No, no, you guys need to do this by yourselves, he’d said.
Meaning, perhaps, that he needs to do things by himself now, be confident of his borders again. He needs not to rely on her so much, not to call her drunk from the hillside above Kendal, crying, lamenting his past, his mistakes, all that has been lost: as far as she knows, his sole insobriety since he gave it all up. She did not mind the late-night call, was glad there was nothing worse happening; it was simply a boozy evening with work colleagues that had gone too far and knocked out a section of his carefully built scaffolding. At the end of the conversation, he’d told her that without her he would not have made it, would have given in.
Lawrence, she said, you’re forgetting who you are. What would we have done without you, you dope?
Poor choice of words, but he’d laughed. She has, she knows, come to rely on him more and more, for support, and for solidarity, which is not fraternal, not sororal, but the curiously unnamed relationship of brother and sister.
Go and enjoy each other, he’d said. Send me a postcard.
He did come to Scotland. He was there to see the wolves reach the moors of Rannoch. He sat in the little plane with her, as it pitched and bounced, breathing hard, his hands gripping the seat. She’d not known he was phobic until then. But he’d known how much the moment meant to her — a victory amid all the exhaustion and chaos of the last few weeks. The outcome had never been certain. The pack had struggled through the Scottish heartland, another of the juveniles lost a few days after her return, this time to the motorways north of Glasgow. A miracle the others made it; just be thankful, is what she’d told herself, what she had to tell herself. It was the smaller grey that had been hit, the runt, the one she’d kept a soft spot for, and rooted for, against her better judgement. Mercifully quick, its death. The body had been handed in at the local police station — the lorry driver was mortified, she was told, he had been following the story and wanted them to make it all the way to Nevis; he was for them, a Yes voter, he’d tried to swerve but it was under the wheels before he knew it. A burly man from Aberdeenshire, weeping over a wolf pup.
Then the pack seemed to be veering too far east, and she had met with the environment minister again, the Wildlife Trust, and chairman of Wildwoods, the radical new group sponsoring the re-homing enterprise, to discuss intervention — tranquillisation and transporting them to the chosen location. In the end they’d resisted, held out, and hoped instinct would prevail.
It had. The wolves had doubled back, after three weeks’ hard negotiations in the rich farmlands of the central belt, emergency cooperation projects with the farmers, and makeshift electric fences put up around flocks. Easy prey — there were days of excessive predation, slaughter, and outcry; the tide of opinion began to turn. It looked at one point as if they might have to be destroyed. But they’d finally gone west, towards the deer herds.
Lawrence got away from work as soon as he could, called upon once again in her hour of need. She had not liked leaving Charlie with the childminder at first, nor enjoyed the series of hotels, the hours spent apart, late evenings when her son would already be bathed and asleep in the travel cot when she came in, but it could have been worse. She’d felt like she was on the run, too — the cottage in the Lakes half packed up, promissory messages left for her boyfriend.
By the time her brother arrived, the situation was looking less bleak, she was feeling optimistic, and the pack was in the Highland corridor. She did not want to lumber Lawrence with childcare duties, though she knew that’s why he’d come. Instead, she’d urged him into the tiny four-seater with her, introduced him to Rob, the Hebridean pilot, with whom she had developed a silent rapport over the weeks, not noticing her brother’s pallor, until he confessed.
Fuck it, Rachel. I’m usually high when I get on a plane.
Oh, God! I’m sorry, Lawrence, she said. Do you want to go back to the hotel?
No, no way.
He got in. He clenched his knees and gripped the seat as they took off, and tried not to panic as the choppy air of the mountains rocked them, the plane dropped like a stone, then bucked upward. Rachel had put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
You’re doing great.
Am I?
At reconnaissance altitude the view was spectacular, distracting him from his fear. Snow on the Grampians, rank after rank of hard white peaks stretching out, a serious version of the Cumbrian uplands, steel-blue tarns and lochs, trout and salmon burns. Here and there, tucked-away settlements, a miniature white palace with towers, the old Glencoe ski lift looping up and over to the runs, and the winding roads made famous by song.
The transmitters were still working; the telemetry signal started beeping ten minutes into the flight and they were quickly found, cutting through a narrow valley, strung one behind the other. Dark-backed and long-legged, their tails shaggy. The plane flew over, looped round, following their trajectory. She and Lawrence watched as the four wolves loped onto the outskirts of Rannoch, its turf still bloody from autumn, as if battle-worn; the red bracken beginning to disappear under the first low-lying drifts. The pilot had looked over his shoulder and put his thumb up.
Fàilte, he’d said.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks for assistance with research to the following: Andy Wightman, Land Matters — for helpful speculation about reintroduction and political scenarios north of the border. George Monbiot’s book Feraclass="underline" Searching for Enchantment on the Frontiers of Rewilding was also informative and inspiring. Vicky Allison Hughes, formerly of The UK Wolf Conservation Trust, for all things wolf-related and the tour of the sanctuary near Reading. Wolves: Behavior, Ecology, and Conservation, edited by L David Mech and Luigi Boitani, was vital reading. Stan Tomkiewicz, for advice about telemetry and transmitter implants. The Rosenwoods, Mike, Linda and Erik, for travels in Idaho. Olivia Pinkney, Deputy Chief Constable for Sussex Police, for procedural information and worst-case-scenario advice. Alan Bissett and Kirstin Innes, for some excellent introductions. Mairi MacPherson, for civil service and governmental information. Tony and Hilary Renkin, for their early recollections. Dr Frances Astley-Jones, for medical advice, and Dr Richard Thwaites, for psychology and Cumbrian advice. Anna Tristram, for linguistics. Stephen Brown, for architectural references.
Thanks for editorial feedback to the following: Lee Brackstone, Hannah Griffiths, Kate Nintzel, John Freeman and Ellah Allfrey. And for general literary discussions, aesthetic, poetic and metaphoric, to: Owen Sheers, Jarred McGinnis, Katja Sutela, Joanna Harma and Henna Silvennoinen.
Special thanks to Clare Conville and James Garvey, the fiercest of supporters.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SARAH HALL was born in Cumbria in 1974. She is the author of Haweswater, which won the 2003 Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Novel, a Society of Authors Betty Trask Award and a Lakeland Book of the Year prize. In 2004, her second novel, The Electric Michelangelo, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize (Eurasia region) and the Prix Femina Étranger, and was longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction. Her third novel, The Carhullan Army, was published in 2007 and won the 2006/07 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the James Tiptree, Jr. Award, a Lakeland Book of the Year prize, was shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke Award for science fiction and longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Award. The Carhullan Army was listed as one of The Times 100 Best Books of the Decade. Her fourth novel, How to Paint a Dead Man, was published in 2009 and was longlisted for the Man Booker prize and won the Portico Prize for Fiction 2010. Her work has been translated into more than a dozen languages. Her first collection of short stories, The Beautiful Indifference, was published by HarperCollins in 2013. The Beautiful Indifference won the Edge Hill Short Story Prize and was shortlisted for the Frank O’Connor Award.