The Wolf Border (12 page)

A few days later she is summoned again to Pennington Hall to be introduced to staff members. Among them is the gamekeeper, Michael Stott – the man, she is fairly sure, who was watching the cottage the day of her arrival. His frame and gait are familiar – the tipped shoulder, the rightful stride. He is lean, with carved cheeks and a sore mouth, hair so full and dark it seems false, given his age; he must be pushing seventy. His trousers look as if they've been made from tar. There is an immediate hostile crackle between them. He does not meet her eyes when she says hello, and the handshake is cursory, patronisingly soft. Within minutes, everything becomes clear, and she has the measure of him.
Louveterie
.

Much to our relief, Michael's decided to stay on, Thomas says, standing between the two of them. He's been here a very long time. His father worked with my father. He knows the country here like the back of his hand, don't you, Michael.

Worked with
not
for
, she notices. The modern sensitivities of class. Michael Stott sniffs and nods and says nothing. Behind the Earl's statement is the question of whether and why he might have left. He does not look the type to retire – ever. A mutineer, then, who does not approve of the radical new project. And why would he, if he is the herdsman?

I'll leave you two to get acquainted, Thomas says. Michael will be able to assist you with anything you need, Rachel.

He closes the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone. She'll be damned if she'll make small talk. No doubt Michael will want to stake his claim, assert his authority. Sure enough, after a moment he clears his throat, and offers her some advice.

Now then, Mrs Caine. You might want to park the car round the back of Seldom Seen. It's hard getting anything through with it left so casual.

She doesn't bother to correct his mistake. But she won't have him think she's town-bred and insensible.

I intend to. Once the ground's dried out a little – don't want to get stuck, Mr Stott, and have to be towed. That would waste everyone's time.

Right. When is it your pups get here, then?

Pups
. She holds his gaze.

Two weeks.

Michael takes a leather tobacco pouch from his inside pocket, removes but does not light a pre-rolled cigarette. He is housebroken, she can see, enough to shake her hand in front of the
master and abide by the rules of the house. But it is clear that he is not happy. Not happy about being displaced in the chain of command, for she now holds a lateral position, perhaps even a higher position. Certainly not happy about the reconstitution of Annerdale, with its new apex predator. She, and they, represents dire competition, beyond his experience. The beloved deer, previously targets for the noble shotgun, are to become glorified dog food. Over the years her sensibilities have been honed. Michael is a king's soldier: good at tradition and old orders. If he'd lived twelve centuries earlier, he'd have made substantial money for their pelts from Charlemagne.

She looks at his hair – real, unnatural, something oddly lusty about it. Good genes. They will have to find a way to work together.

We should talk about the health of the herds, she suggests. Next week suit you, Mr Stott?

Fine.

They do not fix a specific time or date.

The next day she sets up the office in the carriage house and for the following two days she answers letters and emails from locals, tries to educate and placate. There is more livestock in the east and north of the region; the correspondence is mostly from paranoid west Lakeland smallholders foreseeing escape and slaughter on an almost gothic scale. Concerned mothers. Photographs taken by French shepherds of bloody-necked flocks are forwarded to her.
We do not want this type of thing in our country
. She sends back links to EU collaboration projects. There are queries about compensation – how much will the estate offer per head for a kill if they get out? Despite the campaign the estate has tried to run, there is much ignorance and fear, much education needed. To each reply she attaches the project's mission statement and an information sheet.

The opposition groups are more troubling. The Ramblers. The Farmers' Union. They are organised and have funds. Towards the end of the second day, she opens a garbled email from a person or entity simply called ‘Nigh', accusing the estate of a variety of sins, cruelty and corruption, satanic tendencies, and playing God. There's a Virgil quote:
Here we care as little for the cold north wind, as the wolf cares for the number of sheep in the flock
. What does it mean? She smiles. If Kyle were here he would enjoy such a missive.
Batshit crazy
, he would say.
Delete
. For a moment she feels sad – not sad but wistful. Kyle. He was a good friend. She saves the email in a folder entitled ‘Cranks'. There has been no correspondence from any animal rights activists. The silence is not comforting, and does not necessarily mean inactivity. The project is in every way humane, but it will be on the radar.

