The Wolf Border

by Sarah Hall

  While Emily bathes Charlie, Rachel and Lawrence go hollying, taking with them a hemp sack, like old-timers. It is cold, cold enough to snow – the eaves of soil between the tree roots are whitening. The trees ring glassily with birdcalls. In the bare upper branches, the black rooks look almost like spawn. Down by the lake there are three very productive holly trees, haemorrhaging berries. A few of the lower branches have freshly clipped stumps; someone has beaten them to it. But there is plenty to go round. Rachel snips off reachable sprigs, while Lawrence shins up the trunks boyishly. Boughs come rustling down, stick halfway; he shakes them free with a foot.

  Watch out below.

  This being perhaps the most private, and possibly the only, moment they will have, Rachel asks how things are going with Emily.

  Better, he says. It’s slow going. She says she trusts me.

  Is she right to?

  The words are out, bluntly, before Rachel has a chance to formulate a subtler enquiry. But this is the tenor of her life now, dealing with base and needful messages. Howls. Excrement. Vomit. Every problem must present itself honestly, if it is to be solved.

  I haven’t seen Sara, if that’s what you mean. Not since she left the office. She sent me a card, but that’s about the extent of it.

  What did it say?

  Happy Christmas.

  He drops another sizeable sheering of holly. Rachel picks it up and puts it in the sack. The foliage is lustrous, ancient; its spikes dig into her wrists through the gloves.

  Was there something else? she asks.

  He looks down at her from the branch above, his face as pale and unreadable against the sky as the underside of a hawk’s wing.

  What do you mean?

  It’s just that I got the impression something else was wrong. That there was more to everything.

  Nothing’s wrong. I’m doing penance on a daily basis. I’m going to a counsellor – she asked me to and I am.

  Right. OK. I didn’t mean to pry. Come down, I think we’ve got enough.

  The bag weighs almost nothing on the walk back through the woods. She senses a skittishness in Lawrence, he talks rapidly, about nothing much – avoidance talk. He walks quickly against the gloom, worrying they should get back soon, as if to be out in the dark would be an undesirable, dangerous thing. She has hit a nerve, perhaps, reminded him of his crimes, when all he wants is to forget and move on. When they arrive back at the cottage, he heads up to the bathroom, emerging twenty minutes later, composed, calm, ready to be festive. They eat Emily’s mince pies and then strew the windowsills with the holly. They decorate the Christmas tree. Everything smells of green sap and spice. Sitting in the armchair, holding the baby, Emily looks Madonna-like. The Madonna of surrogacy, or of yearning.

  The baby steals attention from everyone in the room, captivates; he is the focal point. They watch him on the rug. His head is heavy but controlled. Lying on his front he can lift it and look about; he issues noises of frustration and triumph. His expressions still seem mostly accidental, but he can smile, he does smile, and then the world is illuminated, the heart is enslaved. Vulnerability and emotional lure; a creature perfectly evolved to elicit the protection of adults. His skin is gorgeous but for two patches of dryness behind his ears.

  On Christmas morning, they are invited for drinks at Pennington Hall, a traditional reception for the workers on the estate.

  We don’t have to go, Rachel tells them.

  She would, in fact, rather not. She has no wish to navigate the Penningtons and the other staff today.

  Shouldn’t it be on Boxing Day? Lawrence asks. Alms for the poor and all that.

  I’d like to go, Emily says. I haven’t been down there yet. I’d be curious to see the place and meet your crusading earl, Rachel.

  OK, Lawrence says. Let’s go.

  Towards much of what his wife says or suggests, Rachel has noticed that her brother is agreeable. This must be part of his repentance. It’s understandable, the hangdog act, wanting to make amends, but is also slightly alarming. Bend too far backward and one breaks. Two against one – she cannot retract the invitation.

  Maybe just for an hour, then.

