The Cornish Cream Tea Bus

by Cressida McLaughlin

  Somewhere in the house’s overgrown grounds was the melodic trill of a warbler. It could be a blackcap or a garden warbler, their songs so similar that, even now, she found it hard to distinguish between them.

  Opening her eyes, Abby turned away from the house and towards the laid-out trails of the nature reserve. She often wondered if Penelope ever returned, if she walked through the rooms of her old home and found it calming, or if her husband’s death had forever tainted the place in her memories.

  Abby didn’t know why she was drawn to it, but ever since she had moved to the village she had found herself frequently staring up at the serene house, as if it held answers to questions she didn’t yet know how to ask.

  The swallowtail butterfly it was named after wasn’t a regular visitor to north Suffolk, making its UK home exclusively in the Norfolk Broads, and this in itself was intriguing. She wondered if, at the time the house had been built, the population of large, yellow butterflies had been much more widespread; like so many other species, its numbers had declined, crowded out by the constant expansion of humans. Stephan, who ran the reserve’s café, had told her that since Meadowsweet records had begun, there had only been two swallowtail butterfly sightings, and those were likely to be visitors from the continent. In some ways, it added to the house’s mystery.

  Threading her slender legs through the fallen elder and the tangle of brambles, she stepped onto a narrow track that led to the woodland trail. When she had first been shown round the reserve she had noticed the house, and as she found out more about its history, had decided that when Penelope and Al had lived there, this must have been their main route to the old visitor centre. She thought that the fallen tree might even have been left there on purpose – discouraging people from heading towards the abandoned building.

  Back within the confines of the reserve, Abby turned her focus to her job, to the place she would now have to work so hard to rescue.

  Meadowsweet wasn’t the only nature reserve that looked after the lagoons and reed beds around Reston Marsh in north Suffolk. But whereas Penelope owned Meadowsweet, Reston Marsh Nature Reserve – already more identifiable because of its name – was run by a national charity. That the two were so closely situated had never been a problem up until now; the habitats were worth protecting, and while the visitor experience was a little less polished at Meadowsweet, it hadn’t stopped people coming to enjoy the walks, weather and wildlife on offer. There was enough to go around, as Stephan always said, and Abby liked the slightly less kempt trails she walked along every day, the sense that nature was always on the verge of taking over completely.

  But Meadowsweet didn’t have a committee to make the decisions, to test ideas collectively. Penelope kept everything close to her chest, and no amount of gentle encouragement or forcefulness could persuade her to share. Nobody had yet worked out how to chip away at her firm, upright exterior.

  And now the reserve was in trouble. The last few months had seen falling visitor numbers, the damp summer not helping, and recently there had been another dark cloud hanging over it, something which Abby was convinced was the subject of the staff meeting Penelope had called for later that morning.

  She was nearly finished. The ladybird was the final piece in her nature trail, a new activity she had devised for the school visits that would happen throughout the autumn term. She found a particularly gnarly root, easily visible from the wide walkway that cut a swathe through the woodland, and secured the ladybird beneath it, writing down its location in the notebook she always carried with her. The sculptures had been made by a local artist, Phyllis Drum, crafted from twigs and bound with twine. Abby liked the hedgehog best; it must have taken Phyllis hours – days, maybe – to put his spines in place.

  When she got back to the visitor centre, she would create the map and the questions that would lead intrepid groups of children across the reserve to each of the crafted creatures.

  It was the first week in September and the sun was still strong, sparkling on the surface of the coastal lagoons, but there was a faint chill to the air, a clarity that made Abby shiver with nostalgia for fireworks and bonfires, crunching through drives of shin-high leaves. She loved autumn; the sun bold but not stifling, the ripples of leafy scent and pungent sweetness of apples, the way everything burst forth in a blaze of colour, as if refusing to succumb to winter. She picked up her pace, hurrying along the trail that was one of the reserve’s main arteries. Paths led off it down to the water, to the heron and kingfisher hides, to the forest hide, and along the meadow trail.

