The Wolf Border(89)
Hi. I thought there was someone else here. I heard the jackdaws in the tower going. I was just visiting Mummy. It’s the anniversary of the day she died today.
She looks at the statue – Carolyn Pennington’s memorial. The angel is corroding to burnished rust, the same colour as autumn bracken. Moss is growing in the ripples of the wings. It is a very tasteful piece, fitting in its environment, no doubt commissioned from a well-respected artist. A fresh posy of flowers has been laid at the base. There’s a small bottle of spirits – vodka, perhaps – and two glasses in the grass.
Sorry to disturb you, Rachel says. I had no idea.
She feels awkward to have intruded upon the moment, and whatever ritual was taking place. But Sylvia is smiling and looking into the woods again, as if seeing something there they cannot see.
No, you aren’t disturbing me at all. Everything’s fine.
Suddenly, the Annerdale project is big news: both local and national television run pieces; Rachel is interviewed on Radio 4 and international shows. Letters pour in, expressing positive wishes, overtaking the naysayers. These are the first wolf pups born in the wild for centuries, the significance is not lost on the nation. They become almost like mascots, for what exactly no one is sure, a beleaguered England, an England no longer associated with Scotland’s great natural resources. The project has pluck, and scope. Requests for interviews keep coming. Thomas hires a publicity company and throws another party, a promotional event for the media and supporters of the scheme. Though it is another occasion she would prefer to skip, Rachel must attend. There’s the usual hoopla – dignitaries, fancy food, and drinks, more in keeping with an award ceremony or junket. The hall buzzes with reporters. Vaughan Andrews puts in an appearance, keen to capitalise on the good news in his constituency. Yes, it is a Tory-backed initiative, Rachel hears him say. Sebastian Mellor himself is involved and has visited the site on numerous occasions.
Thomas assumes a florid style of mingling, and Rachel tries not to hold his recent disinterest against him. Let him puff and pander. She is singled out lavishly in the Earl’s address, as the Cumbrian who reintroduced wolves to Cumbria, the usual rubbish; she grits her teeth, smiles. Immediately after the speech, she finds herself swarmed by journalists, portable microphones thrust her way. Is she proud? they ask. Does she feel protective of the pups? It is as if she is some lupine mother figure, expected to give an emotional account. Did the country always treat its women experts with such sexism and reductionism? she wonders. She looks at the sea of rumpled shirts and high-street tweeds, hipster accessories; the reporters range from charmingly stupid and urbane, to slick, eelish, and presumptuous. No one, it seems, has researched the subject with any care or read the press release. The great capital–countryside divide. How to explain to those unused to rural issues, to Londoners surprised by the fast trains north and the relative proximity of the Lake District to the Great Wen, surprised, it seems, that anything outside their own experience exists? There’s a misunderstanding about the transmitters – she explains the purpose. She explains the size of the enclosure, the ratio of biomass. No, this is not Scotland, she explains, Scotland lies forty miles to the north. Then, one reporter who has researched, into her at least, or has simply been listening to the idle chatter in the room, catches her by surprise.
You’ve given birth yourself this year, haven’t you, Rachel? he asks. So are you considering this the lucky double?
She stares at him, and a small flare of panic fires internally. The shutters come down. She ignores the question, begins to lecture the listening crowd on the development of the pups.
Once they’re weaned and are taking regurgitated meat, the next phase will be learning to hunt, she says. That’s when they’re taught all the skills they need to survive. It’s called the hunting school.
The reporter steps in and moves the microphone disconcertingly close to her face; he is about to repeat the question, far more interested in that which is personal than in animal behaviour. She glances at his name and company lanyard – a glossy celebrity magazine. Why is he even here? She keeps talking, mentions predation rate and digestive systems, even scat, verging on scientific bore, until his eyes begin to flicker and he looks down at the recording device. Denying a son – she wonders if this is a crime that will be forgiven. Finally, he moves away, towards Sylvia, and Rachel is glad of the girl’s photogenic qualities. The whole experience feels slightly unsavoury – the bald assessing of what is newsworthy, what is inflammatory, or titillating. Is the achievement not enough? Are such beautiful creatures not enough? After another fifteen minutes, she excuses herself, steps into a side room, and calls Lawrence to check on the baby.
The party begins to wind down. The last of the champagne is swilled, too fine and expensive to let it go to waste. A convoy of taxis arrives to take guests back to Kendal, where they have hotels booked, or to catch the last train south. Thomas has disappeared, but Sylvia gives out gift bags to the departing, containing a project pamphlet, badges, and some of the estate’s paraphernalia. The gathering takes on an air of fin de siècle, but not simply for its curtailment. Some kind of aftermath or anticlimax pervades. Rachel begins to feel depressed.
On the drive back to the cottage, a strange, heavy sensation overwhelms her, like fatigue. She parks for a few minutes on the verge, next to the main gate of the enclosure. Rain falls through the beam of the headlights with extraordinary grace. Despite the vulturish atmosphere of the evening, the tipping point of public opinion will be a good thing. There’s much to celebrate, not least the fact of the litter. And yet. Rather than expanding, the project feels as if it is moving towards a conclusion, a dead end.