The Wolf Border (10 page)

Ahoy! he calls. Late, but forgivably so.

He drops his napkin and excuses himself. Two minutes later a black-suited security guard enters the dining room. He stands by the doorway, fists bolted together in front of his groin. The Prime Minister enters, with Thomas Pennington by his shoulder. The two are in casual conversation. It takes a moment for surprise to register fully in Rachel. She remains seated while guests at the table begin to respectfully rise, then she too stands. Alexander catches her eye again. His expression is droll. After the day's trick with the cheese wire, elbow-deep in a cow, perhaps nothing can faze him. Sebastian Mellor does not match the image of the man elected four years ago. The usual degradation in office has occurred. His hair is thinner, greyer; the stress of the job has taken its toll. He holds a hand up, greets the room.

Don't let me interrupt your delicious dinner, he says.

As he passes by, Mellor shakes hands with Vaughan Andrews, though there seems to be no overflowing warmth between the party members. There's an extra setting at the table, ready. The Prime Minister sits, a waiter politely confers with him, and he is brought a glistening pear. Rachel overhears talk of schedules, cloud cover, and visibility, night flying regulations. Polite laughter bubbles around the man. There is no vast charisma, but his presence is certainly felt; she can see people fidgeting and glancing, or trying not to. Everyone except Sylvia, that is, who is captivating her neighbour, attending to the task without pause. Clever girl, Rachel thinks. Mellor eats the dessert quickly, spooning the sauce while holding back his tie. He makes a joke about getting to Scotland for last orders, apologises, stands. The visitation has taken no longer than twenty minutes.

Before departure, Thomas Pennington shepherds him towards Rachel and she is introduced. She stands again. She does not know what the correct protocol is, what term to use. The moment passes in a haze; she says very little.
Hello. Hello. Wonderful project
–
very in keeping with our countryside-pride initiative
. His manner is inoffensive, bland almost; he is one of several beige Etonians at the top of the league. But his privileges are wealth-related rather than dynastic, and he knows how to meet and greet. He excuses himself.
Charles will be getting annoyed with me
. The pilot, perhaps, or the security detail. He leaves.

Conversation resumes, in a slightly giddy way, but the party is somehow lesser. After a few moments the helicopter starts, attaining a frenzied pitch before lifting, a racket of impossible physics. A beam of light crosses the dining-room window, followed by two tail lights. The valley echoes noisily as the Prime Minister
makes his way north, into the lion's den. In the aftermath, their host stands to lead a toast.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you would raise your glasses please. To the grey wolf. May she come home after long years away. May she find a good home. To the grey.

The room choruses.

The grey.

Rachel drinks with everyone, though the ceremonial rituals seem a little unnecessary – silly, even. Here is the operating room, she thinks, the old quarters where men of power do business and break bread together. If she ever doubted Thomas Pennington's credentials, his ability to get what he wants, she no longer does. The thought is not entirely reassuring. They adjourn to a plush sitting room with enormous settees. Coffee arrives, brandy, exquisite filigree chocolates, stamped with the Pennington coat of arms. She still feels a little sick, in need of air, and decides to leave – she has done her duty enough. After a brief interval she finds Alexander and bids him goodnight. He is also preparing to go, seems sober, though there is an empty brandy glass next to him and he was never without wine at dinner. He will be up at 5 a.m., he tells her, the usual time.

You've got my number, but come by the surgery, he suggests. You can get me up to speed on everything.

He seems entirely and commendably up to speed, but she agrees she will come. She is glad to have a good ally for the project already. She thanks Thomas Pennington and Sylvia for the evening, which was, in the end, enjoyable. Thomas is redder of face, gently listing and faintly victorious, but Sylvia is as kempt and composed as when the evening began. She stewards her father as a chancellor might, or the first lady. A woman
who understands abstinence, how to retain control; Rachel is impressed.

I won't chase you or Daddy, Sylvia says, but I am so madly keen to help. Do bear me in mind.

Yes, I can tell. I'm sure it'll work out. Goodnight.

