The Wolf Border(36)

He won’t mind, she says.

I found a website. I’ll show you.

Huib squats, reaches back into the tent, and brings out a laptop. He holds it on the splayed fingertips of one hand and opens the lid.

Here we are.

He tilts the computer round.

How are you connected?

I’ve got this gizmo. It’s a bit slow. I’ve been trying to Skype my brother in Jo’berg but his face is all fuzzy; it’s like talking to Mr Potato Man.

She looks at the web page. It’s good to have another wonk with whom she can discuss such things.

I’ve been wondering if they’ll fish, she says. The river’s full of trout.

That’s exciting to think about. Trout are super-fast, though.

True.

How are they doing over there?

Great, apparently. They’re in the same pen, being chummy.

Not long now. Do you need me to come to the office today to work on the press release?

No, that’s OK. Just enjoy your days. Enjoy this.

She gestures at the river. The water trickles by, beautifully sounding out the rocks and shingle bed. Huib deposits the computer back inside the tent. She looks around at his supplies. He’s well equipped. On the ground is a folded fishing rod, cooler, gas lamp, and a water filter. There are bags of rice and cans of lentils in a raised storage box. He has collected a stack of sticks for kindling and there’s a roll of tarpaulin. A typical, self-sufficient field researcher. She wonders if he looks at pornography on the laptop after dark. Or reads Dostoyevsky. He re-emerges.

When’s your apartment ready? she asks.

Next week. There’s some kind of bat infestation issue at the minute. I like to camp, though. I used to go to Drakensburg all the time with my brother.

Which probably means he pitched on the ledges of the highest escarpment. She is aware that he is not contracted to start work for another week, and that while he is the type to give up his spare time for the job, as she is too, she should not outstay her welcome.

Well, she says, glad you’re OK down here. Enjoy the swim.

Ja. See you later, Rachel. Congratulations, by the way.

She stares at him quizzically for a moment. He returns her gaze.

When are you due? If you don’t mind my asking.

She is startled, and for a moment thinks about lying.

Not for a while.

That’s exciting, he says.

I haven’t really told anyone yet.

OK, he says, no problem. See you later.

See you.

She walks up the slope towards the fence. She looks down at her midriff. The development is definitely not noticeable, not to anyone but her. Either she has given something away or Huib is unnaturally prescient. Soon, though, the powers of divination will not be necessary – she will be showing. And she will have to be ready with the news, know what to say to people, how to frame it. Halfway up the hill she looks back, but Huib is out of sight, either back inside the tent perusing crayfish traps, or perhaps upstream, standing on the diving rock, about to cast himself into the cold blue Lakeland water.

*

At the antenatal clinic she sips a bottle of water and waits for her name to be called. There are two other women also waiting, one young and bored-looking, with a spotty partner in tow, one alone with a toddler, slightly haggard. The child smashes a toy tractor against the wall, makes a rumbling sound, and drives it along the skirting board. A video screen plays on a loop, instructions on breastfeeding, latching, angles, and advertisements for pushchairs. The situation feels unreal – she does not belong among the expecting and the mothers of the world – yet here she is. She has been given a thick maternity pack from the midwife at the GP’s surgery, and has leafed through. Forms, codes, labels. The whole thing seems very bureaucratic. Her bladder is full; she needs the toilet but is not allowed to relieve herself. Nothing about the situation is comfortable. After a few minutes she is called into the ultrasound room. The sonographer checks her name and date of birth and asks her to lie down on the paper-covered table.

First time?

Yes.

Anyone with you?

No.

OK, the woman says. No need to get undressed. If you want to just lower everything, that’s fine.

Rachel undoes her jeans, pushes them down, lifts her shirt.

You’re the first today so the gel will be a little cold – sorry.

The woman applies fluid to her lower abdomen. She swirls the transducer across the surface, spreading it out. Rachel looks at the ceiling, tries to relax, tries not to think about anything.

Sometimes it’s a little slow to get a good look, the woman says. If I’m quiet, don’t worry. We’ll get our angle. If we don’t, I might try an internal scan. OK?

Rachel nods. The woman talks as she works, her voice soft, without drama but not without enthusiasm. Her accent is French African. She alters the position of the device by fractions, expertly.

Here we go. Ovaries OK. And a baby.

There is a pause.

Everything in the right place. Good.

Rachel is not worried, but neither is she na?ve. As Binny gleefully declared at the nursing home, she’s almost forty. She knows the risks. There are things she wants to hear, about nuchal measurement and the nose bone. There will be a combined test – she is giving a blood sample down the hall after the scan and they will issue her with a percentage chance of abnormality. The device moves through the gel, conducts its revelatory business. She looks at the ceiling, at the walls, anywhere but the screen.