The Wolf Border (9 page)

How about some music, Soo-Bear, her father suggests.

Yes!

She crosses the room to a discreet piece of equipment in a cabinet. She moves with extreme, but sexless, grace. The dress drifts a few millimetres from her hips and chest, its creases flocking and darkening as she moves. A demure but flattering item, the kind
of thing lesser royalty might wear. Thomas Pennington asks if Rachel has any requests. She does not – she could not name an album or a band if she tried.

Put on something to annoy you-know-who, he says to his daughter, mischievously.

He seems less restive than previously, as if the presence of the daughter has a calming effect. The kind of man who fares better in female or familial company, perhaps. The older son, Leo, is absent. There are dark rumours, passed on to Rachel by Binny during her stay. A drop-out, a hellion. Talk of disinheritance, though it is hard, given the current show of unity and wholesomeness, to imagine rifts in this family. Thomas raises his glass.

Cheers, Rachel. We couldn't be doing any of this without you.

Clearly this is not true, the scheme was well underway before her acceptance, but Rachel thanks him.

Now, this is a bit off the bat, he says, but Sylvia has a question for you. Don't you, darling? I'd fire away before we're marauded by the others. Catch Rachel while you can.

Sylvia shimmies back over and smiles.

I hope you won't mind, she says. I wonder what you might think of an idea I've had.

She gives a theatrical little pause, her eyes wide, almost dollish; she understands charm, enough to hold Rachel's gaze a fraction too long, an act of harmless flirtation. There's not a blemish on her face or neck to suggest hormonal disruption or regular partying. Up close she is copper-haired and lightly glossed; some subtle, translucent powder sparkles along her cheekbones. Her face seems enormous, a cosmic presence. Fletches of brown in the left eye. At whatever establishment she attends the men will
no doubt be hounding her, while she tactically refuses. Rachel can see she is a powerful asset – deployed among the socialites, the local country; her appeal is immense.

Can you already guess? she asks.

She's going to ask me if she can name them, Rachel thinks. She braces.

Go on.

OK. I'm taking a year out before law school, to recalibrate, which I really think will be useful, and I was wondering – well, I was hoping – that I could be on the project with you. I can't imagine a more exciting thing than volunteering.

There's a pause, during which Rachel feels her impassivity slipping. This is the last thing she wants or needs.

I'm desperate to be involved, Sylvia says. And I'm a really hard worker, aren't I, Daddy?

Thomas concurs.

Oh, yes, she is. Terribly hard.

They wait for Rachel's reply. She has always been forgiven dead air in conversations, people assuming her to be ruminative rather than rude. Often her silence is followed by something curt or dismissive. But these are the Penningtons. Clearly the Earl has already sanctioned the idea or it would not have been mooted. Rachel tries to imagine the girl in shit-covered boots and overalls, hefting deer carcasses, gloving scat into a sample bag. It seems impossible. She is project manager, yes, but how far does her authority extend? Can this really be denied?

Well, she says, that's an interesting idea. I'm only just putting the team together, as you know. So let's come back to it once things are underway.

Rachel glances from Sylvia to Thomas Pennington. The stall
is diplomatic enough, probably. The girl is clearly doted upon, indulged. But both seem happy with her response and are smiling. The doorbell sounds. Thomas Pennington excuses himself and takes a turn as greeter. Sylvia touches Rachel's arm, her hand light as a nest, and takes up the conversational slack.

I do think it's marvellous what you're doing with Daddy. He's so excited. It'll be good for him to have another project. He hates it when there's nothing new. And it's going to be amazing for the region. It's about revitalising the modern British wilderness, isn't it?

Rachel nods politely. Depends on definition, she thinks. The girl is repeating her father's sentiments, his rhapsody, almost verbatim. She is accent-less, clearly out-schooled. Perhaps the work placement is his idea. Good publicity, having his progeny working on the scheme, not slumming exactly but certainly
getting down
with the causes. Or is it some kind of punishment? Is she being kept close to home, for screwing, taking coke, substandard grades? Does the veneer mask high decadence? Surely the girl wants to be in London or New York, with her aristocratic peers? Not stranded here in the boondocks.