There's probably no harm in a month or two's work, if she really wants it, Rachel thinks. She is given her coat, shown to the door, and she sets off across the private grounds, trying to remember the entryway to the path through the woods, wondering whether she will trip an alarm system and suddenly be surrounded by police and dogs. A torch would have been sensible. The darkness is punctuated by constellations, gleaming less brightly than above Chief Joseph, but as graceful, as old and absolute, and there is light enough. She collects her boots from underneath the topiary and laces them up. The rich dinner is sitting uncomfortably in her. Bending over makes the sickness worse. Bending, brushing her teeth, even coffee is beginning to affect her in such a way. She finds a ginger sweet in her pocket, unwraps it. The sooner the matter is resolved, the better. Her appointment at the GP is in two days. The air is clear, silvery, and as she walks back to the cottage through the mantle of faint godless starlight, she starts to feel better.

*

The health centre is new, located behind a housing development on the edge of town. She arrives early, parks outside, and sits for a moment, listening to the news on the radio. Dyspeptic voices report on the debates and clips of the more heated exchanges are played. The First Minister is goaded, accused of being racist, an
economic dunce, but he maintains optimism. Scotland was, is, and will be a beacon of social enlightenment. He quotes one of the country's premier writers: w
ork as if in the early days of a better nation
. Optimism is all well and good but will not keep the lights on, the Prime Minister retorts. Mellor's Home Counties accent does him no favours, Vaughan Andrews was right; he sounds patronising. Better to have put forward a pro-union Scot. It is strange to think that less than forty-eight hours ago the man was shaking her hand; that she was, momentarily, inside the circle. The lights in England might soon depend on Scotland's hydroelectric power and oil, First Minister Douglas counters, unless extortionate business with Russia and the Middle East is preferable. The bulletin ends. The weather forecast predicts rain, spreading from the west, heavy at times. She switches the radio off and goes into the surgery.

The receptionist is talking on the phone and waves Rachel towards the monitor. She checks herself in on the touch screen and sits in the waiting area. She selects a magazine, scans the pages, then closes it. Ten minutes pass. She is the first appointment of the day but already there seems to be some kind of delay – early-morning emergencies being fitted in, no doubt. Heart attacks, farming injuries. She looks at the posters, for cancers of all kinds, and sexual health; signs warning that appointments are twelve minutes only, multiple problems require double bookings. She begins drafting an email to Lawrence on her phone.
Perhaps we could meet and talk
. . . The coward's method of reconciliation. She deletes it.

A doctor appears in the waiting room and calls her through. She is middle-aged, tired-looking. She starts back down the corridor, at an extremely brisk pace, and Rachel follows. The doctor glances over her shoulder and introduces herself.

I'm Frances Dunning. How are you today?

OK, thanks.

Good.

An odd question, given the circumstances. Inside the office Rachel explains that she is pregnant. She knows the conception date. She has taken a test, knows how many weeks. It is the first time she has said this out loud and it does not seem quite real.

I have a urine sample. Do you need it?

No. That's OK, I trust you.

The doctor looks over her records.

I don't have any old notes for you.

I just moved back to the UK.

How are you feeling generally?

Alright. A bit sick. I'd like to talk about the options.

The doctor glances up at Rachel and then out of the surgery window at the playing fields beyond. A grey ceiling of cloud has begun to form: the promised rain. She asks Rachel the date of her last period and then calculates on the ob wheel.

Yes, you're right. Twelve weeks or thereabouts. So we need to think reasonably quickly about everything.

The pregnancy was unplanned. I meant to sort it all out sooner.

Is this your first?

Yes.

Frances Dunning turns in her seat and faces Rachel fully. She has shadows under her eyes. A weekend locum, perhaps.

Might I ask why you delayed a termination?

I just moved back from America. It's a bit complicated. The state where I was living brought in a new mandate – you have to have an ultrasound before having an abortion. The clinics are mostly pro-life.

Oh, yes, right – tricky. Are you decided?

Rachel moves uncomfortably in her chair. This is the question. The answer should be simple and easy, and yet.

