The Wolf Border(46)

I’m not sure about it any more, she confesses. I’m enjoying working here with Rachel too much.

Lawrence glances admiringly at his sister. The feeling of companionability is nice, she admits, though the compliment is unwarranted. Sylvia has been undertaking the menial work of any volunteer, albeit enthusiastically.

We’re going to the pub for lunch, if you want to come along, she says to the others.

It is the weekend. The project requires daily work, but there is room for play, and the staff members have yet to socialise together without Thomas Pennington being present, hosting like a king.

Maybe we’ll join you for a drink later, Huib says.

OK. Has Alexander been down today?

First thing. He charted and then had to go. He said to say hi.

They seem nice, Lawrence says as they walk on to the pub. That was the Earl’s daughter, was it?

Yes.

She seems normal. No pearls and frills.

I wouldn’t quite go that far. But she is doing well.

Outside the Horse and Farrier, they pass Michael Stott’s utility vehicle – the small world of Annerdale. The gamekeeper greets them through the open window of the truck.

How do, Mrs Caine.

He seems less sullen than usual, perhaps because Rachel is with a man, perhaps because she is pregnant – the news is known on the estate now – and he assumes she might leave the project. A sleek, brindled lurcher pants on the passenger seat next to him, its pink tongue spooning out, brown bandit patches over each eye. She has yet to discuss the deer population with him, and a possible cull, but she does not want the mood of the day spoilt with a terse exchange. She nods hello, and follows Lawrence into the bar. He turns to her with a smirk.

Orange juice?

She points at the Guinness pump.

No, I’ll have a half.

Of stout?

Binny had stout every day when she was pregnant with you, she tells her brother. She said the doctor told her to – something about iron deficiency. It might just have been an excuse.

Well, I turned out OK, he says.

Anyway, I’ve been reading the studies. The latest evidence is alcohol in moderation is fine. Caffeine and alcohol, yes, smoking and class A drugs, no.

Right-o, he says, grinning. This is a nice pub. I’m going to try something local.

He orders a pint of Helvellyn Gold. They sit at a table by the window with menus and their drinks. Now she has stopped walking, Rachel can feel the baby moving – a sensation somewhere between tender thumping and flapping, a sudden burst under the skin. Nothing is as she anticipated. There are moments she feels genuinely joyful, irrationally so, and other times the decision to go ahead seems ludicrous, a madness. But the screening results came back good. The second scan was clear – no anomalies, the baby is developing well, heart chambers, brain, spine. She glances at her brother, who is looking out of the pub window at the kempt village green, sipping his pint. He is decent and kind, though under the surface he often seems conflicted, true parts of himself hidden away. But then, is she not also reticent, giving herself over only gradually, if at all? It would be good to have him as a friend.

I have thought about it, she says. I have thought maybe I’ll be a hopeless mum. Like her.

Lawrence turns back, barely missing a beat.

No, he says, firmly. No, Rachel. You’ll be brilliant. I know you will.

He looks her squarely in the eye.

You’ll be a brilliant mum, he repeats.

It is an irrefutable assertion. He does not know her, any more than she knows him. Life divided them early, made them strangers. How can he know anything so certain from the handful of times they have met? But it is not hysterical optimism or crazed fantasy. He means to believe and so he believes. Perhaps it is survivalism, she thinks, the method he used to get away from the intolerable reign of Binny, still a teenager, vulnerable, only half made. He could so easily have f*cked it all up – school, a profession, his love life. But he didn’t. He left, and he prospered. If he were the elder, if she had been less autonomous, less isolationist, he probably would have tried to take her with him. Whatever demons he carries, he also succeeds, she thinks. For a moment she feels almost ashamed, and humbled by his generosity. It is she who should express admiration.

Thank you, Lawrence. That means a lot.

He holds up his pint glass.

Right-o, he says. Cheers. Here’s to the baby.

*

High summer. The district bakes in a rare spell of unbroken heat, week after week of open blue sky, elegantly cut through by swallows and martins. The upland grass parches, and in the valleys and the corners of fields, the smell of hay beginning, an elative smell – reassuring to the agricultural memory, perhaps. Heat shimmers on the roads as the horizons soften, and the tar melts. The wolves become nocturnal, moving about the enclosure at night, keeping to the shade in the day.

The morning that she and Alexander perform the surgery is beautifully warm. He arrives with sterile equipment and sheeting on which to work. His sleeves are rolled. Rachel moves quietly round the enclosure until she can get a clear shot with the gas-projector. The first barbiturate dart hits Ra in the hindquarters. He whimpers, turns to bite at the spot, takes a few paces. His back end sinks, and he drops. Merle tucks her tail, step-crouches away from him, pauses, looks back. Rachel reloads quickly and darts her.

Nice shot, Alexander comments. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.

They enter the pen, dressed in plastic suits and gloves, carrying the implants. It is hot inside the suit – the internal zip only just closes over Rachel’s stomach. She blindfolds the wolves, to protect their eyes from the sun. They set up a makeshift outdoor theatre and move the two limp bodies onto the sheeting. She is careful of bending and lifting, her ligaments have started to soften and her back aches a little, but the work is not too difficult. Alexander does not ask if she would rather, in her condition, assist or sit the procedure out, and she is grateful for the assumption of capability.