  The morning is bright and clear; they decide to walk. They gather their coats, dress the baby in his new arctic hooded suit. Lawrence puts on the baby papoose. Charlie has started enjoying facing outward while being carried; so long as he can feel a warm body and hear her voice, he is content enough. The sensory experience must be vast, Rachel thinks – so much to see and absorb. He swings his legs, puts his tongue out in the frigid air as if tasting a new substance. They walk through the woods, then along the stream and the gentle ramps leading to the back of the Hall. The lanes are frostbitten, the grass crisp. Pristine winter – the estate looks immaculate, untouched. In the newly planted copses, the birches have a mauve hue. A fine rind of moon is cut out of the sky, and only a few reaches away above the horizon is the pale, near-derelict sun. It’s as if they are walking on another planet, with contiguous constellations. She would not be surprised to see another set of moons studding the heavens. Three adults and a baby, traversing a holy, alien land; they have entered mythology, or a memory of religion. They have survived great disaster and found paradise.

  At the Hall, Emily and Lawrence hold their own, converse politely, try not to marvel at the interior, the gilt frames, furniture which at auction would be the price of a new car or more. The baby gives Rachel an excuse not to exert herself socially – people flock over, croon, admire. The Penningtons are welcoming, delighted Rachel’s family is also in attendance. Sylvia serves Christmas punch from a silver cauldron into goblets. She has transmogrified back into a debutante: gone are the jeans, boots, and fleece; she has on a mallow-coloured dress, a white fur tippet, her hair is pinned up. Neither incarnation seems quite real to Rachel now. Sylvia and her father have been at the early-morning service, conducted by the bishop.

  Michael and his wife Lena are present, as well as their son Barnaby, a thirty-something version of Michael, though stockier, bullock-like, perhaps more herd-able than his father. There are other old friends, and staff, including Honor. Huib has gone back to South Africa for the holidays. Michael shakes hands with Lawrence, greets Rachel civilly enough, and gently squeezes the baby’s foot, a grandparently gesture. He is wearing a tweed sports coat and a burgundy, crested tie, a relic from school perhaps or the emblem of some local Conservative club. His wife is small, svelte, but not the diminutive partner Rachel had imagined. In fact, she is very attractive, has astonishingly well-preserved cheekbones, no doubt appearing as a model in their wedding photographs. Her figure suggests she has never borne children. She is confident, stands slightly in front of Michael, leads the conversation, and speaks presumptuously to Thomas as if she were his old nanny. She and her husband have served the house for decades; it is in some ways theirs to claim.

  Thomas is expansive, as usual. He greets Rachel with the encomium of an agent, extolling her marvellous talents to those guests she has not yet met, embarrassing her in front of Lawrence and Emily. Midway through the reception, he insists on an impromptu carol.

  Let’s have a round of ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’.

  He begins to sing. Sylvia instantly accompanies. One by one the crowd gets going. Rachel joins in uncomfortably, unused to such jolly, outward displays, then, not knowing the words, she focuses on the baby, who looks unsettled by the noise and may or may not be about to cry. Afterwards, applause. The timbre of Thomas’ laughter is that of a moral hedonist, chief of workers. It is Sylvia’s soft exclamation that announces Leo Pennington’s arrival. The young man who enters the drawing room is not shabby exactly, but he does not appear in any way like heir to one of the wealthiest estates in England. The look of someone associated with yachts and motorbikes, rough port-town nightclubs in France, Albania, and Israel. An expensive, worn leather jacket. Dishevelment to his clothing, messy unwashed hair, and a smoker’s complexion. A partying rich kid. Sylvia glances briefly towards her
father, goes to her brother, hugs him. Thomas, who has been regaling a group that includes Emily, holds face. Then, loud enough for the room to hear, issues his greeting.

  Leo! Wonderful! You made it!

  As if he’d been expecting him all along.

  Daddy, come and say hello to Leo, Sylvia calls.

  Yes! Yes! Please excuse me; I must go to my son.

  He was not expected, Rachel is sure. It is clear that they are pedaling to get hold of the situation. Leo shakes hands with his father, but does not smile. Though his colouring is similar to Sylvia’s, he has neither his sister’s fineness nor her symmetry. A weaker face, small chin, and strange, sandy eyelashes. His sister’s arm is threaded through his, but he does not look comfortable, as if the house and all its contents make him edgy, as if there’s a deep intolerance of his old life. Michael and Lena make their way over to greet him, too. Lena kisses him, takes him by the elbows, and Rachel overhears her gentle chastisement. Must come home more often. We all miss you.