The following morning, perhaps in response to her send-outs, there's a small protest at the main gate of the estate, next to the CCTV camera. She receives a call from Honor Clark alerting her.

No need to come down. It's all under control.

You're sure? Rachel asks. I can come. I don't mind.

Absolutely. It's all under control.

She goes about her business, meets with Alexander at the local veterinary clinic. The waiting room has several people in it, but he invites her in, past the Gorgonian receptionist, makes them coffee, which she struggles to finish. He seems ill-suited to the environment of the clinic. He is wearing glasses rather than contact lenses, but the scholarly look seems imposed on his large head. They discuss keeping antibiotic prescriptions on site at Pennington Hall and the forthcoming implantation surgery. The telemetry equipment has been ordered from Arizona – a company she knows and trusts. Alexander is skilled, has performed
a similar procedure a few times before, pit-tags, though not on a large canine.

Will it go in the abdomen? he asks.

Yes. A benign spot, but pretty deep. It can't just slip under the skin or they'll chew it out.

They bring up a picture of the device on his computer. The implant is state of the art – three inches long, including the transmitter and antenna, housed in a plastic sleeve and coated in physiological wax.

It'll wall off in the body, she says. The radio signals are very good. And we'll get other data – temperature, activity levels, heart rate, that kind of thing.

That's bloody cool, he says. And they just get on with it?

They do. I've seen great results. It doesn't impair hunting or effect breeding. We'll have to do it in the quarantine pen – are you OK with that?

Yeah, fine. Not sure Sally could cope with them in reception anyway.

Leaning close over the screen, he smells of deodorant and sweat. He reminds her of the boys in school years ago, blunt, funny, without deliberate romantic charm, but somehow possessing it.

Afterwards, she goes to the shops, then returns to the estate. As she passes the main gate, the gathering seems to have dispersed. But that evening her attention is caught by a piece on the regional news. . . .
The now-turned Willy Wonka of Wolves, who is no stranger to controversy
. . . She turns the television up. A local news crew has filmed the protest. There's a group of about twenty or so: a parked miscellany of walkers, agriculturalists, and upset housewives. A spokesperson lists their grievances to
the reporter. The fence's impact on the landscape, newts, birdlife, the view. The reintroduction of a now unnatural species. The restriction of public access to the estate. As the spokesperson is interviewed, the estate gate opens and Thomas Pennington strides down the driveway, looking – as Rachel has not yet seen him look – every inch like landed gentry. The camera focuses in. Top to toe tweed, a flaneur's casual step. A cane! Oh Christ, she thinks, this cannot end well. He arrives and greets the crowd. The reporter's tone becomes slightly hysterical as he conducts the interview. The wilder charges are put to the Earl: that keeping live prey inside a closed unit with predators is cruel, that the game enclosure bill was passed due to bribery. All are refuted, gracefully. Wolves hunt deer, he says, it's simple evolution. And in this age of transparency and freedom of information, all bills are open to public scrutiny. A woman in the crowd calls out.
You're a danger to society. They kill people!
Thomas Pennington turns to her.
My dear lady, these creatures are no harm to you or I. You could leave a baby in a pram in the enclosure and it would be quite safe, quite safe
. Rachel groans. There's a swell of indignant noise from the protesters at such a suggestion.
A baby!
The scene looks like a pantomime. The publicity is terrible, and Thomas Pennington, she realises, is a liability. The reporter summarises to camera. Thomas bows his head slightly –
thank you for coming –
as if they had all been attending a tea party. He turns and walks back up the oak-lined driveway. The report cuts to his biography, sweeping aerial shots of the estate and old photographic footage of the microlight crash – the tangled frame, shorn of both its wings, a black patch on the ground where the contraption burnt. The insinuation – that the Earl's projects fail spectacularly. The next report begins.

