The Wolf Border(25)

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.