  The carousel of Christmas begins again, drinks topped up, conspicuous merriment. Thomas works the room. At one point he takes Charlie from Lawrence, and Rachel winces. There is no way that he will be dropped, but she doesn’t feel confident – the baby looks wrong in Thomas’ arms as he tries to chat to his guests, his face is startled, and begins to crumple. She is relieved when Lawrence takes him back and shows him the paintings on the walls. Some grey-haired, kilt-wearing uncle is talking boorishly to her, about plans to drive on the right-hand side of the road in Scotland, ludicrous, a colossal waste of money, he says, and a ploy to please Europe, but Rachel looks past him towards Leo. The young man helps himself to the Christmas punch, drinks swiftly, refills the goblet. He barely circulates, but stands near the serving table and engages minimally with whomever approaches. There’s a crackle around him: un-wellness, an ill mood, or his poor fit in the setting. Sylvia returns to his side often, which, on the surface, appears doting, but their talk becomes inward, and Leo agitated. Always a bloody circus, Rachel hears him say, his voice rising. A few heads turn but the guests continue to socialise. Thomas is at the other end of the room. Leo sways a little, blinks slowly, and looks disparagingly at his sister. He is well on the way to getting drunk, or the alcohol is combining with something already in his system. Just a fucking show, a great big sham. Sylvia puts her hand on his arm, says something quietly to him. Because it’s all so false and we’re all liars. Nearby, Michael hears the commotion and makes his way over. Someone steps in front of Rachel and she loses sight of them for a moment. When the person moves, she sees Sylvia, Michael, and Lena gathered round Leo, corralling him. Leo’s voice reaches an insistent pitch. Makes me sick. Thomas looks over towards the group through the sea of guests. For the first time Rachel witnesses him in a state of discomposure – the man looks nervous, as if staring at a fire gaining height and power, unsure what to do; he does not approach, does not try to intervene. It is Michael who stewards, Michael who leans in very close and speaks to Leo in warning tones, as if to a dog that has pulled something down off a table onto the floor, but not yet wrecked it. Rachel can hear one phrase repeated: your mother, your mother. Rachel’s conversation partner has asked her a question about a wildlife conference in Aberdeen; she looks back to him and tries to concentrate. From the corner of her eye she sees Michael, Lena, and Leo making their way to the door and leaving. Sylvia has soon re-entered the fray, wearing a broad smile, as if nothing untoward has occurred, as if there is no drama bubbling away elsewhere.

  By one o’clock, the gathering dissolves. The baby is hungry. Rachel, Lawrence, and Emily begin a round of goodbyes. They are given a gift box on the way out by Sylvia, which turns out to have excessively expensive items inside – champagne, a silver fountain pen, an electronic reader, fine commissioned chocolates – nowhere near the alms Lawrence had joked of. They walk back across the estate grounds. The sun is already low, energy-less, unblinding to the naked eye. Mist is forming over the river and the fells are a deep, dying blue.

  Nothing like a bit of family drama at Christmas, Emily comments. Good to know they’re maintaining the traditions like the rest of us.

  You noticed, Rachel says.

  Oh, I missed it, Lawrence says. What was going on?

  There’s some bad history between Thomas and his son, Rachel explains.

  The daughter seems nice, though, Emily says. She’s working with you?

  Yes. I had my doubts about her but she’s proving me wrong.

  She was very enthusiastic. She’s extremely beautiful, isn’t she? Sort of off the chart.

  Then to Lawrence –

  You must have noticed that?

  Emily’s tone is not jealous, neither is it aggressive, but there is an undercurrent. Beautiful women are always on another woman’s radar, but perhaps Emily is more sensitive now, reading their allure like radiation. They walk on in silence for a while, crossing the stone bridge into the woodland. The air is colder inside the trees, frost climbing the trunks. Rachel adjusts Charlie’s fur hood. He is fast asleep, oblivious. Lawrence’s curiosity gets the better of him.

  How much do you think it costs to run a house like that? I mean, how does he manage it – so many of these places are going under and being taken over by the National Trust.

  I don’t know, Rachel says. He seems to have a lot of business interests. He’s the lead donor of his party.

  Christ – that’s a waste of money, Emily says.