Rachel watches her as she talks. But she talks without cunning, about biodiversity, the North Carolina Red Wolf programme, which she has read up about. The cynicism seems misplaced. Sylvia's appeal is natural, unforced; there's no venal whiff. She is, very probably, a country girl, for all the wealth and coiffure. She will have spent hours taking care of her horses or the estate dogs, taught to love this remote western Elysium and to champion it; attending gymkhanas and trials, garden parties and shows; maybe having a drink now and again with local friends in the aggrieved west coast towns – a reminder of reality. She
clearly wants to be involved. But what does she expect? That they will be pets? That they'll be fed milk from a bottle, like orphaned lambs? She will have to explain to Sylvia, give her the facts. They will rarely be seen – defined as much by their absence as their iconography. If she really wants the job, Sylvia will have to learn to track; she will have to endure hours of monotonous surveillance, reading prints, weighing carrion, data entry. Unglamorous at best.

Thomas Pennington crosses the room with a new guest, first dignitary of the evening. Rachel recognises the man he's accompanying, a bright young politician, ex-military and a media darling, headhunted by the current government and installed in a safe seat. Described by Binny as
the baby Tory
.

Rachel, this is Vaughan Andrews, our local MP, Thomas says. Vaughan's been hard at work getting us faster broadband. A jolly good enterprise and very uncontroversial. We've been disagreeing in the hallway about Scotland, haven't we, Vaughan?

The young man laughs, good-naturedly.

Yes, but we agree on the basics. Hello, Miss Caine, pleasure to meet you.

Up close he looks older, in his forties, perhaps. His skin is pocked, sun-damaged; he is thin, and the suit, though well cut, looks roomy. He still carries the air of the whippish officer.

I'm a great admirer of yours, he says. I'm very glad Thomas has won you over. I gather you're a native to these parts.

That he knows anything about her comes as something of a surprise. But the estate has no doubt pronounced her worth, at least to the Lakeland set.

I don't know whether I still qualify. I've been away a while.

Oh, you do, he says, I assure you. They don't rescind that
particular passport. Me, on the other hand, well, I belong over the border. In theory.

If indeed there is a border, Thomas says.

Whatever point he is making, or dig, is not immediately clear. Vaughan Andrews turns and holds his arms open.

Sylvia! Wow! You look amazing!

Sylvia's smile is moderately warm. The two embrace, kissing twice, some kind of Continental etiquette that has arrived during Rachel's absence. The young woman attends to the champagne with a redoubling of poise, but Rachel can see there is no real attraction. Vaughan hums sombrely as he takes the glass.

One and one only. I've got clinic in the morning. Can't face my constituents with a thick head. I've got the new Chartists bearing down, brandishing some kind of manifesto.

Ah, yes, Thomas says. They delivered their paper to the House, quite flamboyantly, on horseback. Harmless loons. I quite like the idea of a car-free Cumbria, though.

The doorbell rings again.

My turn.

Sylvia flutters out of the drawing room. The young politician tries hard not to watch her leave. He turns back to his host and Rachel listens to their small talk.

How many are we this evening, Thomas?

Oh, not many. Just enough to give Rachel a good welcome, not enough to upset Henry. He has this arrangement with L'Enclume – it's really very elaborate. I don't ask.

Is Mell coming?

He is.

He's on the way up to Edinburgh, then?

Henry. Mell. Rachel doesn't know who they are talking about.

It's the correct thing, of course, Thomas is saying, taking part in the debates. One can't avoid it altogether without seeming cowardly, or dismissive.

I'm not so sure. He may not be the right candidate. He's going to sound –

Colonial, Thomas suggests.

She stands awkwardly at the side, waiting for the evening to get going, and to be over.

