by Sarah Hall
It’s all specialist cattle now on the farms. Belted Galloways. They look very chic in the pasture, but they topple over in the heat like Victorian ladies.
Everyone laughs.
How do you treat them? Sylvia asks gamely.
A tincture of lavender and a nosegay, he says.
More laughter. Rachel returns his gaze. He drains his pint glass and stands.
Right, that’s me. The Westmorland Show starts tomorrow. Ribbons and hats and enormous bollocks. Anyone want a lift home?
You alright to drive? Huib asks.
I surely am.
He is six foot four, substantial, built for it: an agricultural drinker, as they used to say. Rachel stands, too.
I’ll call it a night as well.
Shall I drop you?
I’ll walk.
You sure?
It’s a nice night.
OK. Night, all.
Not disappointment in his tone, nothing so obvious. The opportunity passes.
But the next week, having parked near the enclosure for a legitimate quarantine visit and opting to walk with them to The Horse and Farrier, he is at liberty to accompany Rachel back. Another warm, rusk-scented night. Bats careen in and out of the trees as they walk the wood-lined mile, missing them by inches. The leaves are sibilant in the breeze, and the head of the moon looms on the horizon like an alien silo. It is luxurious walking without coats, without jumpers, as if in another country. At the pub there is a debate about Scottish independence. The polls have tipped – for the first time the majority lies with the yes camp. Austerity measures and healthcare mismanagement have left Mellor, and his government, weak. Surprisingly, Sylvia defends the nationalists; Rachel had assumed her conservative, or at least part of the old order, not a devolutionist.
I’d like to see a shift to more regional power, too, she says. A lot of Cumbria’s needs are not London’s, or Cornwall’s. My concern is what happens in England if they go. Daddy’s party is really struggling as it is.
There’ll definitely be a Tory apocalypse, Alexander says.
Huib, who has been unusually quiet during the conversation, finally comments.
Freedom is exciting – the idea of it. It becomes a force in itself. In South Africa we were really excited about the election in ’94. It’s what happens next that counts. I’m not sure the born-free generation understands what the original plan was when they vote.
The windows of the pub are open; warm night air circulates in. Rachel has never seen Huib look so serious. But neither has she met a South African who is blasé about politics.
Since Mandela’s death, aren’t people reassessing, Alexander asks, about whether or not the vision has been accomplished? What to do to get things back on track?
Well, that’s easily answered: it hasn’t. We have some pretty terrifying youth leaders. Terrifying and popular. It’s a different mindset completely; it’s not pedigree politics.
The mood becomes sombre. They finish their drinks and troop back to the Hall. Huib bids them goodnight and walks towards his river campsite, Sylvia to the big house. Rachel and Alexander head towards her cottage and his car. As they get closer a feeling of disinhibition descends; she offers him some tea.
I’d have a cup of tea, he says.
His tone is not convincing: polite and reserved – perhaps she has misread the signs. He follows her inside and she puts the kettle on, fiddles with cups and teabags. He leans on the counter, looks about. He seems very tall in the low-ceilinged room. She is aware of her plain decorating tastes. The walls are not elaborately adorned: a calendar, on which there are midwife appointments marked, the Chief Joseph carving, an embroidered cloth from Spain – thoughtful souvenir from Lawrence. On the kitchen table is a laptop and a few printed sheets – the eternally unfinished book chapter.
Nice place, he says.
Yes. I was going to look for something else, but I’ve settled in, and there doesn’t seem to be any pressure to leave. I think it probably suits Thomas to have me on site.
Too right, stay put, he says. You won’t want to move when the baby comes, anyway.
His shirt is partially unbuttoned, dark hair beneath. There’s the faint discolouration of sweat in the blue cotton under the arms, a brownish smudge on one of the rolled-back sleeves – something the plastic veterinary apron has failed to deflect, perhaps. She mashes the teabags against the sides of the cups with a spoon, drops them into the sink, bends, and gets the milk out of the fridge. She catches his look as she stands – the bump is sitting entirely to the front and she has not gained weight elsewhere yet; her backside is still as it was. She feels surer.
