The Wolf Border(74)

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This being perhaps the most private, and possibly the only, moment they will have, Rachel asks how things are going with Emily.

Better, he says. It’s slow going. She says she trusts me.

Is she right to?

The words are out, bluntly, before Rachel has a chance to formulate a subtler enquiry. But this is the tenor of her life now, dealing with base and needful messages. Howls. Excrement. Vomit. Every problem must present itself honestly, if it is to be solved.

I haven’t seen Sara, if that’s what you mean. Not since she left the office. She sent me a card, but that’s about the extent of it.

What did it say?

Happy Christmas.

He drops another sizeable sheering of holly. Rachel picks it up and puts it in the sack. The foliage is lustrous, ancient; its spikes dig into her wrists through the gloves.

Was there something else? she asks.

He looks down at her from the branch above, his face as pale and unreadable against the sky as the underside of a hawk’s wing.

What do you mean?

It’s just that I got the impression something else was wrong. That there was more to everything.

Nothing’s wrong. I’m doing penance on a daily basis. I’m going to a counsellor – she asked me to and I am.

Right. OK. I didn’t mean to pry. Come down, I think we’ve got enough.

The bag weighs almost nothing on the walk back through the woods. She senses a skittishness in Lawrence, he talks rapidly, about nothing much – avoidance talk. He walks quickly against the gloom, worrying they should get back soon, as if to be out in the dark would be an undesirable, dangerous thing. She has hit a nerve, perhaps, reminded him of his crimes, when all he wants is to forget and move on. When they arrive back at the cottage, he heads up to the bathroom, emerging twenty minutes later, composed, calm, ready to be festive. They eat Emily’s mince pies and then strew the windowsills with the holly. They decorate the Christmas tree. Everything smells of green sap and spice. Sitting in the armchair, holding the baby, Emily looks Madonna-like. The Madonna of surrogacy, or of yearning.

The baby steals attention from everyone in the room, captivates; he is the focal point. They watch him on the rug. His head is heavy but controlled. Lying on his front he can lift it and look about; he issues noises of frustration and triumph. His expressions still seem mostly accidental, but he can smile, he does smile, and then the world is illuminated, the heart is enslaved. Vulnerability and emotional lure; a creature perfectly evolved to elicit the protection of adults. His skin is gorgeous but for two patches of dryness behind his ears.

On Christmas morning, they are invited for drinks at Pennington Hall, a traditional reception for the workers on the estate.

We don’t have to go, Rachel tells them.

She would, in fact, rather not. She has no wish to navigate the Penningtons and the other staff today.

Shouldn’t it be on Boxing Day? Lawrence asks. Alms for the poor and all that.

I’d like to go, Emily says. I haven’t been down there yet. I’d be curious to see the place and meet your crusading earl, Rachel.

OK, Lawrence says. Let’s go.

Towards much of what his wife says or suggests, Rachel has noticed that her brother is agreeable. This must be part of his repentance. It’s understandable, the hangdog act, wanting to make amends, but is also slightly alarming. Bend too far backward and one breaks. Two against one – she cannot retract the invitation.

Maybe just for an hour, then.

The morning is bright and clear; they decide to walk. They gather their coats, dress the baby in his new arctic hooded suit. Lawrence puts on the baby papoose. Charlie has started enjoying facing outward while being carried; so long as he can feel a warm body and hear her voice, he is content enough. The sensory experience must be vast, Rachel thinks – so much to see and absorb. He swings his legs, puts his tongue out in the frigid air as if tasting a new substance. They walk through the woods, then along the stream and the gentle ramps leading to the back of the Hall. The lanes are frostbitten, the grass crisp. Pristine winter – the estate looks immaculate, untouched. In the newly planted copses, the birches have a mauve hue. A fine rind of moon is cut out of the sky, and only a few reaches away above the horizon is the pale, near-derelict sun. It’s as if they are walking on another planet, with contiguous constellations. She would not be surprised to see another set of moons studding the heavens. Three adults and a baby, traversing a holy, alien land; they have entered mythology, or a memory of religion. They have survived great disaster and found paradise.

At the Hall, Emily and Lawrence hold their own, converse politely, try not to marvel at the interior, the gilt frames, furniture which at auction would be the price of a new car or more. The baby gives Rachel an excuse not to exert herself socially – people flock over, croon, admire. The Penningtons are welcoming, delighted Rachel’s family is also in attendance. Sylvia serves Christmas punch from a silver cauldron into goblets. She has transmogrified back into a debutante: gone are the jeans, boots, and fleece; she has on a mallow-coloured dress, a white fur tippet, her hair is pinned up. Neither incarnation seems quite real to Rachel now. Sylvia and her father have been at the early-morning service, conducted by the bishop.

Michael and his wife Lena are present, as well as their son Barnaby, a thirty-something version of Michael, though stockier, bullock-like, perhaps more herd-able than his father. There are other old friends, and staff, including Honor. Huib has gone back to South Africa for the holidays. Michael shakes hands with Lawrence, greets Rachel civilly enough, and gently squeezes the baby’s foot, a grandparently gesture. He is wearing a tweed sports coat and a burgundy, crested tie, a relic from school perhaps or the emblem of some local Conservative club. His wife is small, svelte, but not the diminutive partner Rachel had imagined. In fact, she is very attractive, has astonishingly well-preserved cheekbones, no doubt appearing as a model in their wedding photographs. Her figure suggests she has never borne children. She is confident, stands slightly in front of Michael, leads the conversation, and speaks presumptuously to Thomas as if she were his old nanny. She and her husband have served the house for decades; it is in some ways theirs to claim.