The Wolf Border(96)

Rachel gathers her coat and makes her way out of the Hall, to the Saab, parked amid the ranks of guests’ cars along the driveway. Whatever is happening, there is no good way to intervene; it is certainly not her place. These are old troubles rearing. On the drive back to the cottage, Michael’s words echo. Can you fly, son? Only later will she hear about the incident – a version of it anyway. But not from Sylvia or Thomas, whom she will see very little of in the coming weeks – the former preparing to move to London, the latter as absent from his house as God – but from Huib, who did follow and did try to help. A gun taken from the locker room. The two men in some kind of crazed dispute on the grounds of the estate. The firearm going off, and a flesh wound to Leo’s shoulder. No prosecution was sought; the event was reported to the police as an accident. And according to Huib, Michael was pulling the shotgun away, he held the heir of Annerdale down and doctored him roughly as he bled, and held the young man’s head against his shoulder as he wept. In the office, the following Monday, Huib tells her all this and tries to make sense of it.

They were arguing like dogs. About responsibility and death wishes, and Michael was challenging him to go ahead and do it. I don’t know what it was about.

I think I might know, she says, quietly.

She does not go into detail, and Huib does not ask. She could be wrong, but Sylvia’s account of Leo being present at the microlight crash in which his mother died, and Michael’s drunken words, seem too revealing. The plane was a three-seater. Perhaps Thomas was not flying it, and Leo, barely a teenager at the time and with no licence, was. The untouchable Penningtons. Their reckless playfulness, their invincibility. His father would have covered for him – not even the power and connectedness of the Earl could have protected his son from the charges, perhaps even manslaughter. Michael would surely have known. And Leo’s life since has been hell. Who would not loathe themselves for killing their own mother? She does not give Huib her theory; she does not know if it is simply speculation, a flight of fantasy on her part. Either way, Michael, loyal to the family, keeper of its land and perhaps its worst secrets, has watched the boy spiralling, trying to escape, self-destructing. There is no motive as great as the death of a loved one to make a person insist that others should live.

*

Lawrence gets a job at a solicitor’s office in Kendal. He finds a flat in a converted wool yard, overlooking the graphite roofs of the town, and signs the contract. The Lakeland sabbatical is over. In late August, he moves out.

You’ll be just down the road, she says, trying to be upbeat, though part of her regrets his decision and is conflicted about his departure.

Will he cope? Will she? No, she’s pleased. The move will be good for him: a forward gesture. He must re-enter the world, leave the monastic security of the District behind. Much of his excavated life has yet to be refilled. He is not dating. In the counselling sessions he has agreed to avoid sex for a year – part of the untangling of addictions. Such doctrines make Rachel wonder about herself – might she have fallen into such a category at one stage? Is she past it now or simply stymied by single parenthood? Sometimes her thoughts move past Alexander, to the possibility of others – a destructive feeling, old ways.

Lawrence cooks a lavish meal the night before he moves out. They eat in the garden, with clear skies overhead, the pipping of birds in the woods, and a warm breeze. A last summer evening. He has made lemon chicken, herb potatoes, salad.

Who would have thought? he says. You and me back in the same county.

It does seem unlikely, she agrees.

I didn’t think you’d ever come back.

That makes two of us.

He tilts his head, asks softly,

Do you think you’ll stay?

For now. It depends on work, I suppose. Things can only go so far here.

There have been enquiries, from Europe, the Scottish Wildlife Trust, Mexico, mostly consultancy work. She pauses.

I should take Charlie to America at some point.

Because of his dad?

They’ve skirted the subject in the past; Lawrence perhaps too respectful to ask, and she not feeling it right to unburden herself. But the soft, grassy evening feels loose and permissive. They are friends now. Her brother is well and she is less restricted.

Yes, because of his dad. I keep thinking it’s the right thing. I don’t know why. I’m not under any obligation. That’s not true – I feel I am in a way.

There are days she is sure Kyle knows: the tenor of his emails, the enquiries, nothing particular – perhaps she’s paranoid and imagining it. He would come and say it, if he knew. There are times she’s sat down and written, in emails and letters, a revelation, and an apology. You have a son, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Reading back, it always seems too blundering, too belated. And her motives are foggy, she’s not sure why – why tell him now? Is it simply a confession, or a request for involvement? Her brother puts down his knife and fork, issues her with a moment of full concentration – something he has become disciplined at. The gesture often seems too intense and conspicuous, but is a tactic that works wonders with Charlie.

You know what I think, he says. They should give you an instruction manual when you’re born. How to navigate all this shit. It’s like running headlong downstairs in the dark otherwise.

She smiles and nods.

That’s true.

Can I ask you something?