The Wolf Border(61)

Are we going down to see it when the police arrive? he asks.

I would reckon so, Michael says.

Where exactly is the hole?

Back of Ulver Scar, near the woods.

That’s a long way from the main road, Rachel says.

Michael nods.

It is.

Kids, she says.

I reckon so.

Good job you saw it, Huib chips in. We might have missed it in that location.

Vexed by the conversation, Rachel leaves them for a minute and heads into the Hall. Honor Clark is in her office, on the phone. She holds up a finger, signs for her to wait. Rachel lingers in the office doorway. Honor swivels in her chair as she speaks. She’s lost a few pounds, though still remains curved, a country weight. Blue blazer with a neck-bow blouse, a very good complexion – she could not appear more suited to her situation.

It’s at Rannoch Mhor, she is saying, the flight leaves at six. No, press aren’t invited. Of course, of course. Douglas and a few others.

On the desk, next to the photographs of her grandchildren, is a white orchid in a pot of curling moss. On the laptop screen, an elaborate grid of appointments – Thomas’ diary, extremely full as always; today’s column is marked with a red background – an important day, clearly. Honor hangs up.

That was Thomas, she says. He won’t be back until the end of the week. But it doesn’t sound too serious, by Michael’s account.

No, luckily not.

Can I leave it in your hands, then, liaising with the police?

Honor taps her pen. Her expression is expectant, marginally harassed, that of an overburdened chatelaine. She does not seem especially surprised by the attack – it is simply another event on the estate that must be dealt with. Her personal opinion of the project has never been expressed, at least not to Rachel. Beneath the solicitous exterior, she might be of Michael’s ilk – a right-wing rustic. Most likely she is paid not to have an opinion, to be dutiful, to facilitate on behalf of the Earl, and, when necessary, handle fallout. Or perhaps, it would not surprise Rachel, she is a member of his unpopular party, a loyal follower, a genuine believer. They must exist.

That’s fine, Rachel says. But could you arrange a meeting with Thomas when he gets back? I’d like to get on top of this, compile a proper list of those who have officially come out against the project. I feel there may be gaps – from before my time.

Do you need him for that? Honor asks.

Yes. I do.

The secretary swivels in her chair, faces the screen. Rachel does not say so, but she feels Thomas must be tackled on certain other issues as well. Michael, perhaps.

I can do Saturday morning, at eight-thirty?

Fine.

What shall I reference?

I don’t know. Security?

Honor types. Rachel pauses for a moment before leaving.

We’ll need to get the fence repaired as soon as possible.

Yes. I’ve spoken with the company. They’re sending someone out this afternoon.

Of course you have, Rachel thinks. Everything put back in order straight away; the estate must keep up its face. She heads to the main door. Access to Thomas has become more difficult lately, she’s noticed. Despite his initial enthusiasm, he has been extremely disengaged in the last few weeks, not replying to emails or messages. She thinks of Sylvia’s comment the night she arrived in Annerdale, the night Prime Minister Mellor set down in the grounds on his way to the debates – doomed, though he did not know it then, to be the premier on whose watch the nation dissolved. It’ll be good for Daddy to have another project; he hates it when there’s nothing new. The Earl has got what he wanted, near enough – wolves roaming the estate. Has he simply moved on?

Outside, Michael is holding forth about the referendum results.

They’ll be bankrupt in a year. They take more money than they’re taxed anyway. It’ll be cap in hand to Europe.

She is hungry, and suddenly very annoyed by the events of the morning – its players, the cynical old systems. The English, bred to feel superior for generations but lacking any real desire for improvement or vision, seem intolerable.

Isn’t that what we used to say about America, too? That the country would be bankrupt and fall into obscurity?

Michael turns to face her, scowling at the interruption.

What?

The Second Continental Congress disagreed. They’ve done OK, don’t you think?

I forgot you were a Yankee for a bit.

I think the expression is a damn Yankee, Huib says, trying to joke. Michael turns back to him, to take up the lecture where he left off.

It’s not enough of a majority to be causing havoc with the union. It’s economic suicide. Brown says so, and he’s a Scot. They can’t just depend on North Sea oil, which isn’t even theirs by rights.

Natural resources, Huib says quietly, are a contentious issue, especially when exploited by a foreign country.

Michael does not reply, knowing perhaps that he is straying into very dangerous territory: African politics. The conversation is interrupted by the appearance of a police Land Rover, making its way up the long drive, lights unlit, sirens off. The vehicle pulls up and two officers climb out, wearing high-visibility jackets over black. The younger looks about at the opulent surroundings, manicured grounds with sculpted hedges, the impressive red facade of the Hall, and is clearly awed. The sergeant introduces himself and his colleague. There’s a brief discussion about the events; Michael’s account is given again. He was passing; he happened upon the damage. Rachel listens closely for any deviation.