by Sarah Hall
Look, she says to Charlie. Look at clever Mr Wolf. What’s he doing? Is he tidying up?
The baby lunges forward and then presses the back of his head against her chest. He kicks. He wants to be down, able to move, but his muscles aren’t yet coordinating. She holds him in a standing position, his tipping feet on her thighs, bounces him up and down. He looks at the screen, and she thinks, it is a nursery story of sorts – the wolf and his bride.
What’s Mr Wolf doing? She asks.
What indeed. Biological theories of behaviour: much is guesswork, or extrapolation. The rising prolactin levels in his mate are motivating him, perhaps. There is still insufficient data to be sure and the implants are not yet subtle enough, cannot measure protein and hormone levels. Ra sniffs the air, continues working. The camera focuses in. He scrapes the ground. The fur along his throat and round his ears is tinted beige. Smuts of grey and even black around his face. The glacial eyes seem colourless, then, in the tilting light, like shale flame. He lopes off.
Later, in the snowy rain, Merle stands next to him with her muzzle resting on his back – a beautiful moment of ritual bonding, all the more intimate for the unedited nature of the film, the lack of narration. Though they are a naïve pair, Rachel has confidence. It is a natal den. Merle will encourage him, and Ra will work out how to mount her. This is her marker for the project’s success. Not that they should be accepted by the land, as if ascending to a throne; Thomas’ goal was never in doubt. She wants them to be unexceptional, common. They should exist here as anywhere, and in so doing recreate their common selves.
Charlie helps or tries to help the bouncing movement, and chirps with delight.
Look at Mr Wolf, she says. What’s he doing?
The same phrases, repeated a hundred times a day. Where’s Charlie? Say Mama. She sometimes feels like an automaton. But he is learning, and fast.
Gregor comes into the office with a battered duffel bag and a reinforced laptop case.
Hi, Rachel. And if it isn’t bonny prince Charlie, he says, laying a hand on the baby’s head. What a handsome fellow you are.
Charlie cranes back. Rachel pauses the film.
This is amazing. Thank you.
No bother. It’s a bit rough but I thought you’d like it. Just popped in to say toodle-oo. This fellow’s getting big!
Are you flying out this evening?
Wednesday. I’m away up to Dundee first to see my beloveds.
Though he has been camping in the bothy for weeks during the winter, Gregor has gained weight. His full, curly beard is trimmed short, as is the white hair; he does not look as if he has suffered privation. The Annerdale gig has been soft compared to Nepal. A stove to heat food and water, a local pub. He is taking two months off to return to the leopards, and will come back in spring for the final stage of Merle’s pregnancy, should it occur, the early phases of pup development.
Thanks again, she says. Have a good trip. And best of luck.
Gregor nods, tickles Charlie’s belly, and Charlie squeals again.
I’ll bring you back a parasite. Keep watching that – there’s a good bit coming up.
He hoists his bag over his shoulder and heads out the door. She presses play and continues to watch.
*
After Lawrence and Emily’s visit, Rachel becomes determined not to mess things up with Alexander. Seeing their helpless atrophy was depressing. She does not want that part of herself to be vestigial: a withered stump of a heart. She will try to be open and giving. Almost as soon as the resolution is made, she finds herself mired in a series of misunderstandings, as if sabotaging herself. Randomly, he sends her flowers. They did not exchange Christmas gifts – neither one of them felt the necessity – and she becomes immediately suspicious. The note reads, Dear Rachel, looking forward to later. A x They are due to have dinner, then Alexander will probably spend the night. But why send flowers? Is it not a raising of the romantic stakes, a declaration? Does he want something more from her? She broods all day, panics on and off about the meaning of it. The flowers are beautiful, all winter reds and whites, luxurious, expensive; she leaves them under the cellophane wrapper, only taking them out and arranging them in a vase an hour before he arrives.
He makes a casserole, which smells delicious as it bubbles away. She puts Charlie to bed and they open a bottle of wine and eat. She is quiet, toying with the food, not drinking the wine, kicking herself all the while for not relishing what is extremely enjoyable. Halfway through the meal Alexander puts his cutlery down.
