The Wolf Border(51)

Exactly. So, shall I take you to dinner then?

She looks up at him.

Tonight?

Tonight.

I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Can I ring you when I’m done?

Great. See you later.

He has taken this as agreement: a date. She wonders if she should clarify. But it’s too early to think about what might be set in motion, and what might not. He bends down and kisses her on the cheek.

Bye. I had a very nice time, goddess.

Bye.

She tries to summon sleep but cannot. The racket of birds in the garden, the insistent light, her own restlessness. There are thumps against the walls of her stomach, a pedalling sensation low down – the little being inside her, causing her to have strange wild dreams and capable now, according to the literature, of dreaming itself. Though what dreams could it possibly have? she wonders. Textures and sounds, a man and a woman’s voices like weather outside, the surrounding meat contracting and turning golden. She sits up and drinks the tea, which has become tepid. Outside the sky is primary-coloured, the red bladder of the sun coming up between the trees. Another thump, stronger, so that her abdomen jumps visibly. A reflex action, but it feels like intent. At the midwife appointment next week she will have to mention the clash of events in the diary – her due date, and the pair being released from quarantine into the main enclosure. She puts her hand on her belly, over the jerking spot. Don’t you dare, she thinks, don’t you dare be the first one out.





WE ARE ALL RED ON THE INSIDE


That afternoon she meets with Michael Stott and a representative from the county’s deer management group, Neville Wilson, in a snug sitting room in the Hall – a rather old-fashioned venue, with leather chairs and a low table, a stag’s head mounted on the wall, pictures of athletic black dogs. Rachel senses a certain pastiche irony in the décor. The two men are old friends, it seems, and are bantering when she arrives. A do at the rugby club, someone too drunk to get home, bugger would not give up his key, so the Crusaders tipped his car onto its side. Michael has on a tie and blazer, is dressed with respect for the venue, as is the rep, a raw blond man in a green twill suit. Coffee has been left for them, as usual, on the sideboard, and a stack of elegant shortbreads. They each help themselves; no one is willing to play mother. The room is hot, though the windows are open; the men remove their jackets, white shirts pressed by their wives underneath.

‘Stotty’, the rep keeps calling Michael. He – Nev – outlines the situation for Rachel. Aerial and foot counts of the Annerdale herds have shown that numbers are too high. A cull will begin the following month. They do not want to wait until the wolves are released. They do not want to risk disease. One final shooting season on the estate is what you mean, she thinks, a last hurrah. But she does not argue; she is not in disagreement with the plan. Michael is keen to walk her through the logistics, and speaks as if to a novice. He places the leather wallet of rolling tobacco and a box of matches in front of him, and taps the table to emphasise certain points. His fingernails are thick and clubbed, encasing the tips of his fingers.

It’ll be the sickest first, those that won’t survive the winter. Then we’ll take a mix from the rest of the herd. Stags first, hinds and associated calves. We’ll be done by close of September on the stags. They tend to get skinny after the rut.

The rep chips in.

I do assure you, it’s humane, Mrs Caine. We use soft-lead expanders this side of the border. There’s no chance of them limping off half fettled.

The patronising tone is annoying and offensive – perhaps deliberately so. They are communicating as if with a tourist from the city, someone for whom the untimely death of any animal is an atrocity. No doubt they have discussed her before her arrival, formulated a strategy even.

Glad to hear it, Mr Wilson, she says. Where I’ve been living, there’s a trend for semi-automatics. Very messy. They like crossbows, too – no permits are needed. The amount of deer I’ve seen walking along with arrows sticking out of their backsides, you wouldn’t believe.

Neville Wilson laughs – the joke is on his level. Buried in the comment, were he clever enough to interpret it, is the accusation that he is the undergraduate, trumped by the bigger business of American sport. The polite rituals of British deer hunting, the stalk, the language, the weaponry, would seem laughable to the average Idahoan – something out of another age. Michael Stott remains silent, damned if he’ll be entertained by Rachel’s comments. She turns to him.

And no doubt you’ll be after a six-point antler, Mr Stott.

He leans back in the chair, reaches for the leather wallet. He unpops the stud, takes out the paper dispenser and a clod of tobacco.

I dare say. This going to bother you – or the babe?

He gestures to her swelling midriff.

People are awful fussy these days.

No. Go right ahead.

It is a power play. There are ashtrays on the table, there’s a faint aroma of cigar; they are in the gentlemen’s smoking room – probably requested by Michael. She has not tried to cover up her belly, apologetically – why should she? She won’t now issue a ban. The baby will be fine. Binny smoked during both her pregnancies. Michael rolls and lights the cigarette, cupping it inside his closed hand as if against a high wind. Black cherry tobacco drifts over – a man of sweeter vices, then. He offers the wallet to Neville Wilson, who declines, but looks longingly at the makings as if having recently quit. The man looks puffy and red, a candidate for heart disease. She watches Michael, who is weathered but healthy, thinks again that his hair is too dark and glossy for a man his age. It seems like an indicator of something corrupt, an unsavoury raw diet, some kind of deviancy. She has not yet seen his wife. She imagines her pressing napkins and boiling chutney, cowed and bird-like, in some dark village cottage.