  She greeted a couple in matching navy parkas, a tripod slung over the man’s shoulder, the woman’s rucksack bulky with extra camera lenses.

  ‘Anything doing down at the heron hide?’ the man asked, spotting Abby’s reserve jacket, the logo of a sprig of meadowsweet and a peacock butterfly on the breast pocket.

  ‘A little egret, and some bearded tits were in the reeds in front of the hide about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Excellent, we’ll head there first. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem,’ Abby said, and waved them off.

  The visitor centre was a round, high-ceilinged building constructed out of wood and glass, the huge windows cleaned regularly, letting the weather encroach on the indoors. It was only eighteen months old, and was welcoming, modern and eco-friendly. Inside, it was split into four sections that reminded Abby of the Trivial Pursuit wedges. Penelope’s office, the storeroom and the kitchen made up one wedge, the reception and enquiry desk made up another, the gift shop was the third and, leading out onto a grassy area with picnic tables that looked out over the lagoons, Stephan’s café was the fourth.

  When Abby walked in, Rosa was behind the reception desk, looking elegant in a loose-fitting teal top, her black, springy curls pulled away from her face in a large butterfly clip. She handed over day passes to two men dressed in camouflage and shouldering impressive telescopes.

  ‘Busy so far?’ Abby asked once they’d taken the map Rosa had offered them and headed out of the door.

  ‘Not very,’ Rosa admitted, her shoulders rising in a sigh. ‘But it’s still early. And lots of people go back to school and work this week so it’s understandable that it’s quieter than usual.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Abby said, their false enthusiasm spurring each other on. ‘Give it a few more days and we’ll be heaving.’

  ‘I truly hope so.’ The voice came from behind Abby. It was smooth and calm, but with a steel to it that made her heart beat a little faster. ‘How is the treasure hunt coming along?’

  ‘I’ve placed everything along the trails,’ Abby said, turning to face Penelope. ‘I just need to finish the paperwork that goes with it.’

  ‘Good.’ Penelope raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘When is our first school coming in?’

  ‘Next week. The first week back was too soon for most of the teachers I spoke to, but they’re also keen to come while the weather’s still good. I think the possibility of forty children going home to their parents with muddy trousers was too much to bear.’

  ‘And how’s Gavin getting on with clearing the area around the heron hide?’

  Abby’s mouth opened but nothing came out, because she had no idea.

  Penelope stood with her arms folded across her slender chest, her long grey hair, streaked with white like a heron’s wing feathers, pulled back into a bun, waiting for the answer. She had used her usual tactic, lulling Abby into a false sense of security by asking her questions she could answer with confidence, then sneaking in the killer blow once she’d become complacent.

  ‘He’s been working since seven,’ Rosa said, rescuing her. ‘He told me he was making good progress when I saw him half an hour ago.’

  ‘I wonder, though,’ Penelope said, ‘whether his version of good progress would be the same as mine?’

  Neither Abby nor Rosa dared to answer that one, and Penelope pursed her lips and glanced in the direction of the café, from where the smell of cheese scon
es, as well as a rather ropey a cappella version of ‘Bat out of Hell’, was coming.

  ‘I want you in my office in five minutes.’ She spun on her heels and walked away, closing her office door firmly behind her.

  Rosa leaned her elbows on the desk. ‘Why do we put up with it?’

  ‘Penelope’s not that bad,’ Abby said. ‘She has the potential to be friendly – it’s just that she’s been on her own for so long, she’s forgotten how.’

  ‘She’s not on her own though, is she? Her life is the reserve, and we’re all here. You, me and Stephan, Gavin and Marek, the volunteers, the regular visitors. She probably sees more people on a daily basis than most other sixty-six-year-olds. My parents don’t have as large a social circle as she does, and they’re eternally happy.’

  ‘Your mum and dad don’t understand the meaning of the word miserable.’

