The Wolf Border(71)

Have you eaten? Alexander asks. We thought we might take you to the pub with us. I promised this one some chips.

And Cumberland sausages, Chloe says.

Obviously.

Rachel is about to turn him down, leaving to go anywhere with the baby seems laborious, then changes her mind. The cottage and the winter darkness have begun to close in. She must keep sounding ahead, get used to travelling with Charlie.

Chips sound pretty good, she says.

The baby’s things are packed and he is fitted into the carrier and into the car, the seat belt secured – an elaborate ritual for a five-minute drive. Rachel sits on the back seat with him, her hand over the blanket. Chloe sits up front with her father, her legs crossed on the seat. She jabbers freely on the ride, tells Rachel about her school – she is one of the oldest children in the village; there are only twenty-nine pupils. The school is in danger of shutting and the district is constantly campaigning to keep it open. She herself has written to the local MP.

There are too many old people instead of young couples with kids, Chloe explains, leaning round the seat. I’m good at maths and library.

This one is a brainbox, Alexander says.

Sounds like it, Rachel says.

Dad and I have good conversations because we only see each other half the week.

Alexander reaches over and musses her hair.

Hey!

Chloe takes her hairband out, smooths her locks back into a ponytail, and refastens it.

I might be a brainbox but I still smashed my teeth out, she says. They weren’t even baby teeth! I’ve got to wait till the dentist makes me new ones.

Well, it won’t be long, her father says. Meanwhile, no more galloping Sorrel down the fell, you maniac.

I wasn’t galloping, I was barely cantering. Sorrel is my horse, Chloe explains. It wasn’t his fault I fell off.

I should hope not, Rachel says.

She listens to the father–daughter chatter. It is interesting to see Alexander parenting – all of a sudden there is a new side on display. He seems adept, suited. He’s no walkover, but neither is he untrusting – if his daughter is allowed out riding alone.

The Horse and Farrier is festooned with lights when they arrive, like a cheerful galleon, very inviting in the gloom. The bar is busy. They find a quiet table in the back dining room by the fire and Rachel keeps the carrier next to her chair. Charlie wakes up, shouts; she lifts him and holds him against her, and he settles but remains awake. Chloe dangles a multicoloured scarf in front of him and he concentrates hard on it. Their meals arrive.

Want me to take him so you can get stuck in? Alexander offers.

That’s OK, thanks.

She picks up her fork and begins. She is getting good at one-handed cutlery use. They eat a vast meal, slabs of battered fish looming off the edges of the plates, a wheel of sausage, huge cut chips, extra vegetables. Dozens of sachets of ketchup are squeezed empty by Chloe and strewn over the table, red dashes everywhere like a battlefield. It is good to be out. The meal takes on the air of celebration, a feast. Chloe has a few sips of Alexander’s beer, as does Rachel. He watches her across the table, clearly pleased with the way the meeting is going. They have not slept together properly since the birth, trying a few times and abandoning the act. Yet he still comes, exhibiting connubial patience; she doesn’t know why. The answer is not complicated, were she to consider the question properly.

Dad says maybe I can ask you to see the wolves sometime please, Chloe says between mouthfuls.

It’s the please that charms Rachel most.

Yes. Definitely. Next time I go into the enclosure, I’ll take you along. We can either use the radio transmitters to find them, or if you fancy a challenge we’ll track them ourselves – old school.

Chloe’s face lights up.

I’ve got my own binoculars, she says. I can bring them.

Excellent.

Excellent.

The toothless grin again. The room is very warm. Chloe takes off her jumper. The first hint of breasts under her vest, but no bra. The flesh on her arms glows under a pattern of freckles. Her hair is utterly curl-less, sand-coloured, needs washing. The girl seems very happy with herself. Long may it last, Rachel thinks. When she’s older, a teenager, she might be teased for her size, her generous frame and height; they will be difficult, halting years, until she’s in her twenties perhaps, and men with proclivities for statuesque women begin to assert themselves – then she will ascend once more. Or she will sail through regardless; her intelligence and grounding will keep her safe. For now she is well liked, it seems, ethical, a champion of underdogs – defender of girls being picked on at school – Lucy and Illona, particularly, because they aren’t very popular – and as strong as boys when throwing a ball. Junior measures of success.

After huge steaming puddings with toffee sauce and ice cream, they drive back to the cottage. Chloe puts her favourite album on the stereo and sings along. Her father sings, too, and the two of them jive about in the car seats – the age of parental mortification has not yet arrived. Outside Seldom Seen, Chloe gives Rachel her mobile number – their friendship made official.

You can WhatsApp me, too, she says. By the way, my binoculars are Swarovski. They’re incredibly strong. Dad bought them for my birthday.

Great, says Rachel. Perfect. See you soon.

Alexander gets out, sees her to the door, and gives her a quick kiss. It is still early – 8.30 p.m. The baby needs changing. She bathes him in the sink. His belly is tight under his soft skin, glabrous, like stone wrapped in chamois leather. He kicks in the tepid water, looks both panicked and joyful. His eyes are changing colour, from slate to brown. In the end they will probably be as dark as Kyle’s, or maybe hazel, if the green fights through. She feeds him, goes to bed and lies listening to his breathing. Some nights he breathes like an old labouring sheepdog, keeps her awake. She sleeps deeply for four hours, until he wakes for a feed. She no longer dreams of Binny. She still does not know what to make of that strange season of appearances, so false in its compassionate instruction, a kind of golden nocturnal folie. The baby is real now, and she must learn and cope, perhaps that’s why.