OK. What is it? Too much salt? Not enough salt?
No. It’s lovely.
Why are you sulking?
I’m not sulking.
Have I done something to upset you?
No.
Rachel.
No, really.
She tries to smile. The truth is she has been braced all evening. For words she does not want to hear, the slipping of a ring box out of his top pocket, perhaps – wild fantasies based on very little evidence. He is acting the same as ever – chatting casually, telling funny stories. There are flirtatious looks, but he is certainly not mooning. He is not nervous or looking for a right moment.
Sorry, she says. Just an odd day.
How come?
Oh, I don’t know. We had another email from our friendly nutter.
Nigh?
Yes.
Saying what?
Very little that made sense, as usual. But he’s persistent, which generally means there’s something to it – in my experience, anyway. Over Christmas it did cross my mind that it’s Leo.
Leo Pennington?
Alexander’s tone is sceptical.
I know, she says. I thought maybe it was a way of getting at his family. Silly.
From what I hear he’s a good kid, just a bit of a black sheep. I doubt he’d be against the project.
She nods. She does not mention the flowers, other than to thank him, briefly, for them. He tells her she is welcome. The transaction is low-key. It was a gesture with no ulterior motive, she decides; he simply felt like sending them, or perhaps he had vouchers, or there was an offer on. A romantic blip in the practical run of things.
Later, upstairs, he watches her from the bed as she undresses. She strips unprovocatively. In the mirror she glances at herself: stomach, slack, with silky creping at the sides where the skin was stretched. The telltale line between her hips is less vivid, a few inches wide, still slightly overhung. The scar sits just below the hairline and contains tiny gristled knots. It is not offensive. Her breasts are full, white and veined, the nipples hard as cartilage – in a month or so she will stop breastfeeding, meanwhile they must contend with spillage during any sexual act. Her hair has reached her shoulders for the first time in a decade. She must get it cut.
Come here, Alexander says.
She turns back to the bed. He is waiting, naked and smiling, half erect. His gaze is soft, blind to any imperfection, a body altered by utility, if not blind then unaffected. He is enjoying the view overall, and its prospect. He will have seen far worse, she knows, during his wife’s illness. There is no noise from the cot in the neighbouring room. She moves to the bed and sits. He puts a hand on her thigh, but otherwise waits for permission. Her body feels far less fragile than during the previous attempts, not the hive of strong muscles it once was, but functional, desiring. Now he is hard. A faint dark line runs the length of his cock, a scribble of vein. He reaches round her back, to the old scar, which, though she hardly ever sees it, is much worse, and puts his other hand on her lower abdomen.
Front and back, he says. You match. I like it.
The erotic nature of damage. She kisses him. He will be passive, a considerate lover, she knows, as he has been since the surgery, lying back, gently pulling her over him – a kind of sexual supplicant. There are men who make the world seem populated by good men, those who are intuitive, or have been taught. She straddles him, sits proud, moves his hands from her hips to her breasts. Their s
ize and weight are enormously pleasurable, a weapon almost. There’s a thrilling power to seeing him so aroused. She slides down his body, cups the end of him in her mouth, moves her tongue confidently trying to dispel the mood of caution. It is in part a test, of course, to see what he can withstand. He holds her head. Then curses. Fuck. He hefts her up, rolls her onto her side, facing away, puts his hand between her legs. Then he pulls her closer, angles her leg up, takes hold of himself and pushes in. He butts firmly against her, the flesh of her bottom slapping, and does not last long.
How small is their window for breeding? he asks.
Small enough.
Not like dogs, then. At it all year round.
He bites her collarbone playfully. They are lying facing each other, wetly stained, happy, a slight sting to her broken tissues.
A shorter period of fertility means males have less incentive to abandon a pregnant mate and find another.
Ah, clever.
