by Sarah Hall
The next time Rachel sees Michael, it is outside the Hall, getting into the utility vehicle. They are in plain view of each other – their eyes lock. She approaches, feeling she must say something, and he steps back out of the van, swinging the door closed. Tess, the ever-present lurcher, looks through the window inquisitively, tongue out. Michael squares himself and nods at her.
Mr Stott.
Mrs Caine. How’s the little one?
Since Charlie came along, Michael has used him as a way of seeming to greet her civilly, while avoiding pleasantries that actually include her. Still, it is progress of a sort.
Yes, he’s OK. Getting big. How is your wife?
He stares at her, assessing the question, not replying. He looks bleary-eyed, thinner; perhaps he has been cooking for himself, or missing meals; caring for the terminal patient is taking its toll. His hair is greasy at the roots; his cockerel chest has sunk. He seems now to inhabit his age: a man in his seventies, old enough to suffer under extra physical and mental burden. But he still has on a tie and jacket for going into the big house – the old ways of the estate prevail.
I don’t mean to pry, she says. It’s not my business.
It’s not.
I just wanted to say I was sorry –
She stops short. She does not want to offer pity, nor would he accept any from her. They are not friends. She will do him the courtesy of not simpering. The approach was ill-judged, and she can see he suspects her, thinks her nosy or callous.
Anyway, my best wishes, she says, and turns away.
I heard your brother was sick, Michael says. Heard he’d moved up here permanent. There’s a lot of bad business about.
She turns back. Now it is she who regards him cautiously, wondering whether he is genuine or goading her, quid pro quo. What has he heard about Lawrence? The whole sordid mess, or only an outline? No doubt he has his opinions about drug users, and they are unforgiving. Michael’s face is set like granite. She holds her own expression in abeyance. They are as guarded as each other.
He was ill, she says. He’s on the mend now.
That’s good. Nice fellow. And good to have some young folk moving in, cut up the pastures a bit.
This surprises her. She would not have thought him keen to have any more of her associates on his turf. But then, he has more to worry about than the march of liberals or a petty dispute with a colleague, even wolves. He makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and a sigh.
Lena’s putting up a fight. She’s making mine and her sister’s life a bloody nightmare. It is a bloody nightmare – all of it.
His voice is flat, and open. There is not much more to say; they both know it. He offers her his hand, willingly, for the first time, as if this is their true introduction, or they have agreed something. She takes it and they shake. The dog barks inside the van.
Good luck then.
And you.
He gets into the utility vehicle and starts the engine, pulls away, the tyres crunching gravel as he circles the drive. She stands for a moment, watching his departure. He is as ornery as he ever was, she is under no illusions. But the idea of him returning to a house of suffering, to a wife crippled by disease and exenteration, boluses of painkiller and colostomies, biding Macmillan nurses, would not be wished on anyone.
She continues towards the office. She passes Thomas Pennington, who is walking with the local bishop and Barnaby Stott in the gardens of the Hall, the three men engaged in reflective discussion. Thomas waves to her as she passes, a small, sombre acknowledgement. It occurs to her that they were all discussing Lena’s funeral. You are lucky, she tells herself, don’t forget it. In the blur of her new life, there are raised moments and memorable episodes – good and bad, she has been learning to fix what can be fixed, learning to accept what is broken. There is no other way.
*
Lawrence quits his job. He has savings, is paying half the mortgage in Leeds, but the house is to be sold. He will find work here in Cumbria, he tells Rachel, in one of the southern Lakeland practices. Or he will do something different for a while, reset his brain. She is nervous, but supports the decision. He needs a new chapter. He and Emily have managed several brief, polite phone calls to discuss matters, namely the divorce. He has not tried to win her back, though his recovery is going well, and he might have asserted such. Either he does not want a reunion, or he considers himself unworthy, the damage too great. It’s the right thing, he keeps saying, and perhaps it is. Binny always maintained there was a wrong dynamic to the marriage, though, in the end, Rachel has come to respect Emily – even to like her.
