Nice day for it at least, Huib says.
He seems unfazed, amused even. But then, he has faced down illegal poachers in Africa, armed, ambitious, and far more dangerous.
Watch that guy, will you, she says, gesturing to the wolf-headed man. He seems quite full on.
Probably nothing, she thinks, but he has gone to a lot of effort with his costume. She wonders for a moment if this man is the mysterious ‘Nigh’, whom they have had several more rabid emails from. Something in the exhibitionism of the disguise and the lack of inhibition fits. But the presentation is too articulate, not in keeping with the chaotic communications pinging into her inbox. As they approach, she steels herself; such confrontations are never easy, even if harmless. She feels embarrassed for those who have misunderstood, the irrationals of the world. When the crowd realises she and Huib are not joining the group, but are here to defend the project, the protesters take formation, hoisting their painted placards. Right to Roam. Protect Our Children. The wolf-headed man begins his pantomime. He drops the briefcase and holds his hands up as if they were claws. The fingertips are painted red. He begins to stalk forward, growling. There are murmurs in the crowd, and nervous laughter.
Great stuff, someone says — the photographer.
He crouches down and snaps off a few shots.
Bit slower, can you? Look over to me, Mr Wolf.
The man continues forward, towards Rachel and Huib. The growling intensifies. The courage of the masked — clearly he has rehearsed and wants to perform. Rachel feels a blush begin to creep up her neck. How to tackle the silliness of it? But she does not have to. Huib applauds and steps into his path.
Bravo, mate, bravo. Minor criticism — the sound’s not quite right. It’s a little low-pitched for an attack. You’ve got to get more of a moan sound in there.
His voice is non-confrontational, but deliberately loud, loud enough for the lecture to be heard by the crowd. He begins to make a snarling noise himself. The impression is honed, and surprisingly accurate. He is physically blocking the pantomime’s progress. The wolf-headed man stops.
And for a happy greeting, you’ve got to whimper or whine. A bit like this.
He delivers another wolfish impression. The crowd is watching him now — he is stealing the show. Genius, Rachel thinks. She sidesteps them and addresses the rest of the group.
My name’s Rachel. I’m project manager here. I can answer any questions you have and address any concerns.
The group rallies, begins a song — a ditty whose lyrics have been written to the tune of Jerusalem. She musters patience. She will let them have a verse or two — it’s what they came for. She puts her hands in her pockets and waits. The little girl in the white frock and cape breaks from the group, prances forward, and smiles up at her. There’s grime on the hem of the dress where it’s been trailing on the ground, which is quite pleasing. Rachel smiles back. The girl seems too young to know what’s going on. She skips off. The song concludes. A woman in the crowd — the self-selected spokesperson, perhaps — pipes up, complains about the danger to children that the Annerdale wolves pose. She places her hands on the shoulders of two of the other children present, boys of about six or seven, smartly dressed in breeches and velvet Victorian-style jackets. Brothers to the little capering princess, no doubt. The boys step forward and present themselves, to illustrate a point, certainly the point of their being children, if not in mortal danger. They look past Rachel to the wolf-man, who Huib is still corralling — a far more interesting scene.
We want to speak to Lord Pennington, the woman declares.
Her tone is rightful, entitled, as if she is requesting an audience with her bank manager after the erroneous bouncing of a cheque.
I’m in charge of the project, Rachel repeats. How can I help?
The woman glares at her, sizes her up, and then looks around, as if Thomas Pennington might materialise, simply from her summons, not unlike the devil. She does not want a representative, no matter how expert, but the real thing, a tall poppy with a worthwhile head to scythe. Rachel decides to follow Huib’s lead — to explode rather than defuse the situation.
I take it you’re worried about your children getting into the enclosure by accident, perhaps? Or being curious and trying to break in?
From the corner of her eye she sees the photographer angling the lens, catching her in profile. She turns her head away.
No, the woman says. No! They wouldn’t do that. They’re good kids.
Yes, Rachel says. And they couldn’t get in, anyway. They’d need industrial cutting gear.
Behind her she can hear more wolf vocalisations; a large part of the crowd is also listening and watching with interest. But there’s only so long Huib will be able to manage things, she knows.
I mean if they get out, the spokeswoman continues. If they get out, what’s to stop them running riot and plundering!
Plundering?
Rachel tries not to laugh, though the rhetoric is in fact ridiculous. She talks the woman through the specifications of the fence: height, depth, impenetrability, inescapability. The woman’s scowl deepens. Construction measurements are not what she came for. Reality is not what she came for. Rachel knows exactly what she wants — to twitter on about her nightmarish fantasy: wolves that pass like fog through the wire and head unerringly and specifically to her house, nosing open the door, and creeping upstairs, howling at the moon before tearing apart her starched and overdressed children. She should try to be more understanding, but the hysteria, the desire for a bogeyman, is tiresome.
They really can’t get out.
But if they get out, the woman repeats. I can’t have my kids walking to school in the village. There isn’t even a siren to warn people. You’re a mother? Aren’t you anxious?
The woman gestures towards Rachel’s swelling belly. Rachel feels her modicum of patience ebbing. Don’t tar me with the same brush, she thinks.
Let’s think this through, she says. A siren might cause panic and would make no difference at all, because they wouldn’t want to interact with humans anyway. But I assure you, they really won’t get out.
The woman shakes her head in denial. She is desperate for tabloid disaster, desperate to mainline all the fear she can. She is thrusting her children out like sacrifices before her. They are slickly combed and ironed. No doubt the poor kids are stewarded hither and thither, to school, to clubs, to the houses of sanctioned friends — every precaution taken to keep them safe from paedophiles, the internet, fires, and floods. There is no reasonable argument Rachel can make.
The little girl comes over and stands in front of her again. Her cape is askew, her hair wildly tattered. She peers up intensely. She is disarmingly attractive, more so for the dishevelment, the corruption of all attempts to groom her. Let me have one like you, Rachel thinks. The girl holds out her meaty little hand, fist clenched, containing a gift.
Is that for me? Rachel asks.
Nancy, come away, please, her mother instructs.
The girl does not move.
Nancy. Come here, please. Nancy!
The fairytale dress hangs off one shoulder, a size too big, and soon to be ruined. Nancy holds her hand out towards Rachel, traitorously.