The Wolf Border(95)

The body is brought in via traditional horse and carriage over the lake road, two squat fell ponies straining against the harness, the leather creaking, their tack tinkling. The coffin is wicker, covered with floral cuttings. Six men, including the Earl and Barnaby, shoulder it off the trap and walk it to the altar of the church, where it is set on a stand. Rachel is reminded of her childhood – the processions, gates locked at weddings until coins were flung, first-footing, harvests, and carlin suppers. There was no nostalgic irony in any of it; it was simply current practice. Michael does not greet or speak during the service, but leans fatally on the front of his pew. The music plays out and the bishop prepares to conduct the ceremony. Rachel turns to Lawrence, and says, finally,

I’m sorry about missing Mum’s funeral. I should have come.

Lawrence smiles sadly and shakes his head.

Don’t worry. These things happen. Besides, it wasn’t like this. I don’t remember much of it anyway.

She wonders if he was using then. The bishop drones through the rituals. Barnaby takes the lectern and talks about his mother’s endurance and loyalty, her love of the western valleys where she was born and lived out her life – her maiden name, Prowle, a signature of belonging, her people old-settlers, harbour masters. He thanks the Earl for the years of service, as one might thank an institution, or presiding deity. Rachel is surprised to see Leo, standing next to Sylvia in the front row, dressed this time in a black suit and tie, tidy, composed, behaving with dignity. She thinks again of the suited, wolf-headed man at the early protests. It was not him, she is sure, nor would he have cut the enclosure wire.

The hymns are sung at moderate volume. ‘Abide with Me’. ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’. There are no modern twists, no pop songs. Charlie begins to get restless in her arms, he wants down, to try his new stepping skills, wants to be hung touching the ground so he can walk with a stabiliser. She moves into the side aisle with him, holds his arms while he pigeon-steps on the flagstones. She looks at the plaques on the outer wall, the name Pennington repeated over and over, war memorials and honours. The smell all around is of stone kept fractionally damp by the seasons of rain, though outside it is warm; the second half of summer has dried the earth.

Then, suddenly, Michael does speak. Midway through the bishop’s address, he releases his grip, and walks from the pew, forward to the front steps. The bishop steps to the side. My wife, Michael says, as if claiming her back. My wife. There’s a pause. Then he gives a short, bitter tirade against a God who would dole out such punishment to the undeserving. Such suffering, a plastic cunt, her bags of shit. The congregation winces and looks away, but no one intervenes, the embarrassment must be borne. His face is a mask of disgust. Whatever symmetry he found during Lena’s illness has been abandoned. There’s the sound of female crying from the front pews – Lena’s sister, perhaps. It is all horrible to watch and hear, but surely he is entitled, Rachel thinks. She almost admires it. Lawrence glances over, makes a jerking movement with his head – does she want him to take Charlie outside? But Charlie can’t understand. He leans backward in her grip and looks up at the painted bosses in the roof of the church. She shakes her head. Michael stands silently facing the congregation, and is led away by Barnaby, down the aisle and out of the church. He looks old. She sees him take a hip flask from his inside pocket as he passes. The bishop resumes, says such anger is understandable, we are all tested, we are all profoundly hurt by such seemingly senseless loss, but his starched cassock and talk of afterlife seem faintly ridiculous after the authenticity of the bereaved husband.

The wake is held at the manor. Whisky and sandwiches in the main hall, a room not often used for social events, but the only one large enough to fit the hundreds of mourners. It is a grand venue, dark woods, with the Pennington coat of arms above the door, but a less chic and glamorous affair than usual: traditional, northern. Lena’s wishes perhaps – no fuss, quotidian fare. Lawrence takes Charlie back to the cottage and Rachel puts in an appearance, though it seems a cruelty to have the Stott family go through another public showcasing of grief. The son works hard to accept the condolences of everyone, shaking hands, thanking, saying yes, yes, agreeing over and over with their kind or erroneous pronouncements about his mother. Michael remains in the shadows, steadily taking the whisky. He rebuts Thomas’ offer of a plate of food. A few older gentlemen stand close to him making cordial conversation – the social, thick-skinned drinkers – but his condition is radioactive, mostly people veer away. Something has come undone in him. He loved his wife. He loved her. Losing her is unendurable, or the catalyst for other dangerously built-up angers. Rachel mills, says hello to a few recognisable faces, Neville Wilson, Vaughan Andrews, but talks to no one in particular. Huib seems stuck with a group of elderly ladies. Sylvia is with her brother, near Michael, the steeply affected end of the room, unapproachable. Now in civilian garb, the bishop steps towards Michael, perhaps another attempt to mitigate the darkness, bring comfort, a format for acceptance. Leave him be, she thinks. She decides to leave. There’s an air of impending disaster – she does not want to witness it.

On the way out she hears a commotion. People close in around Michael. She can hear his voice, hard and drunken, Cumbrian, Fly to her in f*cking heaven, you pious twat, I can no more fly than this stupid little bastard here can. Can you fly, son? She glances back at the gaggle of players. Thomas looks mortified, and Sylvia is trying to get between her brother and Michael, who has Leo Pennington held by the lapel, a grip so strong the suit and shirt underneath are riding high up his torso. Come on then, let’s see, lad. Let’s see if you really want to waste your life. He hoists the young man across the room and towards the nearest door, the two of them locked together in a close wrestle that seems almost erotic. Leo calls out to those following to get back, to leave them alone, this is their business. The room has gone silent; the old men continue to sip their drams.