The Wolf Border(33)

*

They begin from the roadside, passing over a stile in the wall, and walk through a field of green lacy ferns, up the steep east-facing skirt of the mountain. In the car park of The White Horse, a discussion about whether to tackle Sharp Edge has taken place, which, after a consultation with Lawrence’s weather app, they decide against. Rain will make the ridge more difficult. There are flocks of grey clouds along the horizon and the breeze is strong, even at ground level. Looking up, they can see snow still locked away in the dark crevasses.

She is feeling well, not too tired or sick, but soon there are twinges in her knees and ankles. Her breath thickens and her thighs ache. Even after hiking the rough cross-country terrain of the Pacific Northwest, the relentless gradient of Blencathra catches her out. She wonders if she will make it. The ferns give way to short, wiry tufts of grass and heather, a mile-long moorland slope that turns and steepens, turns and steepens. The body of the mountain falls steeply from the sky. She paces herself, fights for air. But Lawrence suffers more. He pauses with his hands on his hips, leans back, his face reddening and beading with sweat. He looks very unwell. His equipment is state of the art – breathable, waterproof shells, gloves, boots. She’d imagined not being able to keep up with her younger brother, but in the end it is she who leads. Perhaps he has a hangover, she thinks, or the life of a city solicitor has left him out of shape. They do not talk much – talking is impossible on the gradient. For a while they move in the shadow of a colossal leaden cloud, rain spitting against their foreheads, a smattering of hail, then there is brilliant sunlight. They remove their coats, squint up the path of the blazing Fell. Lawrence takes a pair of wraparound sunglasses out of his bag.

Four seasons in a day, he says.

Looks like it.

Their conversation is polite, careful. Rachel tactfully asks after Emily. She is well, says Lawrence, though she is having more IVF treatment, which is uncomfortable and stressful. Rachel nods – Binny had mentioned this during the visit, disparagingly, as if childlessness should be endured, as if it were a reprieve, even.

How many rounds will you try?

Her brother keeps his eyes on the path.

I don’t know. We’re having it done privately, so as many as we can afford, I suppose. The whole thing is quite fraught.

Sorry to hear that.

For a few moments they fall back into silence. Underfoot are fragments of broken stone, swollen moss, and the first fissures of black upland peat.

And you? All OK your end?

Yes, great, she says.

Rachel cannot now say she is pregnant, even if she had wanted to confide in her brother. It would be like one-upmanship. Day to day, she continues to ignore the fact of her condition, though the reminders are perverse: sudden nausea brought on by motion, types of food, even some words, Syllabub, Gannet, as if the sound, the very texture were too visceral. And deathly sleep. She sleeps as if drugged. What would Lawrence’s reaction be, anyway? Not delight, surely, nor sympathy for her confusion. Her situation implies a careless imbalance to the universe. He and Emily have been trying for years. And Rachel – one reckless, drunken night. No. She doesn’t know her brother well enough to confess.

She sets off up the track again. Behind her, she can hear Lawrence’s heavy boots making regular contact with the rock. After a time he stops moving.

Hey, he calls, look at that.

She turns, faces back the way they have come. The world has opened. Immense sky. Grey, heraldic clouds over the hills, and repeated horizons. Directly below, the A66 is a silver thread with toy cars. The mountain does not sit in isolation from its range, but is independent; its heavy arms plunge down and away. The lofty feeling is dizzying, breathtaking; she could almost jump and fly.

Wow. We really made some height. About halfway, do you think?

I think so. Shall we take a break and eat something. All I’ve had is a terrible pasty at Scotch Corner.

Sure.

They find a good spot to rest, a pulpit-like buttress of rock overlooking a tarn. Lawrence unpacks sandwiches. Brie, with some kind of rustic, gourmet pickle. Apples. Chocolate. They eat quickly.

Thank goodness you didn’t bring any Kendal Mint Cake, she jokes.

No way. That stuff makes my teeth hurt, he says. You didn’t pine for it while you were away, then?

God, no.

You don’t sound totally American. Mum always said you did.

Yeah, she really hated it if I said cookies or candy.

There are many things Binny disapproved of that she could mention – probably Lawrence has similar experiences – but Rachel stops short of criticism. It is enough to be in her brother’s company, without spoiling the mood. Lawrence seems sensible and placid away from his wife. She watches him, sitting slightly below on the crag, re-wrapping a large chocolate bar, zipping it into an outer pocket of his rucksack, careful, tidy. His hair ruffles in the wind, parts at a white seam of scalp. There are tones of red in it. Binny never admitted who his father was, though Rachel remembers the man, who ran a stable and already had a family. Her brother has come into his looks. The cachexic, baleful boy has gone. His face is less startled and dismayed, though he is still haunted-looking.

How’s work? she asks.

He turns towards her, leans back on an elbow.

Fine. We’re busy. It’s all construction law, there’s so much in limbo at the moment. Everyone’s run out of money and no one’s getting paid. I won’t bore you.