  Abby had met Rosa’s parents several times since she’d started working at Meadowsweet, and they were the most cheerful people she’d ever encountered, living in a cosy bungalow in the Suffolk town of Stowmarket. Rosa’s Jamaican mother was always laughing about something, and her dad had welcomed Abby with open arms, and was easy to talk to. Abby couldn’t help feeling a pang of longing and envy that Rosa had such a loving family close by. Not that Abby didn’t have Tessa, her sister, but it wasn’t the same as doting parents.

  ‘My mum and dad don’t take anything for granted,’ Rosa said, ‘which is the best way to live your life. Penelope has this whole estate, she has the houses – Peacock Cottage and that gorgeous, deteriorating pile that could be so wonderful, yet it’s lying in tatters. And she still walks around as if she’s sucking a rotten plum.’

  ‘Yes,’ Abby said, leaning over the reception desk and lowering her voice. ‘But the reserve is in trouble, isn’t it? We both know what this meeting’s about.’

  Rosa sighed in exasperation. Her dark eyes were sharp, inquisitive. She had spent several years in London, buying products for a department store, and had moved back to Suffolk when her mum had had a stroke – one which, thankfully, she was almost completely recovered from. A nature reserve gift shop was undoubtedly a backwards step, but Rosa had told Abby she liked being able to put her personal stamp on it, and the products she had sourced since being at Meadowsweet were good quality and highly desirable.

  ‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’re reading too much into it.’

  Abby shrugged, hoping her friend was right but not believing it for a moment.

  Ten minutes later, with Deborah, one of the volunteers, covering reception, Abby, Rosa, Stephan and head warden Gavin were seated in Penelope’s office, in chairs crammed into the space between the door and her desk while she sat serenely behind it, her grey eyes unflinching.

  ‘I think you know why I’ve called this meeting,’ she said, without preamble.

  ‘Wild Wonders,’ Stephan replied quickly, and Rosa shot him a look.

  ‘Gold star for you, mate.’ Gavin crossed one overalled knee over the other.

  ‘Thank you, Gavin,’ Penelope said. ‘And Stephan. Yes, you’re right. I’ve had confirmation that Wild Wonders has chosen Reston Marsh Nature Reserve as their host venue for the next year.’

  There was a collective exhalation, a sense of sad inevitability, but Abby’s heart started racing.

  ‘Year?’ she blurted, because while she’d been expecting bad news, this was worse. ‘They’re going to be filming there for a whole year?’

  ‘Got to cover all the seasons, haven’t they?’ Gavin said. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you,’ Penelope continued, ‘that this is not good news for Meadowsweet. While it’s not the most competitive industry, and many of our visitors frequent both reserves, the pull that Wild Wonders will have is considerable. It’s prime time, and as I understand it, they will broadcast a live television programme twice a week, supported by a wealth of online coverage: webcams, competitions and social media. We need to be as proactive as we can.’

  ‘In what way?’ Rosa asked.

  ‘In increasing our numbers, and our reach,’ Penelope said. ‘Making Meadowsweet at least as attractive a proposition for a day out as Reston Marsh, if not more, and becoming more visible. You all have your own areas of expertise, and you have to get thinking. We need visitors who will return again and again. It’s not going to be easy, but as a small reserve with no regular funding, we, in this room, are the only ones who can make a difference.’

  Abby ran her fingers over her lips. Up until that point the events she’d organized had been fairly standard: walks through the reserve and activities for schools, stargazing and bat watching, owl and raptor sessions, butterfly trails. They’d been well attended, but they weren’t unique, eye-catching, untraditional. Maybe now was the time to start thinking a bit more radically.

  ‘I have some thoughts,’ she said. ‘I was toying with the idea of—’

  ‘Excellent, Abigail.’ Penelope met her gaze easily. ‘I’m encouraged that you have plans. After all, your remit is visitors and engagement, so the weight of responsibility is angled more in your direction. But don’t tell me now; this is not the time for brainstorming. All of you go away, come back to me with written proposals and we’ll take it from there. I need to see an almost instantaneous change.’

  She indicated for them all to leave, which they did slowly, scraping their chairs back and filing out of her office, gravitating to the reception desk where Abby took up her post from Deborah and waited for an influx of visitors.