Not a miffy then, he says.
What?
Milk in first. The Keighley method, as my mother would have said.
No.
I don’t mind. I’m not a true Yorkshireman, just a halfie. It’s been scientifically proven, though – the tea stays hotter if the milk goes in first. So, you’re, what, six months now? Must be an interesting phase. Lots of weird stuff happening?
Yes, some.
She wonders if he is acknowledging her current state of arousal; he has a daughter, he may know the stages. She may be less subtle than she thinks. He sips loudly from the cup.
Had all your scans?
Yes.
Do you have a picture – can I see?
She is a little taken aback at the request. She had not imagined this would be part of the evening’s choreography. Could it be a way of closing the proceedings down – talking about the baby, as if to undo any rogue fantasy, any denial? Perhaps he is simply acknowledging the situation, a courteous bow before their taking up the positions. She goes to the drawer and finds the latest ultrasound copy. The bones are brightly lit, luminous, like a sea creature, except that the creature looks remarkably human. She hands it to him.
Amazing, he says. Look at that head.
His voice drops to a tone of sensitivity she has not previously heard.
Dad’s not around then?
No.
Alexander nods. She begins to feel awkward, and on the verge of trying to explain, or of stopping everything before it starts. He puts his hand to the side of her face.
OK. Just checking. I’m not a bastard, by the way.
He smiles.
Unless leaving the loo seat up counts as bastardly.
She looks at his mouth, the fuller upper lip with the white scar. She says nothing. He moves round in front of her and stands with his legs splayed. He kisses her, lifts her slightly. A slow, plush mouth, not quite what she expected. The mound of her stomach feels hard pressing against his groin. He draws back.
Are we drinking this tea? he asks.
No, probably not.
He kisses her again, less gentle, a kind of deliberate gambit. They do not take their time – whatever has been set up has been done so with licence. He untucks her shirt and touches the skin of her back. He unfastens her bra, pulls it and the shirt off together. Then he pulls off his own shirt and drops it on the floor. His skin is incredibly warm, a shallow depression between his chest muscles, dark hair. He lifts her onto the counter and begins to kiss her breasts, which are hard and full, the nipples incredibly sensitive. It is too much; she has to stop him. She unbuckles his belt and undoes the trousers, moves his boxers down. There’s a heavy erection, the exterior seems too fine and silken for the amount of blood held, almost artisan, like medieval machinery. She pushes herself off the counter, bends, begins to move her mouth over it; under the soft bundle of skin is fluid, polished flesh, membrane and musk. He grips her hair, lets her, then asks,
Where should we go?
He follows her upstairs, his hands on her shoulders, as if blind and being led. Now it has started and they are touching, he does not seem to want any kind of separation. On the bed he is careful, but confident. He strips her out of the remaining clothing, goes down on her. Then he moves up the bed, leans in, not heavily, but without anxiety, and fits himself. A murmur of appreciation.
He begins to move. She senses restraint, concentration – a man for whom it has been a while. He is sweating, breathing hard. His chest is hot and damp and immense, the heel of her hand fits into the hollow. He lets her dictate. Her orgasm is expansive, the contractions in her uterus mildly painful. A grating sound in his throat, as he comes he pulls out. He lifts up, aware he might be crushing her; underneath, her body is slicked wet, and small curls of his black hair are sticking to her breasts.
He props himself on his elbows and they lie for a while. Everything shrinks back, wetly. An owl is calling hollowly into the darkness. He rolls over, taking her with him, so that she is lying on top. She sits up. He is smiling.
That was great.
His chest rises and falls. She puts her fist in the cavity, which is deep, but not deep enough to mean heart problems.
Pectus excavatum.
Come here, Miss, he says.