  I’m sure there are tax breaks, Lawrence says. There always are. He’s probably got registered companies overseas.

  The political echo of Binny in her brother. Rachel begins to feel a little uncomfortable, part of the machinery of segregation, which always enables the elite. It cannot be completely divorced from her role on the project. After the Reservation’s system of land ownership, its allocated plots and council management, Annerdale is essentially feudal, a realm so antiquated it seems impossible that it has survived the reformist centuries. An English estate still owned by an English earl; Lawrence is right: it is rare. Across the border, great swathes of foreign-owned land is being recovered, taxes levied on the distilleries, the salmon farms. She doubts such radicalism will be imported here.

  The afternoon is glorious. Charlie is still asleep, and they are not eating until later that evening. She suggests they visit a Neolithic site nearby, only a small detour. There is a way of aligning the winter solstice sun with the central stone, she tells them.

  We’re only a few days late.

  Shouldn’t we get back? Lawrence says. We’ve been gone a while. I could do with getting back.

  Her brother’s lack of desire to be outside, away from the cottage, seems uncustomary. But again, Emily expresses a preference to visit the stone circle, and Lawrence concedes. They walk half a mile, onto an open rise. The mountains appear built like a stadium, encircling them, the summits recognisable – a geological alphabet. Round the base of the stones, the grass is long and ragged. There are sixty or so monoliths, slanted in all directions, some tipped over completely and impacted in the earth. A single sandstone pillar stands twenty metres off, exiled from the ring, a vast exotic geode hauled west across a nameless country, like the red stone of the Hall, millennia later. They tread around it. Emily examines the spirals carved into its body, unknowable symbols. There is a deep groove sculpted on top. She and Rachel speculate about the type of machinery required to get it there and upright: wooden rollers, piers and joists, excavation. Lawrence is quiet and a little agitated; his patience seems forced. They stand between two portal stones in the circle – the setting sun is close to the pillar’s groove, but off-centre. Thousands of years of astronomical bustle. If ever the planetary cogs were accurate, they have now slipped.

  It reminds me of Skara Brae, Emily says.

  Lawrence looks at her, and then at Rachel.

  In Orkney, he says. I proposed there.

  There were huge hailstones, Emily says. Like golf balls.

  He puts his hand
against his wife’s back. The moment might be tender, but there seems no tenderness in the gesture. His hand lingers and then drops. It is not Emily punishing Lawrence, Rachel realises. Emily is pushing ahead, gamely, trying to be positive, trying to reconnect and fix. The husband routine is automatic, and Lawrence knows he must kneel for forgiveness before the one he has hurt, but something in her brother seems to have switched off. Rachel turns away and begins down the slope towards Seldom Seen. It is painful to see the withdrawal, like having a mirror held up before her, or her former life, revealing her incapacity.

  Later, in the cottage, Lawrence seems more content and at ease. The Christmas dinner is a success, and they exchange gifts, turn the tree lights on. He gives the baby a fluffy toy lion. He stalks it along the carpet, growling, much to Charlie’s delight. They christen the lion Roary. For the moment, all seems well.

  *

  A few weeks later, in the office, Rachel watches an early preview of Gregor’s film footage with Charlie on her knee. The camera closes in on each wolf, on the wolves together, their candid moments. They work in unison to bring down a young deer, closing in from either side, trapping it in a narrow granite gulley. It tries to cut back, spins about as they attach themselves to its neck, and drops. They open it up, work at the red flesh, and afterwards lick each other. Sleet drives across the moor, catches on their longer fur, lines their backs. Blood, snow, their immunity; they are in their element. She has missed seeing them.

  There’s footage of Ra emerging from the den, which has been dug in the broad root system of an oak tree, on a mound not too far from the stream where the sighting with Chloe was made. Gregor has managed to stow himself in a position close enough not to unsettle them. Above the dugout, the oak trunk is immensely solid, spreading widely and guarding against collapse. The loose soil underneath has been moved. There are two entrances. The hollow openings are large, distinctive. Freshwater, a vantage point, a stronghold. The herds range on all sides. There’s a wonderful stretch of film of Ra clearing the site – flares of earth from his back paws as he digs the den run.