The Wolf Border(7)

*

Thomas Pennington drives himself, but only around Annerdale, he tells Rachel as they tour the estate, not on public roads. What with all the functions, he can never be sure he isn’t over the limit. Doesn’t want to shunt anyone. Or take out a horse. Or roll the Landy. The Land Rover bumps across fields, alongside hawthorn hedges, over hummocks and ditches, at a fair speed. Rachel holds the strap above the passenger door, rocks in her seat, and listens as he regales her. Besides, he can get a lot of work done on the train – wifi – and the Pendolino from Oxenholme now gets in to London in a matter of a few hours – extraordinary, when he was a boy it took six or seven.

You probably remember, he says, everything went through Crewe.

She nods. Many of his questions are rhetorical. It is hard to know whether a reply is necessary. He is a tall man, as elegant as she expected despite his informal attire, corduroy breeches, plaid shirt, and jacket – his knees jut upward as he drives. She gauges his age; late fifties, sixty, perhaps, with slightly greying hair, though a full, gusting crown of it, envied among men of his generation, no doubt. His face is temperate, devoid of obvious stress, like the south side of a mountain. Hazel eyes, dark brows, a long, straight nose with wide nasal vaults – somehow French colouring, Rachel thinks. He is not unattractive, quite handsome in fact, but exhibits no trace of sexuality – the neutering of British private schooling, or he has been docked by high-level politics.

She clutches the hand-grip as they veer over the brow of a hill and tip forward on the descent towards the river. The lane they are driving along is narrow. Undergrowth thrashes against the wheels and doors. Ahead, fallow fields, young woods, and the broad rippling shallows of the ford. The Earl prefers a safari route rather than the tarred roads latticing his land. The vehicle is stripped down and lacks comforts, an ex-army model, Rachel guesses, something of a toy.

I read about you in Geographic a few years ago, he is saying. Thought, there’s a good local lass; hasn’t she gone far. But people from here do, don’t they – they range out around the globe – into all sorts of bother sometimes. And success, equally. You’re from Keld? Parents still there?

No. My mother moved out a few years ago.

Lovely little parish, Keld. Cromwell’s Army holed up in the church, you know, on the way to sort out those troublesome Scots. Oh, dear. Seems like we’re back to all that again, aren’t we? Have you read the white paper?

No, I haven’t. I thought it was only released today?

Don’t bother. It contains quite a lot of fantasy and nothing of a business plan. Interesting thoughts on ecology, though I suspect Caleb Douglas hasn’t the courage, nor will he have the cash, to follow through.

Rachel nods again and says nothing. British politics have been off her radar for a long time. But she is aware of the reform plans across the border – public acquisition of private land, recalibration of resources – a notion that must make the likes of Thomas Pennington more than a little uncomfortable. The BBC is full of debate about independence and the forthcoming referendum; she’s been surprised by how close the polls are, how troublesome the matter is proving for Westminster. Perhaps sensing her reticence, the Earl continues his historical rhapsody of her home village.

The font in Keld church is medieval – a splendid piece. And there’s a Viking hogback in the graveyard in excellent condition. What a lovely place to be brought up; how lucky you were. So, give me the potted history of Rachel Caine. You went to the grammar school, no doubt, then read biology, at Cambridge?

Zoology. I studied at Aberystwyth.

She does not mention the postgraduate work at Oxford, or the honorary fellowship. Let him assume.

Ah, Cymru! Excellent! Well, our future king is one of your alumni.

Not by choice, I imagine.

Thomas Pennington laughs, though she intended no humour.

Quite! Did you enjoy it? Must be a jolly good course if it produced you.

The Land Rover chassis clangs against a boulder. The river is fast approaching.

It was fine. It’s a good department. I’ve gone back and given lectures there. We’ve taken one or two volunteers at Chief Joseph – sort of an exchange programme.

Marvellous! Yes, we must make opportunities for the young.

For all her companion’s levity and volubility, the conversation is not easy. His enthusiasm borders on tyrannical, is giddying. She feels artless, unpractised; there are social mores at which she has become deskilled, if ever she was adequate. She cannot forget who he is. Still, her required input seems minimal. Thomas Pennington is blithely able to cant and hold forth, despite the lack of reciprocity. She glances over at him. He is smiling broadly and seems very pleased.

And then it was off to America? Now, Rachel, have you noticed there are quite a few presidents with Reiver surnames? What do we make of that?

She does not reply. The Land Rover tips gamely over the riverbank. Rachel braces. Thomas Pennington pushes the accelerator hard and the engine roars. He leans over the steering wheel. She notices he is not wearing a safety belt. The vehicle dashes across the shingle bed, pebbles gouging up and growling in the wheel arches. River-water splatters the windscreen and streams away.

Geronimo!

On the far bank he brakes and throws the Land Rover into climbing gear. They grind up the steep thistle-covered slope, crushing the stalks underneath, the fronds rustling and squeaking. Rachel looks to the hills, and the dark creases between. Just talk, she thinks. Tell him what he wants to hear.