I’m nervous.
And you’re really fine?
Yes!
Well, I’m happy for you. We should celebrate.
Rachel snorts.
Celebrate?
What? Weren’t you trying to get pregnant?
Of course not.
Oh.
She shakes her head. He becomes quiet again, attempting to understand the situation. Rachel is aware of how it all must seem. Aware too that she has not, during any of the time they have spent together, mentioned a partner, a boyfriend, anyone meaningful in her life. Perhaps Lawrence was imagining a clinic scenario, her leafing through catalogues of donors’ attributes and genetic profiles. Most uncomfortable is the awareness that she is to some degree following in Binny’s footsteps: unmarried, independent, not at all leavened by maternity.
It is what it is, she says.
Through the trees, the lake water flashes. They cut down towards the shore, Lawrence leading. He holds tree branches out of the way for her rather than letting them lash back. A self-taught gentleman: there’s little of their mother in him, if there is in her. They walk along the lake edge, the shingle clattering underfoot. Tiny waves lap the stones, wind-manufactured seiches. There are black-faced gulls bobbing on the surface. Summer is coming on fast. The district is very green, shaggy with foliage; flowers are beginning everywhere, bluebells carpeting the older woods. The brutality of Chief Joseph’s winter feels a long time ago. Her brother seems pensive and sad. She wonders if he is disappointed in her, or whether he is imagining breaking the news to Emily. It will surely not go down well.
Hey, Uncle Lawrence, she says, to cheer him.
He turns and smiles.
Yeah, he says. I need to learn some uncle skills, don’t I?
He pauses and picks up a flat, roundish pebble, squats, and skims it across the surface of the lake. Five hops and the stone sinks, flickering down through the water and disappearing. The rings disperse.
Good start, she says. Hope you’ll teach that if it’s a boy or a girl.
Is it unkind to ask or not to ask about their own attempts to conceive, she wonders. She settles for frankness.
Any news your end on that front?
Lawrence roots around in the shore debris for another good skimmer.
No joy. Miscarriage. We’ll probably do another round, then see. We might have to call it a day.
Rachel says nothing. What can she say? Not sorry. Not good luck. There are no platitudes or reassurances. Emily may now be speaking to her on the phone, but she has not come to visit with Lawrence this time, even though there was no embargo. She is grateful, on some level, to avoid Emily’s company — the tension, the loaded comments. That’s an interesting philosophy, Rachel. Lawrence doesn’t really eat artichoke; he never has. We may need a second mortgage, if the care-home costs increase again.
Actually, it’s been pretty stressful, Lawrence says, and depressing. I’m not sure I’ve responded in the right way — I’m not in great shape. She’s pretty pissed off at me.
He looks pained, now that Rachel is studying him, a little pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He was always prone to somatisation; had childhood aches and pains of no origin when upset, and was dismissed as a nervous kid by the doctor. She feels sorry for him, but he will not want to hear that.
Hey, I’m sure you’re doing great, she says. Just hang in there.
It seems a trite thing to say, next to useless, but Lawrence nods. They keep to silence for a while as they make their way along the shore. The water is gunmetal grey under the trees, where the sunlight cannot reach, hostile-looking, though when she tests the temperature of the shallows with a hand, it is only moderately cold.
Shall we go see the wolves? she asks.
Yeah, great. Lead the way.
They head away from the lake, towards the enclosure.
How are they getting on? Lawrence asks.
Fine, she says. Actually, they’re a bit bored. Merle is being a flirt.
A flirt? How can you tell?
She keeps coming up to Ra like this.
Rachel mimics the sidestepping movement, the sidle. Her brother smiles.
That’s flirting?
Oh, yes.
Does he like it?
He’s not convinced. He’s too busy trying to figure a way out of the pen. Last week he dug up a buried tractor wheel trying to get under the fence.
Whenever she speaks about the job, her brother seems enthralled. It is as if she practises some kind of lost craft: augury, or alchemy. They make their way up towards the enclosure. When they reach the fence and the barrier, Lawrence stands for a moment, not in appreciation exactly, but impressed.
Wow, double surety. No messing around. Can people not access the lake now?
Not on this side.
He shakes his head.
It was quite a feat, getting that bill passed in Parliament.
Yes, it was.
Though she is now the project’s advocate, she still has mixed feelings about the fence herself, the restrictions, the very nature of it.
Come on. Let’s go to the wolfery, she says.
The wolfery?
Quarantine. It was originally a joke someone made. But it’s sort of stuck.
They follow the fence towards the pen. She is walking slower than usual, not winded exactly, but the humidity and the extra weight of the bump are having an effect, on her gait, her heart. She can feel the extra blood. Lawrence slows, obligingly.
Why does there have to be a fence on this side of the lake, anyway?
If it was open both ends, they’d swim across, she explains. We’d lose them.
They could swim across? All the way?
Yes.
Her brother turns and gazes back over the water. The rim of the lake is darkly tinted. There are patches of yellow and white light drifting like aurorae across the surface.
It wasn’t like this when we were growing up, was it? he says. It felt less — owned.
It was probably just more affordable then, less fashionable.
True. We looked into getting a house up here a few years ago, but there’s no way.
He looks over at her.
Sorry I never came to the States to see you, Rachel.
It doesn’t matter.
It does matter. Stupid to have gone years without being friends at least.
There’s upset in the margins of his voice again. She should tell him not to worry about what can’t be changed. The past damages, the old wounds. The trick is not to limp; one has to forget one was ever limping, like Ra, whose leg has healed. One day he could simply run again, without affliction. She puts a hand on Lawrence’s arm.
Quid pro quo. I’ve never been to Leeds.
He grins. They continue along the fence. Either side of the wire is an abundance of tall grass, insects ferrying between the stalks, and butterflies. The landscape is beginning to thicken and become fragrant; the heather blossoming, and the gorse bushes exploding with heady yellow petals.
You must have missed all this while you were away, he says. I know I do.
Yeah. It was a good place to be a kid. You end up wanting to be outdoors all the time, wherever you are. I sometimes slept out in John Stacy’s barn. And in the lime kiln. If I’d had a row with Binny.
Her moorland solitude. She still cannot really imagine herself as a mother, and does not regard her own upbringing as idyllic — far from it — but there is something reassuring or important about knowing the baby will grow up in the territory where she grew up. And then she thinks of Kyle, and the Reservation, and she feels the inching of guilt.
Well, I’m glad you’re back, Lawrence says. Gives me a good excuse to come up here.
She nods but does not answer. The fence rolls on across the shallow gables of grassland, through stone pavements and cleared woods, to the near horizon. Seen at this angle, it looks as if it runs indefinitely, the illusion of holding, like the Viking stone walls up the steep mountains of Cumbria.