He pulls her down by the shoulders and kisses her – her stomach only just allows it. Then he traces the dark line running up her lower abdomen, to her belly button. Her legs are folded beneath, the muscle of the left begins to twitch and cramp.
Ouch. I think I have to move, she says. Ouch.
He tips her gently to the side, one hand holding her back, then squeezes her calf muscle. They sit up against the headboard. She stretches her legs out, flexes her feet. The mood is light, permissive, strangely comfortable.
Are you one of those guys with a pregnancy fetish? she asks.
He laughs and touches her stomach.
Maybe I am. I hadn’t thought about it. What a pervert. Are you one of those women with a James Herriot fantasy? You want the old vet to fuck you in the stables?
Of course.
She feels giddy, wary of standing. There’s a chemical brilliance in her body. On and off, a breath of cooler air drifts through the window, not enough to refresh. She wants ice. The owl continues its empty lamentation, or the mate is replying. Alexander looks in no way as if he is considering getting up and going home. She begins to imagine the awkward conversation around departure, then puts the thought aside.
Better drink some water. Do you want some?
Yes, no more tea. I wouldn’t say no to a beer.
I might have some. I’ll look.
She gets up slowly from the bed and crosses the room. He watches her. She does not feel self-conscious, though she is still getting used to the new form, the stiff waist, having to kneel to pick things up, trouble lacing shoes. She is larval, half-staged, swollen at the central interval. She looks for something to put on, but it seems silly to cover up.
It suits you, Rachel, he says. You look like a fertility goddess. Listen, go and have a wee.
Excuse me?
She pauses by the door. His legs are sprawled, giant rimed feet sticking up at the bottom of the bed, his arms resting along the headboard. The sheets are spun about, twisted and half draped on the floor.
Helen got a few urine infections when she was pregnant with Chloe. You’re more vulnerable. And after that –
He gestures expansively over the bed, palm open, as if to suggest an area where an extreme event or ruin had taken place. He is grinning, pleased with himself.
What? she says.
You thought I really was being a pervert. With the weeing thing. Doctor’s orders.
You’re not out of the woods yet, she says.
She pads down to the kitchen, the loam of semen slipping between her thighs. She opens the refrigerator door. No beer. Upstairs she can hear creaking as Alexander moves in the bed and stands up. The shunt of the window being opened wider. She drinks a glass of water at the kitchen sink. She fills another glass of water for him. Overhead, the footsteps of a hefty man walking to the bathroom, the drill of urine into the toilet bowl, and, midstream, a casual fart. He flushes. He returns to the bedroom, gets back into bed. This is new, she thinks. She can’t remember the last time she spent a full night with a man. She heads back up with the water.
Later, she lies with him behind her, his arm cantilevered over her hip. He breathes deeply, sound asleep. She lies awake, her leg aching from lying in the same position. The baby is still, has been still for the last few hours. Finally, she moves his arm and turns over. She places a pillow between her legs, and after a few moments drifts off. At some point in the night she has an anxiety dream, in which she is carrying the baby downstairs, knowing she will drop it, and then she does drop it. Panic as she rifles through the blankets and finds that the baby has shrunk, is tiny and red and vascular; she cannot tell what damage has been done by the fall. She wakes, turns over, rests her forehead against Alexander’s back, and sleeps again.
An hour later his phone alarm sounds – the Doctor Zhivago theme tune – confusing and slightly ridiculous. She is half awake, watching the greenish, alchemic dawn filter into the room. He rolls and groans softly as the alarm sounds again. Then he gets up in one swift determined move, as if from his own bed, searches for his boxers on the floor and puts them on, a man on automatic, used to forcing himself into action in the early hours. Rachel lies still, wondering how to tackle the situation. Is it better to feign sleep? He goes downstairs, not silently by any means, but considerately. She can hear him dressing, the clink of his belt, a tired cough. After a few moments of quiet she is sure he will leave, or has already left, but then she hears cupboard doors opening and shutting, the clink of crockery and the throaty purr of the kettle. He comes back upstairs. She lifts her head from the pillow.
