The Wolf Border(58)
She likes it when Alexander stays. The sex is good, becomes gentler as she grows bigger; they find comfortable ways, her on all fours, or sitting at the edge of the bed. She is afraid to climax, the sensation is huge, her whole abdomen seizes. He is not offended by her, she realises, he has an autistic’s practicality about their relationship, or is intuitively straightforward. If she does not call and he wants to talk to her, he calls; if she cancels a date, he rearranges. He arrives after work and cooks for her, hot meals with chilli and garlic and ginger – a man’s understanding of flavour. He asks very little of her, and yet, by virtue of his presence, he is involved in her life, and the baby’s. Among the groceries he brings antacid, laxative, Marmite – she cannot seem to get enough salt. He tries to get her to take vitamins. She is occasionally moody, takes the discomfort out on him, but he is thick-skinned. She apologises one night, for accidentally kicking him in bed, hard, on the shin. Another lurid thrashing dream.
I’ve bruised you, she says.
I’ve been hoofed by bigger and worse, he replies.
He shows her a crescent-shaped scar on his leg, from a shod horse rearing and landing on him, the flesh ravelled down to the bone. He admires the scar on her back, its puckered stitching. She tries not to think about where it is all heading, what it all means, even when he puts his hand on her belly to feel the gristly little heels pushing out, the rhythmic hiccups like firework pops inside, as a father might. She is more worried, she supposes, about the prospect of motherhood. She’s never changed a nappy in her life. The plastic doll in the antenatal class she attended was so ludicrously false she set it down, made an excuse to go to the bathroom. Her mother used to tell a story about how Rachel had floated her only childhood doll off down the river. So she could go exploring, Amazon-style.
She confesses the antenatal incident to Jan.
Doesn’t matter, Jan says. That’s just entry-level stuff. You won’t know anything until you actually have to do it. No one does.
What if I’m not cut out?
Oh, hell, who is? But I think you might be surprised, luvvie. When I hand the little one to you, something’ll kick in.
As for the rest, what else is there to do but continue on as before? She carries wood in from the garden, lesser loads. She manages the project. Her wage is very generous – for the first time in her life she has decent savings – and will not stop during maternity leave, though she does not really intend to take official maternity leave. She orders newborn supplies online: nappies, a supply of clothes and various pieces of sterilising apparatus. A Moses basket. A book about animals. She gratefully accepts the Marmite jars Alexander brings, eats it spread thickly on toast, or heaped on a spoon like some kind of gory Victorian medicine.
Depraved, Alexander says, shaking his head. You’re as bad as Chloe.
He sticks his finger in the jar, licks it, grimaces. He makes her laugh, talking unromantically about peridurals and prolapses. He suggests ridiculous names for the child – Algernon, Ignatius, Veronica. The whole thing seems uncomplicated, workable, though often she feels surely she must end it. She thinks of Kyle – they have not spoken since early summer, though she receives the weekly newsletter from Chief Joseph. The baby will no doubt be dark, a quarter Indian, Nimíipuu. What of that stolen heritage, the disqualification? There are formal tribal regulations for classification, she knows, proportions of blood measured. She remembers the solitude of her own childhood, mountain-bred, a condition aggravated by decades of remote locations in the northern hemisphere. Seldom Seen is lost in the woods – is she recreating such a world for the baby? She does not feel solitary now, but that is not Alexander’s doing. She feels joined with something, viviparously, even if the physical tethers are temporary. Sometimes she speaks to whoever is inside her, after a series of insistent kicks. Hello, baby. What are you doing? They will have each other, she supposes.
After a couple more weeks playing phone-tag, Lawrence comes up to the estate to visit. He has been avoiding her, she suspects, so she pins him down. There might not be much time before the baby is born, she tells him. She makes sure he knows Emily is welcome, too, but Lawrence seems not to want to ask her. He makes an excuse as soon as the offer is made – she is busy, has a hair appointment, then yoga. Rachel suspects the invitation will not be passed along; he wants to come solo, perhaps to explain, or because relations are still fraught.
The following week – the day of the referendum – he arrives looking tired and pallid, but bearing gifts: a set of organic baby sheets and an attractive bird mobile to hang over the cot, which she had not thought about.
Wow, he says, when she opens the door. You’re big.
Thanks!
No, I mean, nicely big. You look big because you’re so small. Proportionally.
OK, point made. Anyway, it’s good to see you.
You, too – that’s what I meant to say. Not the big thing.
She doesn’t mind the comment. It’s true – her belly seems vast, a high, front-sitting dome, the skin stretched taut and scribbled with blue veins, still expanding. She is pleased to see him, relieved. They attempt a short walk up Hinsey Knot, a manageable altitude, and with the support belt not too painful. Even so, Rachel pauses regularly. She remembers walking with a backpack full of equipment on the Reservation. Her heart coped with the weight and bulk. Now it feels boomy, labouring away. Lawrence feeds her chocolate, a banana. Halfway up the hill, there’s the sound of a rifle shot, barely more than a soft crack in the valley below. The deer cull has begun.