Well-dressed, grey-haired guests arrive. Retirees and the district's rich. Conversation is of the World Heritage status bid, new speed limits on the lakes, the Scottish polls, and, intermittently, the wolf project. Rachel is introduced to various people. She is asked the same basic questions, which she answers patiently, mustering as much positivity as she can – she is, after all, representing the estate. Ebullient noise and laughter fill the drawing room. A waiter appears and takes over the serving of the champagne, leaving the hosts free to circulate. Trays of hors d'oeuvres rotate through the crowd. She meets the local vet, Alexander Graham, who will be responsible for monitoring the pair over the quarantine period, before release, and will help her with the implantation surgery. They shake hands. He is broad, well over six feet; he has the cut of a country vet, fully capable of wrestling out breech calves and clipping the hooves of prize bulls. His upper lip is fuller than the lower, and scarred – a souvenir of the profession, perhaps, or an old rugby injury – he looks the type. He seems out of place, like her, in his inexpensive civilian jacket and tie, though less awkward, and wryly entertained by the proceedings.

Here we all are then, he says. Seems a bit previous when they haven't arrived yet. Still, dinner and a do, I'm not complaining.

He drains his champagne glass, sets it down on a nearby bureau, and scans the room for the rotating waiter. As the hors d'oeuvres pass, he takes several and lines them up on his palm. Gelatinous fish eggs, slivers of raw, blue-looking meat; nausea rises in Rachel and she waves the offered tray away.

All set for bringing them over? he asks.

Seems so. The flight's booked. And they're fit enough to travel now.

Why were they in the rescue centre?

The male had a leg injury. The female was poisoned. But her system seems fine. She should be able to breed.

He nods. They speak casually for a few minutes. Alexander has been researching his new charges and their possible ailments – cataracts and cancers, and depression, which is not unlikely during their time in quarantine. The smaller enclosure, in which they will be kept and monitored for the first few months, will be hard after the Romanian mountains. The highlight of his day today, Alexander confesses, was cutting up a stillborn calf inside a cow's uterus using cheese wire, saving the cow in the process.

Something of a personal method.

Ingenious, she says.

Thanks.

He folds together two of the delicate tidbits and eats them. He is likeable, and will be a good colleague, she decides. There's stubble under his ear. His collar is not ironed. But his nails are in good condition, square and clean – the hands of a medic. There's a pale mark on his ring finger. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sylvia hovering with another pearled, vanilla-haired guest, waiting to introduce her. Rachel tries to extricate herself politely, but Alexander is oblivious, or not keen to have her company
replaced. He begins telling her about an imported hybrid dog he had to put down several weeks ago, which did not fall under the licensing laws.

I can't prove it, he says, but it was definitely crossbred with something wild. There's a European loophole people are exploiting. It's a show thing. They like the big, hard, wolfy-looking ones. They can be pretty dangerous if they're trained wrong.

What did it do?

Went for a kid. Passersby got it off but he still needed stitches.

Christ.

You'll have seen a lot, though, over where you were.

I did. They get sold out of the back of vans at powwows. You don't know what you're getting half the time. Part-wolf. Part-husky.

Hello, Baskervilles.

She laughs. Sylvia guides the hovering lady away. Another waiter appears and calls them through for dinner.

Great, I'm starving, Alexander says. Good luck with the seating plan.

The dining table is long and formal, but new, artisanal, with a glass window in its centre filled with amber resin – another of the modern touches in the Hall. They are positioned around the table in some kind of meaningful order, Alexander at the other end – he catches her eye, smiles. Rachel finds herself between the director of the Woodland Trust and mayoress of Egremont. The cuisine is exceptional – hare pâté, escargot, local freshwater char – though she hasn't much of an appetite. Moments of queasiness overtake her as the rich aromas drift up from the plate. She sips the wine, thinking, it doesn't really matter, but the taste holds
no enjoyment, either. The mayoress talks about chaos across the border, an impoverished state of Scotland, indebted and in need of European bailout, the usual independence scare story. She will not watch the debate tomorrow, she announces, to do so would be to credit the proceedings with unwarranted seriousness. Her tone of English superiority is annoying.
Is it any wonder they want out?
Rachel almost says.

They are halfway through dessert – delicate baked pear in a luscious red sauce – when Rachel hears the sound of rotor blades moving up the valley. The craft sounds big. Mountain rescue, a Sea King, perhaps. Some climber has come off Pillar or Coniston Old Man. The thrumming intensifies, renders conversation difficult, then pointless. The craft puts down on the helipad behind the stables in a glory of noise, and through the window she sees a flash of red and black livery. The engine powers down. Thomas Pennington stands.