She watches her brother for danger signs. He seems to have built tight defences. He keeps going to the centre in Workington, calls Mitch and people from the support group from time to time, and is called by them. He reads around the subject – a book about impulse control, a book about attachment disorders, a book about neurons; all this is in order to understand the physiology of his problems. He eats well, does not drink, not even beer – those who think they can merely moderate vices usually fail, he tells her, get stuck in a cycle of binging and quitting, as he did, for years. He meditates, in his room, in the garden, cross-legged, his head held erect. And he walks. He has walked himself lean, looks like a man who has crossed deserts, who has lived on figs and goat’s milk. He looks both older and younger, like the scrawny boy he was and the bypassed man he might have become, under different circumstances. He offers to move out, repeatedly, but she tells him there is no hurry.
It’s selfish, in a way. The support at home is a boon. The shared childcare gives her enough time to maintain a role in the project, go on dates with Alexander. Though what is selfish about an uncle adoring his nephew? They are happy in each other’s company, have developed their own systems. Lawrence slathers sun cream on Charlie’s arms and legs when they go outside, changes the most atrocious nappies, mashes baby food, a hundred thousand bananas pulverised under the fork.
Bup, where’s this nom going? he says, patiently administering the substance. Four more and you get a fruitsicle. I’m going to count – ready?
She is a little in awe. The idea that paternal care is lesser, or secondary, seems ludicrous. She might have gone a little mad were it not for her brother’s help. It is not the sleeplessness or the constant drill of infant duties, but the lack of privacy that has been hardest. With Lawrence on hand she can take a long bath, go out for a few hours, court, then re-enter the atmosphere of motherhood refreshed. One never knows how spoilt, how wanton with time one was, until those hours are disqualified. The closer Charlie and Lawrence get, the closer she too is to her brother. Underneath it all is a remedial feeling. She and Lawrence have survived; better, they have succeeded. No rush, she says, when he offers to leave again. Though she knows, soon, he must, for his own benefit if not hers.
Summer does not really get going, not in the voluptuous golden way of the previous year. Any heat is quickly extinguished by clouds or rain, the temperature barely reaching the twenties. Nevertheless, it is the season of plenty on the estate. The pups grow rapidly, become coordinated and swift. Rachel and Huib listen to recorded vocalisations, their high little wails and yips, barks, attempted howls. For the first time she leaves Charlie longer than twenty-four hours with his uncle, to camp in the enclosure and observe, work she has not undertaken for over a year. It is a test for all three – mother and son, and Lawrence, who is still a little sheepish about her trust, deferential, unpresumptuous. Only if she is sure, he says. He can cope, she knows. It is she who lingers, repacking a bag, hugging the baby. In the end, while Lawrence and Charlie are engaged in loud antics with the plastic drum set, she slips out of the cottage unseen, like a fugitive.
They stay in one of the hides that Gregor has been using, which is cold overnight, and damp, smells of utility and the chocolatey rusk of power bars. It is a thrill to be back out, to see the juveniles first-hand, gaining courage and endurance. They maul and tumble and ambush each other, more playful than dogs.
The littlest male shows no signs of deficiency; he jumps on his father’s back, harasses Ra until Ra stands over him demanding submission. Rachel feels peculiarly light, misses the smell and weight of Charlie, the sense of him close by. But this too is second nature; she has missed seeing wolves, missed waiting to see them. During the night their human presence in the enclosure sets off a volley of howling. She and Huib lie side by side and unmoving in their sleeping bags, like vegetables, making notes.
When she arrives home, it feels as if she has been in exile for a decade; she allows herself the indulgence of exaggeration, she is partially qualified: unwashed, weary, hungry. And she is rewarded. The immediate recognition and delight on Charlie’s face is intoxicating, he leans steeply out of Lawrence’s arms, towards her. Mamamama. She gathers him in and he clings on, his strong, monkey-ish arms throttling her.
Had a good time? she asks her brother.
He is smiling and looks pleased with himself – nothing untoward has occurred, no midnight meltdowns, tumbles, or other accidents. A victory.
Great. How about you? Good to get out there again, I bet?
It was wonderful. Am I allowed to say that?
Of course you are. Hey, wild woman, you’ve got something in your hair.
He brushes out the attached item.
Want some tea?
Oh God. Yes please! So much for doing without field comforts. Is there hot water? We want a bath!
She kisses her son on his hot fragrant neck.