He knows enough about wolves, does not need the education, but he enjoys having her teach. He rubs a finger over the tooth marks in her skin. The wind is beginning to get up, playing the trees like instruments. Above, the sound of aerial tectonics, as if great portions of the sky are moving apart or grinding together. The windowpane reveals absolute blackout, the occasional volley of white. A true winter’s evening. The idiocy of the flowers is forgotten. The mood is warm, suggestive, with the possibility of more exchanges. Then, out of nowhere, she says,
I’ve been thinking about telling Charlie’s father.
There’s a brief pause.
Right. About?
Alexander leans over her and takes a sip of water from the glass next to the bed – old water, several glasses have been left uncleared.
About Charlie.
Right. So he doesn’t know?
No.
Now the words are out, she’s not sure what she expects him to say in response, or even why she mentioned it. Something subconscious, unearthed by the talk of mates and disappearances, perhaps. He has, other than their first night together, never asked about the situation. Perhaps it has not mattered to him. Perhaps he has not wanted to know details, or has constructed a phantom rival in his mind.
He lives in America.
I assumed that was the case.
I didn’t want to involve him.
And now you do?
The question is level-toned, and yet it cannot be that simple, so much depends on her answer. She shakes her head, sits up, and leans forward, away from the heat of his body.
I don’t know. Not really. I just don’t know if it’s OK for him not to know he even exists.
Are you sure he doesn’t? In this day and age –
He doesn’t. He would have said something.
So you’re still in touch?
Sometimes.
He places his large hand on her shoulder, pulls gently. She leans back against his chest and he puts an arm round her. For a while he is quiet.
Is he a prick? Is that why you didn’t involve him?
It sounds foolish either way, she thinks. To have been involved with someone unappealing, or to have excluded a good man from a child’s life.
No, he’s not a prick. He’s pretty great, actually. I worked with him at Chief Joseph. He was a friend.
Oh.
I just mean, that wasn’t the reason. I was the reason. I’m not very good at any of this.
He puts his mouth to the side of her head, his words muffle in her hair.
You’re very good at it.
He means the sex, or he is being overly kind about her level of effort. They do not ring each other regularly with news or for no reason at all, just to say hi, as lovers in the fast spiral do. It is Alexander who comes to her. She knows better than to assume, as she did for years, that men enjoy her casualness, her coolness, that it suits them better, or that they are less invested. It doesn’t take them long to sense that such an attitude stems from something else – a fear, a flaw, stuntedness. Finally, with Alexander, with the baby, or simply with her coordinates in life, the game seems up. She is exposed. Silence. She feels tension creeping in. The mood is still light, but something is slipping, spoiling. She tries to explain.
There was nothing really between us. There wasn’t a relationship or even the possibility of one.
There was something, Alexander says.
No, she says.
But why should he believe her? There is, after all, a baby: irrefutable evidence.
It’s alright, he says. Everyone has a past. I’d prefer Charlie’s dad to be someone you liked, someone decent.
You’d prefer it, she says.
A small flare of anger. It is not really a question, or a reiteration of his point. She is about to say more, that he doesn’t get to have a preference, that he is not in a position to choose, even theoretically, what kind of man he would like her baby to have been sired by, but she stops herself. He sighs.
Look, I think if you want to tell him, then you should tell him.
I haven’t made up my mind.
OK.
His arm is now stiff about her shoulders, uncomfortable; it should not be there but is stranded. The baby begins to cry, a faint inquisitive wail, quickly escalating. She moves away and gets up.
Do you want me to go to him? Alexander offers.
Not unless you can express.
She sounds like a bitch; she knows. How easily the attitude comes, once the mood is active, even in the face of amelioration, attempts to restore good terms. She looks down at him. He says nothing. His face has firmed, become slab-like. She goes next door, shuts the nursery door, leans over the crib, and picks up Charlie. Her heart is flurrying, the baby feels her unsettlement and struggles in her arms. It seemed unlikely she would ever argue with Alexander. No, not that: she has never really made it past a first argument with a man; argument always signifies her extraction. She has been happy these past months, and to imagine cross words and nastiness would have meant imagining the end.