  ‘Not a huge surprise,’ Stephan said sadly.

  Rosa shook her head. ‘I’ve got some ideas, but it’s still going to be a tiny shop in an independent nature reserve, without a national television show raising its profile.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Gavin said, giving her a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure your defeatist attitude is exactly what Penelope’s after.’

  ‘We just need to shake things up a bit,’ Abby said, ‘look at new ways of attracting people who would never ordinarily pick Meadowsweet as a day out. And if we can get the yearly memberships up, then we’ll already be on the way to winning the battle.’

  Stephan’s smile was tentative. ‘Exactly, Abby. And I can work on my recipes, expand my scone flavours.’

  ‘See?’ Abby said. ‘Run a few more lines in the shop, Rosa, and concentrate on the online catalogue. That way we make money without anyone even stepping through the doors. There are lots of small things we can do.’

  What Penelope was asking was straightforward. They had to attract more visitors, sell them more scones and sausage rolls, get them to walk away with bulging paper bags full of mugs and spotter books, boxes of fat balls. They all had their tasks, but, as Penelope had reminded her, Abby was doubly responsible because if she couldn’t improve the reserve’s popularity, then the café could have the best cheese scones in the world, but there would be nobody there to eat them.

  She pushed down a bubble of panic. Would a few more walks, a few more members truly be able to make a difference against a television programme? In only eighteen months she had come to see Meadowgreen as her home, Meadowsweet Nature Reserve and its staff as her sanctuary and family. She didn’t want anything to threaten the small, idyllic world she had carved out for herself.

  The silence was morose, and as Stephan went to check on his trays of flapjacks and Rosa returned to the shop, Abby watched a young man with fair hair and a blue-and-white checked shirt walk through the door.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, bypassing the reception desk and going over to the binoculars before she’d had a chance to reply.

  ‘Hi, Jonny,’ Rosa called.

  ‘Oh, hey.’ Jonny turned uncertainly, as if Rosa was the last person he expected to see in the shop that she ran.

  Abby had almost started a pool on when Jonny would actually buy a pair of binoculars, but then decided it was cruel, and that if he ever found out he’d be mortified. It was the regular customers who kept
the reserve going, even if most of them only bought a day pass and a slice of carrot cake rather than a £300 pair of Helios Fieldmasters with high-transmission lenses and prism coatings.

  ‘I need to fill up the feeders,’ Abby said to Gavin, who was leaning on the desk alongside her, turning a reserve map into a paper aeroplane.

  She went to the storeroom and lifted bags of seed, mealworms and fat balls onto a small trolley, then wheeled it outside to the bank of feeders just beyond the main doors. It was often awash with small birds: blue tits, great tits, robins, chaffinches and greenfinches. Occasionally a marsh tit would find its way there, or a cloud of the dusky-pink and brown long-tailed tits, their high-pitched peeps insistent. Small flocks of starlings would swoop down, cause a couple of minutes of devastation and then leave again. Squirrels regularly chanced their luck, and rabbits and pheasants waited for fallen seed on the grass below.

  Often, before visitors had even stepped through the automatic door of the visitor centre they had seen more wildlife than they found in their own back gardens, and once they were on the reserve, the possibilities were almost endless.

  Abby waited for a male greenfinch to finish his lunch and fly away, then set to work.

  Her job title, activity coordinator, didn’t encompass all that she did for the reserve, but she didn’t mind. There wasn’t anywhere she’d rather spend her time, and her role mattered. She belonged at Meadowsweet, and if Penelope wanted her to get more creative, to double the number of visitors, then so be it.

  Gavin had followed her out, pulling his reserve-issue baseball cap on, and Abby noticed how muddy his ranger overalls were.

  ‘That was a kick up the backside,’ he said, speaking frankly now they were well out of Penelope’s earshot.

  ‘Not unexpected, though,’ Abby replied. ‘There have been rumours about Wild Wonders for ages, and taking a fresh look at how we run this place wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?’