Loads. How’s the pack doing?
Oh, brilliantly.
It’s true. There is no real danger to the litter. Not even the buzzards would have attempted a raid when the pups were smaller. The golden eagles, burly enough to have managed a steal, are long gone from the county. Regardless, Ra and Merle have created a protectorate, moving the pups from the natal den to a rendezvous site. They are closely watched and fed with regurgitated meat. They follow their parents, trotting alongside, noses up-tilted, at heel, keen little followers. They are brought to carcasses, allowed to tug at the ribcage of a deer. They make their own way back while their parents scout, sometimes roaming too far. Ra arrives hastily in response to any distress call, escorting the lost pup home. Soon they will be taught to hunt properly, beginning with the madcap chase of a brown hare. None of the pups land it, but their father does. At the ungodly screams of the kill, all four retreat over the brow of a hill. Ra carries it back to them, a shaggy, amber-eyed pelt, swinging between his teeth. Edible. Fresh. Ever after the association is made.
*
Lena dies soon after. The funeral service is very well attended, by the estate staff, family, and an older, rustic set, extending up through the borders – Michael’s associates, those who worked the previous century’s agricultural landscape, attending horse shows, common ridings, hunts. Rachel also attends with Charlie and Lawrence; it seems the right thing to do. The service is held in the old Annerdale church near the lake, accessible only by unmade track, so the guests must park along the roadside and walk in a long, dark, realist procession to the grounds. Thomas and Barnaby greet the mourners, handing out service sheets and printed copies of the eulogy. Saint Mary’s is newly roofed and the cemetery is neat. Inside, oak polished to a dense shine, urns of cut flowers, soft organ music, and stiff black hats. It is perhaps inappropriate to bring the baby, but Rachel feels she cannot put in an appearance without him, given Michael’s fondness. Binny never protected her from such things when she was growing up; she was made to face death, to understand its common occurrence. They find a pew towards the back, try to keep Charlie entertained and quiet.
The body is brought in via traditional horse and carriage over the lake road, two squat fell ponies straining against the harness, the leather creaking, their tack tinkling. The coffin is wicker, covered with floral cuttings. Six men, including the Earl and Barnaby, shoulder it off the trap and walk it to the altar of the church, where it is set on a stand. Rachel is reminded of her childhood – the processions, gates locked at weddings until coins were flung, first-footing, harvests, and carlin suppers. There was no nostalgic irony in any of it; it was simply current practice. Michael does not greet or speak during the service, but leans fatally on the front of his pew. The music plays out and the bishop prepares to conduct the ceremony. Rachel turns to Lawrence, and says, finally,
I’m sorry about missing Mum’s funeral. I should have come.
Lawrence smiles sadly and shakes his head.
Don’t worry. These things happen. Besides, it wasn’t like this. I don’t remember much of it anyway.
She wonders if he was using then. The bishop drones through the rituals. Barnaby takes the lectern and talks about his mother’s endurance and loyalty, her love of the western valleys where she was born and lived out her life – her maiden name, Prowle, a signature of belonging, her people old-settlers, harbour masters. He thanks the Earl for the years of service, as one might thank an institution, or presiding deity. Rachel is surprised to see Leo, standing next to Sylvia in the front row, dressed this time in a black suit and tie, tidy, composed, behaving with dignity. She thinks again of the suited, wolf-headed man at the early protests. It was not him, she is sure, nor would he have cut the enclosure wire.
The hymns are sung at moderate volume. ‘Abide with Me’. ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’. There are no modern twists, no pop songs. Charlie begins to get restless in her arms, he wants down, to try his new stepping skills, wants to be hung touching the ground so he can walk with a stabiliser. She moves into the side aisle with him, holds his arms while he pigeon-steps on the flagstones. She looks at the plaques on the outer wall, the name Pennington repeated over and over, war memorials and honours. The smell all around is of stone kept fractionally damp by the seasons of rain, though outside it is warm; the second half of summer has dried the earth.
