Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

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.