I think so. I don't think I want to have it. I'm not . . . a hundred percent sure.

Not sure you want it, or not sure you don't want it?

Both. I don't know.

Doctor Dunning nods.

Well, there's a little time. A termination procedure is slightly more complicated after fifteen weeks – it's not a straightforward evacuation. You'd probably have to go down to Lancaster. Would you like to speak to someone about everything?

Rachel shrugs.

I'm speaking to you.

Would you like to speak to a counsellor?

No.

The doctor nods again. Her shirt is a bright, ugly green – distracting. Between the two prescriptive lenses of her bifocals it is hard to see her eyes properly. She is probably the same age as Rachel. There's a silver framed photograph on the doctor's desk, of a girl and a boy, perhaps eight and ten years old. Planned, no doubt, to fit with her life. Rachel moves in her chair again, begins to feel foolish. What are you doing? she thinks.

Doctor Dunning prompts gently.

Are you in a position where you might want a child?

Rachel does not reply. She doesn't want a baby. She has never wanted a baby. A baby would be ridiculous. But how can she describe the feeling? The strange interest in it all, now that the situation pertains to her specifically. The mercurial days: fatal mornings when she is sure she wants rid of it, nights when the
certainty evaporates. It's as if some rhythm – circadian, immune, hormonal, she does not know which exactly – waxes and wanes and, with it, her rational mind. How can this be explained to the doctor?

I just didn't think it would happen, she blurts. I'm not young.

Frances Dunning shakes her head, smiles very subtly.

You seem very healthy. And the commonly used data on fertility rates is a little past its sell-by, I'm afraid.

It was one night, Rachel says. I don't have relationships. Just sex. I'm usually more careful when I – I wasn't expecting this—

Doctor Dunning leans forward slightly and tilts her head. The confession, this new information, is clearly worrisome.

How many partners have you had in the last year, would you say?

Five, maybe. Six.

Last sexual health check?

A couple of years ago.

OK. We can discuss the pregnancy options again when you've thought a little more, but shall we do a few tests now? Just to be on the safe side.

Yes, alright.

I'll buzz for the nurse.

She presses an intercom and they wait.

I know none of this is ideal, Rachel says, almost apologetically.

She feels annoyed with herself, and like an undergraduate. The doctor turns to face her again.

Well, it's true. Children are life-altering. You're right to think it all through.

Her hands are held close together, turned slightly outward and upward, as if holding something – an imaginary baby, perhaps.

If the pregnancy continues, she says, we'd need to think about booking you in with the midwife, and a first scan around now. And possible screening. But I'm not going to push you. You're on our system, which is good.

There's a knock on the door and a uniformed nurse enters the room, carrying sterile swabs. They move into the curtained section. Rachel strips below the waist and lies down on the paper-covered table. The lamp is repositioned. The speculum inserted, swabs taken. It is a brief, inoffensive examination. The nurse hands her tissues and leaves. She re-dresses. Doctor Dunning is typing up notes on the computer. Rachel sits and waits for her to finish.

I'll get those sent off, she says. The results will take about a week. But why don't I call you in a few days, if that's convenient? Where do you work – can I reach you there?

The Annerdale estate, and yes.

Lovely.

I'm managing the reintroduction project.

Oh, the wolves. I read something in the
Gazette
about that. It's all going ahead then?

It is.

Will it be open to the public? My kids would love to go.

Possibly, once they're settled. Though it'll be more a programme than a park.

Rachel feels slightly redeemed; she is not a complete mess, not without professional skills, she would like that known by the woman sitting opposite. The doctor glances discreetly at the clock on her desk. She would probably like to continue the conversation, the subject is unusual, but she is running behind. Twelve minutes have passed.

OK, Rachel. Have a think. Here are some leaflets, with advice lines, just in case.

She hands Rachel a sheaf of pamphlets.

We'll speak in a few days?

Yes. Thanks.

Rachel stands. If she had anticipated resolution, here and now, backed into a moral or medical corner, it has not occurred. If anything, the meeting has left her feeling more confused. Frances Dunning moves to the door and opens it courteously.