The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall Page B

remote western Elysium and to champion it; attending gymkhanas and trials, garden parties and shows; maybe having a drink now and again with local friends in the aggrieved west coast towns – a reminder of reality. Sheclearly wants to be involved. But what does she expect? That they will be pets? That they’ll be fed milk from a bottle, like orphaned lambs? She will have to explain to Sylvia, give her the facts. They will rarely be seen – defined as much by their absence as their iconography. If she really wants the job, Sylvia will have to learn to track; she will have to endure hours of monotonous surveillance, reading prints, weighing carrion, data entry. Unglamorous at best.
    Thomas Pennington crosses the room with a new guest, first dignitary of the evening. Rachel recognises the man he’s accompanying, a bright young politician, ex-military and a media darling, headhunted by the current government and installed in a safe seat. Described by Binny as the baby Tory .
    Rachel, this is Vaughan Andrews, our local MP, Thomas says. Vaughan’s been hard at work getting us faster broadband. A jolly good enterprise and very uncontroversial. We’ve been disagreeing in the hallway about Scotland, haven’t we, Vaughan?
    The young man laughs, good-naturedly.
    Yes, but we agree on the basics. Hello, Miss Caine, pleasure to meet you.
    Up close he looks older, in his forties, perhaps. His skin is pocked, sun-damaged; he is thin, and the suit, though well cut, looks roomy. He still carries the air of the whippish officer.
    I’m a great admirer of yours, he says. I’m very glad Thomas has won you over. I gather you’re a native to these parts.
    That he knows anything about her comes as something of a surprise. But the estate has no doubt pronounced her worth, at least to the Lakeland set.
    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 thatparticular 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