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.
I worked in a rescue centre in Romania first. Then Belarus. There were problems with industrialisation and the packs coming into town. They ended up scavenging, getting bad press. Then I volunteered in Yellowstone, and then the Nez Perce job opened up. I didn’t think I’d get it.
Of course you got it! Aberystwyth’s premier zoologist!
Thomas Pennington slaps the dashboard with a palm, a flamboyant, almost fey action. She glances at him again. Is he mocking her? Or is it a campaign of flattery? He is, she supposes, likeable, or at least enthusiastic, a positivist. Perhaps rich as he is and influential, he has a social duty to be so. In profile, there’s a boyish brilliance to him, a Pan-like yaw. He has probably played all his life, despite the expectations, the serious nature of privilege, and the obligations of sitting in the House.
I mean there are employment protocols on the Reservation.
Of course. And Idaho. Do you enjoy it there?
The first test as to her availability.
Yes. I do.
I’ve never been up that way. I’ve been to Seattle, of course — my father used to do business with Boeing. But that corner is rather a blind spot for me. I do know those casinos were a bad idea. No routed nation ever did well trying to win money back using alcohol and algorithm. I voted against the supercasinos here. The last thing this country needs in the middle of a recession is more gambling.
She does not disagree, though the revenue streams on the Reservation and in Britain follow very different courses. She watches the estate roll by. Oak trees, damson, and birch coppices, newly planted. Between them, the yellow swards of moorland, patched darkly by gorse, reefed by flowering gold, and purple heather. Thomas Pennington slows the Land Rover, then stops, and points.
Look over there, Rachel.
Standing thirty feet from a stretch of woodland is an area of construction — a long, deep trench, gently curving. The foundation of the enclosure barrier.
Not much more to do now, he says. We’re on the final few miles.
Must have been tricky to negotiate. Isn’t this inside the national park?
Oh, he says, evasively, we managed.
The disputes are ongoing, she knows, but the new legislation has allowed him scope. She does not push him; he would probably deny any negative aspects to the project anyway.
Above the moorland and trees, the Lakeland mountains castle. Above the crags, sky, occluded clouds. As a child, the territory seemed so wild that anything might be possible. The moors were endless, haunting; they hid everything and gave up secrets only intermittently — an orchid fluting in a bog, a flash of blue wing, some phantom, long-boned creature, caught for a moment against the horizon before disappearing. Only the ubiquitous sheep tamed the landscape. She did not know it then, but in reality it was a kempt place, cultivated, even the high grassland covering the fells was manmade. Though it formed her notions of beauty, true wilderness lay elsewhere. Strange to be sitting next to the man who owns all that she can see, almost to the summits, perhaps the summits. It is his, by some ancient decree, an accident of birth and entitlement — the new forestation, the unfarmed tracts and salt marshes towards the edge of the Irish Sea. She could applaud the project without reserve, were it not for the hegemony, the unsettling feeling of imbalance. Still, it is England; a country particularly owned.
She can see, between hills, the glint of grey water — the west coast, where once rum-runners came ashore and where nuclear cargo now ghosts along railway lines at night. The Earl is talking again, about reparation debates, the law-making powers of the Reservations — the cultural respect for the land, by which he is deeply inspired. Isn’t she? he asks. He is better informed than most, but still romanticising. Yes, she thinks. If you’d been fighting for decades over broken treaties, and had, only within the last presidency, been invited into the White House, if you were overseeing class-action settlements worth billions, the buying back of territory and compensation for mismanaged trusts, you would respect the land, you would know its worth. But the track record of some of the First Nations is nothing exemplary.
The redistribution of power is always complicated, she says.
He unbuttons his jacket and leans back in his seat, and she notices the supporting brace underneath, waistcoat-like, perhaps a daily fixture since the microlight crash and subsequent spinal surgeries. He turns slightly towards her. She is aware her sceptical tone has been noted.
I can certainly take criticism, he says. This isn’t the democratic republic of Annerdale. Our system is very antiquated — I’ve campaigned for reform along with my party. Meanwhile, I consider myself a custodian of sorts. The plans we have here are very sound. I don’t need to tell you the benefits of reintroducing a level-five predator. The whole region will be affected. It’ll be a much healthier place, right down to the rivers.