Then, suddenly, Michael does speak. Midway through the bishop’s address, he releases his grip, and walks from the pew, forward to the front steps. The bishop steps to the side. My wife, Michael says, as if claiming her back. My wife. There’s a pause. Then he gives a short, bitter tirade against a God who would dole out such punishment to the undeserving. Such suffering, a plastic cunt, her bags of shit. The congregation winces and looks away, but no one intervenes, the embarrassment must be borne. His face is a mask of disgust. Whatever symmetry he found during Lena’s illness has been abandoned. There’s the sound of female crying from the front pews – Lena’s sister, perhaps. It is all horrible to watch and hear, but surely he is entitled, Rachel thinks. She almost admires it. Lawrence glances over, makes a jerking movement with his head – does she want him to take Charlie outside? But Charlie can’t understand. He leans backward in her grip and looks up at the painted bosses in the roof of the church. She shakes her head. Michael stands silently facing the congregation, and is led away by Barnaby, down the aisle and out of the church. He looks old. She sees him take a hip flask from his inside pocket as he passes. The bishop resumes, says such anger is understandable, we are all tested, we are all profoundly hurt by such seemingly senseless loss, but his starched cassock and talk of afterlife seem faintly ridiculous after the authenticity of the bereaved husband.
The wake is held at the manor. Whisky and sandwiches in the main hall, a room not often used for social events, but the only one large enough to fit the hundreds of mourners. It is a grand venue, dark woods, with the Pennington coat of arms above the door, but a less chic and glamorous affair than usual: traditional, northern. Lena’s wishes perhaps – no fuss, quotidian fare. Lawrence takes Charlie back to the cottage and Rachel puts in an appearance, though it seems a cruelty to have the Stott family go through another public showcasing of grief. The son works hard to accept the condolences of everyone, shaking hands, thanking, saying yes, yes, agreeing over and over with their kind or erroneous pronouncements about his mother. Michael remains in the shadows, steadily taking the whisky. He rebuts Thomas’ offer of a plate of food. A few older gentlemen stand close to him mak
ing cordial conversation – the social, thick-skinned drinkers – but his condition is radioactive, mostly people veer away. Something has come undone in him. He loved his wife. He loved her. Losing her is unendurable, or the catalyst for other dangerously built-up angers. Rachel mills, says hello to a few recognisable faces, Neville Wilson, Vaughan Andrews, but talks to no one in particular. Huib seems stuck with a group of elderly ladies. Sylvia is with her brother, near Michael, the steeply affected end of the room, unapproachable. Now in civilian garb, the bishop steps towards Michael, perhaps another attempt to mitigate the darkness, bring comfort, a format for acceptance. Leave him be, she thinks. She decides to leave. There’s an air of impending disaster – she does not want to witness it.
On the way out she hears a commotion. People close in around Michael. She can hear his voice, hard and drunken, Cumbrian, Fly to her in fucking heaven, you pious twat, I can no more fly than this stupid little bastard here can. Can you fly, son? She glances back at the gaggle of players. Thomas looks mortified, and Sylvia is trying to get between her brother and Michael, who has Leo Pennington held by the lapel, a grip so strong the suit and shirt underneath are riding high up his torso. Come on then, let’s see, lad. Let’s see if you really want to waste your life. He hoists the young man across the room and towards the nearest door, the two of them locked together in a close wrestle that seems almost erotic. Leo calls out to those following to get back, to leave them alone, this is their business. The room has gone silent; the old men continue to sip their drams.
Rachel gathers her coat and makes her way out of the Hall, to the Saab, parked amid the ranks of guests’ cars along the driveway. Whatever is happening, there is no good way to intervene; it is certainly not her place. These are old troubles rearing. On the drive back to the cottage, Michael’s words echo. Can you fly, son? Only later will she hear about the incident – a version of it anyway. But not from Sylvia or Thomas, whom she will see very little of in the coming weeks – the former preparing to move to London, the latter as absent from his house as God – but from Huib, who did follow and did try to help. A gun taken from the locker room. The two men in some kind of crazed dispute on the grounds of the estate. The firearm going off, and a flesh wound to Leo’s shoulder. No prosecution was sought; the event was reported to the police as an accident. And according to Huib, Michael was pulling the shotgun away, he held the heir of Annerdale down and doctored him roughly as he bled, and held the young man’s head against his shoulder as he wept. In the office, the following Monday, Huib tells her all this and tries to make sense of it.
