Evening, Thomas.
Hello, Caleb. I do appreciate you seeing us at short notice.
The Prime Minister looks down again at his sheaf of papers.
Needs must. This is a live issue, unfortunately.
Rachel and Thomas take their seats. Introductions are quickly made. Caleb Douglas barely looks at her when her name is given, though he reaches across the table and pours her a glass of water from a decanter. He is a round-faced, heavy-chinned man with thinning hair, has the look of a retired boxer, once solidly built, now running to fat. He is curt, wastes no words, and she recognises shades of the hard-line bully from newspaper reports, The Fife Fighter.
Right, then. We should get on, should we not?
She has borrowed Sylvia’s laptop, has accessed her own data and files, and has prepared her best case at very short notice. There is no time for PowerPoint; she does not want to waste time setting everything up. Instead, she simply speaks. There is a particular site that many ecologists believe suitable for a wolf population, she explains, an ‘abandoned area’ where farming has failed, European subsidies have been stopped, and re-wilding is possible. From Rannoch, north of Loch Lomond, west of Ben Nevis, to the sea. The wolves may find their own way there, if left alone, she suggests, or could be sedated and transferred. This and other areas in the Highlands could support three or four packs. She outlines the rest of the argument hastily. The Highland deer population is once again out of control. There’s sickness; the herds are damaging the environment, and are proving expensive to cull. She wishes she’d had another day to prepare. There’s an excellent Romanian model for eco-tourism she could have used, demonstrating high-revenue potential, but she does not have the figures to hand.
She speaks for barely three minutes. The only protest, from the Farmers’ Association representative, who says he cannot allow a new predator to ruin the old, cherished industries, is quashed by Douglas.
Stop your twittering, man, and let her finish. And you really should update your definition of ruin. The state of your hillsides after years of little yellow teeth bloody mowing them!
A bully indeed. After allowing Rachel another minute or so, and glancing at his watch, he himself interrupts.
This is clearly not an ideal situation, he remarks.
He glances around the table.
I take it the rest of you gentlemen have no objections to what Miss Caine is saying? Good. Simon, why don’t you give us a brief rundown of everything and tell us the plan.
He gestures towards the environment minister, a young man barely in his thirties, who stands.
No need for formalities, Simon, let’s get on.
The minister sits again and efficiently speeds through his agenda. Recent polls on the reintroduction of larger species have been favourable, in towns as well as in the countryside. There will be a public consultation, but for now a quick-acting environmental grip is being granted, and there will be a three-year authorised study, the same as for the escaped Tay beavers. Long-term protected status may follow. It is just as Thomas predicted. Rachel exhales quietly, feels her shoulders untense. The pack has been granted amnesty, which is not to say she wholly trusts Caleb Douglas. He clearly has strong opinions, suited to her needs or otherwise, and seems iron-fisted with his colleagues. The long, sometimes dirty fight for independence has certainly not made him popular. Now he must run his country, overseeing huge legal battles for fuel revenue, renegotiated European status, and a struggling economy. Wolves are not high on the agenda.Thomas is, of course, delighted.
This is really very sporting of you, Caleb. And very generous. A new era for Scottish ecology, I’d say. I hope we can follow your example one day.
The Prime Minister is in his own house; he is done with the Lords, the ethos of unelected exclusivity, and evidently has little time for fey earls — their simper or their gratitude. He stands up, gathers his documents together.
I think we’ll leave the sports to you, Thomas. I never did see the appeal of wiping fox blood all over the faces of gay little princes. More notice next time, if you please.
Thomas smiles, enjoying the spar, or seeming to, though there is a remarkable degree of rudeness to it. The subtext is clear — We’ll take your carelessly lost wolves and mop up your English mess. The Earl of Annerdale is being rendered club-less by a parvenu head of state, which is in some way satisfying, but Rachel doubts the old networks are truly gone. Thomas’ committee meetings over the border during the last year, his friends in the lodges and the banks; she would not be surprised if he had sounded out the venture, if not arranged with a select few for the extradition of his wild pets. What are a few high-ranking insults in the face of his scheme’s success? Of course he is smiling. She wants out from under him, as soon as possible.
The meeting is concluded. Caleb Douglas bids no one farewell as he leaves the room. Another meeting, perhaps several, before he can head home. The casualness of the outcome is surprising to her. There are no handshakes. No signature of transferred ownership has been required, though there will be paperwork, stamps, scheduled legislature, she knows, wilderness being as bureaucratic as anywhere else. The Trust representatives nod goodbye and file out. She closes the laptop and stands while Thomas waits, all smiles, but the environment minister stops her as she is leaving the room.
Ms Caine, if you’ve got a minute, can I have a word?
Before leaving Holyrood, she looks in on the main debating chamber — a cyclone of wood and glass, acres of air above the bisected seats. There is something medieval about it, too, redolent of cruick barns and meeting houses. She is impressed, far more than she thought she would be. The place did not exist when she was a child, is less than twenty years old, but in that time much has changed, the fabric of British politics, state definitions. It can be done, she thinks, if people want it badly enough, if they are tired, and hopeful. She stalls, wanders the hallway, reads a notice about the architect — a Catalan, controversially chosen at the time, though widely celebrated now. The result for the pack is good, as good as it can be, better even than their original situation, and yet she still feels conflicted, and as if she has been beaten. The others are waiting for her outside. It’s dark, but sails of light arc from the parliament building. Huib and Sylvia are chatting excitedly with Thomas; they are all laughing. They clap as she approaches.
Superbly handled, Rachel, Thomas says, putting a hand on her back. And good that you had a private word with Simon. No doubt he wants you as chief advisor up here.
She does not fill him in on the private conversation she has just had, but he is not widely off the mark and she must think carefully about the proposal.
I was just saying to Huib, Thomas continues, that you and he mustn’t worry about jobs and pay and accommodation or any such thing. This is absolutely unforeseen. We won’t be seeing you out in the cold. You’ve both done a terrific job.
She nods and says nothing.
Shall we go?
Thomas leads the way across the grounds.
I’ve got a taxi booked to take us back to the airport. Honor’s reserved rooms in the Sheridan. We’ll get an early start tomorrow, but tonight we should celebrate!
She remains quiet on the walk to the rank while the others discuss the events.
This will suit Douglas very nicely, Thomas says. A new icon for a new nation. I wouldn’t be surprised if the wolf ends up on the Scottish flag.
Sylvia laughs.
I’m glad they’ve gone to a good home. I think Mummy would have been so happy.
She would. I am, too, Soo-Bear. Very happy.
He kisses his daughter and opens the taxi door for her — Sylvia slides in. Their etiquette is flawless, as ever. Thomas Pennington is unfathomable, Rachel decides. He is not mad. Such a persona is a front that works well in the southern offices, and always will. The ebullient, boyish elite, which is anything but harmless, and masks, in fact, something very dangerous. He fits his position, or the position has created him to suit. But what is at the core, she cannot tell. Nothing, perhaps, a vacancy. Or the most ardent conviction — I am right, therefore I have the right. He is subject to different laws of gravity, that’s all. No doubt she will be offered a generous settlement, a payoff. Her silence radiates dissatisfaction, and she feels sorry for Huib, though he seems in no way worried. Zen acceptance; he will move on to another job, thinking it fortuitous and an adventure, which, by virtue of his temperament, it will be. As she is getting into the taxi, Thomas leans towards her, and speaks softly, with the sincerity of the damned.