The Wolf Border (36 page)

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 fucking 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.

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?

Sure.

Is he called Charles because of your dad?

She was not aware Lawrence had known; Binny excised Rachel's father from the family dialogue long before her second child was born. There is so much of their upbringing still to unearth.

He is. I didn't know him, she says. But he's on my birth certificate.

If it's an unknown quantity you can choose your approach, Lawrence says. It's a great name. Mitch keeps telling us to make the past positive. You can tell me to shut up, by the way. I know I sound like a fanatic.

I don't mind. I like the name, too. What I worry about is the lack of everything else.

What do you mean?

Lack of a dad. Whether I did alright without mine. Whether Charlie will do alright.

You did fine, Rachel. What about Alexander? He seems keen.

Oh, I don't know.

You'll be fine, Lawrence says, again, definitively. So will Bup.

He picks up his cutlery. He is, once more, the brother of restored optimism, at least where she is concerned. But she cannot allow herself to imagine the full happy scenario, not yet. They continue with dinner. She wonders how her brother will fare, back in the real world, whether the new policies will hold. The first stars are seeding brightly above the horizon – Venus, Vega, the North Star. From upstairs in the cottage, Charlie's long unsettled wail begins. She stands, but Lawrence tells her to sit back down.

I'll go. We're leaving the lights off and not picking him up, right?

Right. Thanks. Thank you, Lawrence. This is really delicious, by the way.

You're going to miss me, he says.

After he is gone, Seldom Seen falls back into gentle disarray – toys scattered, crockery crusted in the sink, soggy bath mats and towels left in heaps. Charlie looks around for his uncle, confused by the sudden absence. He asks for him in the morning and at night before bed,
Lor? Lor?
Then, as if a magnificent feat might summon him back, he lets go of the coffee table he has been using as a ballast for the last month, and walks towards the sofa, several steps, before falling onto his bottom. He gets up and tries again. The biped age has really begun.

Rachel employs a part-time minder, in her fifties, very experienced, with excellent references, and not cheap, but the woman does not seem to bond and she cancels the arrangement. She brings Charlie to the office again, but he's too big, too restive, in need of stimulus. Sylvia has gone south, to start her legal training. They have exchanged a few emails, but otherwise the relationship
looks destined to fade. One of the volunteers offers to help with the baby, temporarily, giving her an hour or two each morning to catch up. It's not enough. She's missing the development of the wolves. She's failing to respond to enquiries and phone calls. She has not found time to meet with Thomas, who suddenly wants to discuss aspects of the project – the neutering – after months of indifference. He seems averse now to the intervention, and she wonders if Sylvia went to work on him before leaving.
The decision is irreversible and might be regretted
, he writes. They agree on a Skype meeting while he is in London. In the video link he is tying his tie, preparing to go out. He glances at the image of himself in the corner of the screen and adjusts the knot.