel asks Chloe which way she thinks they should go. Chloe checks the signal and they head south, following an old drove track. Light strobes across the grass and bracken, over blackened bushes. Somewhere on the reddish, sleet-dampened moors Gregor is using a shepherd’s bothy as a base, and has been filming their progress. There are several dun hides set up across the estate, covered in besoms of heather and bracken, camouflage netting. She sent him a text message that morning saying they were heading in.
They drive to one of the known rendezvous points, where the wolves have been returning frequently, park, and head towards the coordinates. They walk downwind. They do not hurry but Rachel feels unfit, the breast is heavy and sore inside her coat, burning – the start of an infection, perhaps. Chloe doesn’t speak – she is now in silent mode. She walks alongside Rachel, hands cupping the rims of the binoculars, ready. The signals are strong, but Rachel feels obliged to issue another gentle disclaimer.
If we don’t see them we’ll try again another day. They might be in the forest, in which case probably they’ll stay hidden.
The girl nods.
OK.
They walk on. There’s a pause, then Chloe says,
But they’ll see us, won’t they?
Yes, they will, Rachel says.
Chloe grins and is pleased. The logic: being seen by a wolf is nearly as good as seeing a wolf. Rachel is relieved. The girl is clearly very sensible, but one never knows when disappointment might lead to tears or sulking. The cold, streaming wind has made Chloe’s cheeks very red, and her nose glistens. She holds her sleeve up to blot it, strides on beside them.
Rachel checks her phone for messages. There’s nothing from Sylvia. Her plan was to be an incautious, trusting mother, able to come and go without obsessive monitoring. In practice, it seems harder. They walk over the rough, gingery moorland, between granite slabs and patches of bog. Chloe has fallen back in a state of hyper-awareness, not speaking, scanning the terrain. Rachel leans towards her and speaks softly.
What we’d like at this stage is for them to want to have a litter. To be nuzzling up to each other and sleeping really close, that kind of thing.
Chloe turns and nods. Yes, she mouths.
They walk for an hour or so, looping round towards the lower bields. The signals are strong; they are close, but remain out of sight.
We might do better staying put and seeing if they make an appearance, Huib suggests. Let’s go over there. We don’t want to go too high, Chloe – they don’t like you being higher up than them.
Because it’s an advantage for watching things? Chloe suggests.
Exactly. And ambushing.
On a shallow rise, near a brisk upland stream, they sit and eat sandwiches. Huib and Chloe swap halves – ham for hummus – like bosom friends. For her age, the girl has an impressively high degree of patience. She does not fiddle with her phone and seem bored. Every once in a while she lifts her binoculars and scans the terrain, replaces them against her chest. They wait – forty-five minutes, an hour. The wind flushes past them, freezing, hinting at more snow. Chloe’s sleeves are dark with wet patches where she has wiped her nose. Her sniffs are regular and adenoidal. The light is fading. Rachel is about to suggest they leave – the ache in her breast is intense now, and it is not feeling like a lucky day. Then, a text from Gregor arrives. Wolf coming over Caston Bield. He must be close to where they are sitting, stowed like a sniper in the moorland grass. They raise their binoculars. Chloe tugs Rachel’s arm. She points.
Is that one? I think that’s one.
On the horizon, bracketed between two trees, Ra is standing looking towards them.
Bingo, Huib says. You have good eyes.
Chloe rests her elbows on her bent knees to hold the glasses steady. Merle walks up behind Ra. Her coat ripples in the wind. The pair take stock of the intruders, then begin along the hill, laterally, cutting down towards the river, picking their way past boulders and trees. They move mostly in plain view, disappearing for a time behind roods of stone, Merle smoking through the brown bracken. Ra’s pale coat glows in the winter gloom like halogen. They disappear into a grove of trees beside the river. The group keeps watching for a time, but they do not reappear. Rachel hopes it was worth it for Chloe – less than a minute’s payoff for half a day’s investment. But when she looks at the girl, she can see the excitement and delight. She is the first child in England to see wild wolv
es at large – surely there will be kudos for it at school. Huib holds up a hand and they high-five.
Let’s have those rhubarbs and custards, he says.
Chloe rustles around in her bag and brings out a handful of old-fashioned yellow and red sweets. Rachel hasn’t seen them in years, not since Binny sold them in the post office in big, dusty plastic jars. The thought makes her anxious to see Charlie. They walk back to the Land Rover. Huib and Chloe chat casually on the ride back to the office – it becomes clear the child is excessively bright, interacts well with adults who are essentially strangers. Rachel tries to ignore the burning discomfort in the glands of her chest, the wet feeling against her T-shirt and creeping unwellness. Mastitis. When they arrive back at the Hall, the baby is crying, an acute pitch of great distress. Sylvia is walking him in her arms backward and forward across the office.
He wouldn’t take the bottle, she says. I’m so sorry.
Rachel sits with him and nurses him. He latches, tugs hungrily – a savage pain passes through the swollen nipple, like broken glass crackling through ducts. She winces and adjusts position; all she can do is let him draw the milk. Chloe calmly tells Sylvia about the sighting. They avoided us mostly, she says, but when Alexander arrives, his daughter leaps all around him like a salmon up a weir, her chest skimming off him, completely shedding the afternoon’s guise of adulthood.
I saw them, Dad! I saw them!
*
Her brother and his wife arrive on Christmas Eve, bringing with them heavy bags from an expensive supermarket, masses of gifts for the baby. There is still a strain between them – perhaps it will never be fully corrected – but they are together, and it is Christmas, and Rachel can’t help feeling a minor miracle has occurred, simply because they are all together. Emily sets about baking, dusting the kitchen counters white; the savoury smell of mincemeat drifting from the oven. She seems to want to keep busy, task after task, wiping, washing up, making a clove orange for the mantelpiece. Rachel does not pity her. She has chosen to remain Lawrence’s wife, chosen to stick it out, and there is something honourable in that. She’d hesitated before inviting them up, but in the end there was the feeling that, with the baby, they should be together.