Tea, he says. Keighley style. It’s the perfect temperature in case you’re wondering.
Thanks. What time is it?
Five-thirty.
She groans. He takes a sip of tea and deposits the cup on the table, sits on the bed. She puts her face back into the soft swale of bedding. She feels him reach a hand under the sheet and fondle her bottom. Then he pulls the sheet down to her midriff, sighs, and stands.
You make it difficult to leave.
I’m not doing anything. I’m just lying here.
Exactly. So, shall I take you to dinner then?
She looks up at him.
Tonight?
Tonight.
I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Can I ring you when I’m done?
Great. See you later.
He has taken this as agreement: a date. She wonders if she should clarify. But it’s too early to think about what might be set in motion, and what might not. He bends down and kisses her on the cheek.
Bye. I had a very nice time, goddess.
Bye.
She tries to summon sleep but cannot. The racket of birds in the garden, the insistent light, her own restlessness. There are thumps against the walls of her stomach, a pedalling sensation low down – the little being inside her, causing her to have strange wild dreams and capable now, according to the literature, of dreaming itself. Though what dreams could it possibly have? she wonders. Textures and sounds, a man and a woman’s voices like weather outside, the surrounding meat contracting and turning golden. She sits up and drinks the tea, which has become tepid. Outside the sky is primary-coloured, the red bladder of the sun coming up between the trees. Another thump, stronger, so that her abdomen jumps visibly. A reflex action, but it feels like intent. At the midwife appointment next week she will have to mention the clash of events in the diary – her due date, and the pair being released from quarantine into the main enclosure. She puts her hand on her belly, over the jerking spot. Don’t you dare, she thinks, don’t you dare be the first one out.
WE ARE ALL RED ON THE INSIDE
That afternoon she meets with Michael Stott and a representative from the county’s deer management group, Neville Wilson, in a snug sitting room in the Hall – a rather old-fashioned venue, with leather chairs and a low table, a stag’s head mounted on the wall, pictures of athletic black dogs. Rachel senses a certain pastiche irony in the décor. The two men are old friends, it seems, and are bantering when she arrives. A do at the rugby club, someone too drunk to get home, b
ugger would not give up his key, so the Crusaders tipped his car onto its side. Michael has on a tie and blazer, is dressed with respect for the venue, as is the rep, a raw blond man in a green twill suit. Coffee has been left for them, as usual, on the sideboard, and a stack of elegant shortbreads. They each help themselves; no one is willing to play mother. The room is hot, though the windows are open; the men remove their jackets, white shirts pressed by their wives underneath.
‘Stotty’, the rep keeps calling Michael. He – Nev – outlines the situation for Rachel. Aerial and foot counts of the Annerdale herds have shown that numbers are too high. A cull will begin the following month. They do not want to wait until the wolves are released. They do not want to risk disease. One final shooting season on the estate is what you mean, she thinks, a last hurrah. But she does not argue; she is not in disagreement with the plan. Michael is keen to walk her through the logistics, and speaks as if to a novice. He places the leather wallet of rolling tobacco and a box of matches in front of him, and taps the table to emphasise certain points. His fingernails are thick and clubbed, encasing the tips of his fingers.
It’ll be the sickest first, those that won’t survive the winter. Then we’ll take a mix from the rest of the herd. Stags first, hinds and associated calves. We’ll be done by close of September on the stags. They tend to get skinny after the rut.
The rep chips in.
I do assure you, it’s humane, Mrs Caine. We use soft-lead expanders this side of the border. There’s no chance of them limping off half fettled.
The patronising tone is annoying and offensive – perhaps deliberately so. They are communicating as if with a tourist from the city, someone for whom the untimely death of any animal is an atrocity. No doubt they have discussed her before her arrival, formulated a strategy even.