The Wolf Border(26)
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 paté, 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.
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.