Rachel switches off the television, goes to the phone, and dials the estate office, hoping to speak with Honor, hoping Honor might somehow be enlisted – as a blockade, if nothing else. The recorded message plays. She hangs up. She has Thomas' mobile number, but is hesitant to use it. She will have to address the matter, though. He is too recognisable, too rich, and there are too many scandalous associations where he is concerned.

*

They begin from the roadside, passing over a stile in the wall, and walk through a field of green lacy ferns, up the steep east-facing skirt of the mountain. In the car park of The White Horse, a discussion about whether to tackle Sharp Edge has taken place, which, after a consultation with Lawrence's weather app, they decide against. Rain will make the ridge more difficult. There are flocks of grey clouds along the horizon and the breeze is strong, even at ground level. Looking up, they can see snow still locked away in the dark crevasses.

She is feeling well, not too tired or sick, but soon there are twinges in her knees and ankles. Her breath thickens and her thighs ache. Even after hiking the rough cross-country terrain of the Pacific Northwest, the relentless gradient of Blencathra catches her out. She wonders if she will make it. The ferns give way to short, wiry tufts of grass and heather, a mile-long moorland slope that turns and steepens, turns and steepens. The body of the mountain falls steeply from the sky. She paces herself, fights for air. But Lawrence suffers more. He pauses with his hands on his hips, leans back, his face reddening and beading with sweat. He looks very unwell. His equipment is state of the
art – breathable, waterproof shells, gloves, boots. She'd imagined not being able to keep up with her younger brother, but in the end it is she who leads. Perhaps he has a hangover, she thinks, or the life of a city solicitor has left him out of shape. They do not talk much – talking is impossible on the gradient. For a while they move in the shadow of a colossal leaden cloud, rain spitting against their foreheads, a smattering of hail, then there is brilliant sunlight. They remove their coats, squint up the path of the blazing Fell. Lawrence takes a pair of wraparound sunglasses out of his bag.

Four seasons in a day, he says.

Looks like it.

Their conversation is polite, careful. Rachel tactfully asks after Emily. She is well, says Lawrence, though she is having more IVF treatment, which is uncomfortable and stressful. Rachel nods – Binny had mentioned this during the visit, disparagingly, as if childlessness should be endured, as if it were a reprieve, even.

How many rounds will you try?

Her brother keeps his eyes on the path.

I don't know. We're having it done privately, so as many as we can afford, I suppose. The whole thing is quite fraught.

Sorry to hear that.

For a few moments they fall back into silence. Underfoot are fragments of broken stone, swollen moss, and the first fissures of black upland peat.

And you? All OK your end?

Yes, great, she says.

Rachel cannot now say she is pregnant, even if she had wanted to confide in her brother. It would be like one-upmanship. Day to day, she continues to ignore the fact of her condition, though
the reminders are perverse: sudden nausea brought on by motion, types of food, even some words,
Syllabub, Gannet
, as if the sound, the very texture were too visceral. And deathly sleep. She sleeps as if drugged. What would Lawrence's reaction be, anyway? Not delight, surely, nor sympathy for her confusion. Her situation implies a careless imbalance to the universe. He and Emily have been trying for years. And Rachel – one reckless, drunken night. No. She doesn't know her brother well enough to confess.

She sets off up the track again. Behind her, she can hear Lawrence's heavy boots making regular contact with the rock. After a time he stops moving.

Hey, he calls, look at that.

She turns, faces back the way they have come. The world has opened. Immense sky. Grey, heraldic clouds over the hills, and repeated horizons. Directly below, the A66 is a silver thread with toy cars. The mountain does not sit in isolation from its range, but is independent; its heavy arms plunge down and away. The lofty feeling is dizzying, breathtaking; she could almost jump and fly.

Wow. We really made some height. About halfway, do you think?

I think so. Shall we take a break and eat something. All I've had is a terrible pasty at Scotch Corner.

Sure.

They find a good spot to rest, a pulpit-like buttress of rock overlooking a tarn. Lawrence unpacks sandwiches. Brie, with some kind of rustic, gourmet pickle. Apples. Chocolate. They eat quickly.