She comforts the baby. She sits and tries to nurse him, but he screams louder. The wrong smell to her, perhaps – the residue of sex. Or Charles Caine is expanding his repertoire of mysterious complaints. He feels hot, tussles against her chest, spits out the milk. This is what happens, she thinks, when the embargoes are down. Things are said, stupid intimate dissembling things that do more harm than good. Perhaps Alexander will leave, she thinks. Of course he will leave; he is dressing right now, gathering up his phone and watch and wallet. Any moment she will hear the front door slam. Soon she becomes sure she has already heard it.
It’s a long time before the baby will settle. She takes his temperature, changes him, strokes his hair, adjusts the blankets. By the time she’s finished and returns to the bedroom, the desertion fantasy is complete and she is miserable. But Alexander is asleep in the bed. The lamp is still on. His glasses are on the bedside table, his legs splayed. She climbs in next to him. He stirs, turns, and puts an arm around her, the subconscious automatic of affection. She lies rigidly by his side, her hand barely daring to touch him, wanting to. I’m sorry, she thinks. I really am no good at this.
In the morning, Alexander brings her tea, as usual. She lies quiet and unmoving, as if asleep, still troubled, unable to fully embrace the reversal of disaster. Alexander goes to the bathroom to shower. She hears him coughing, blowing his nose clear under the stream of water, singing a few lines of a song – one of Chloe’s favourites, maybe. The baby sleeps on, exhausted by the night’s huge fit. She examines herself. You’re programmed to backstep, she thinks, to make them come forward, then to break fully away. She understands the dance – it has served her well, as it served her mother. But she cannot keep blaming Binny, not for the habits of a lifetime, not when she knows exactly what she is doing.
Alexander comes into the room, dripping wet, towelling his hair. He drops the towel on the floor and begins to dress. His body is familiar now, the vast chest with its dark central cavern, the long legs, and s
mall buttocks. She does not love him. That is, she does not feel love as described by others, the high and low arts, not in relation to the person here in her room. But all that is misnomer, poetry, an unproved chemical; he has survived her tendencies; he releases something in her, if only a feeling of wanting another day, a feeling that the day with him is better than ordinary. She sits up, reaches for the mug of tea, and takes a sip.
Are you coming back later? she asks. After work?
He pauses in the lacing of his shoes and looks at her quizzically.
*
The weather deteriorates. There are days and days of snow, unlike anything the district has seen for decades. The condition feels eternal; in reality it is just three weeks of chaos. There’s a fast fall at the end of January – sticky, dense, a substance perfectly manufactured to mask the fields and fells, to stack against walls, blocking roads, and upholstering buildings. On the roof of the cottage hang precarious cornices that collapse with little warning. The garden is arctic, a lost world. On the estate, tractors cut through the drifts, leaving deep chasms in their wake, still impassable by car. The Penningtons’ helicopter is grounded, flights across the entire nation are grounded, and the Pendolinos south run at half speed, then are cancelled. More snow follows. Thomas misses the second vote on currency union. Supermarkets begin to run out of food. Then, the clouds disperse, the sky is as clear and dangerous as burning oxygen. Plummeting temperatures. The thermometer reaches minus thirteen at night. In the Highlands: minus nineteen. Petrol freezes in tanks. The death rate of pensioners soars; there’s talk of a flu pandemic, a deadly new variety.
In Annerdale, it is too cold even for river fog; the rivers freeze over, the lake begins to solidify – even the Irish Sea crisps at the edges. Pipes in the converted outbuildings of the Hall burst, and the staff, including Huib, decamp to the main building, like evacuees brought into the big house during a war. But they are guests, and are made to feel like guests. Every morning they are served eggs in the giant kitchen, from copper pans. Poached haddock. Fresh bread. Chopped herbs. The larders of Pennington Hall are well stocked. Huib texts Rachel – On holiday, come and join us. But the tyre ruts in the road are now glaciers, the snow is too deep and hard to walk across. She cannot get out of the woods, even for Charlie’s next immunisation appointment.
