Lovebirds: The Dawn Chorus

by Cressida McLaughlin

  Abby looked through the figures on the computer. ‘We’re down fractionally on last week, but the weather’s been much greyer over the last few days, which would account for this small a drop. It’s pretty consistent.’ She smiled, hoping her positivity would rub off on her boss.

  ‘Consistency is a start,’ Penelope said, ‘but what we want is to be aiming higher, scaling that mountain, not strolling through the foothills. How are your walks going?’

  ‘They’re quite successful. I’ve got one next Tuesday that’s fully booked.’

  ‘Keep it up. Well done. Good work.’ She addressed them each in turn, Rosa’s eyes widening at the unexpected encouragement.

  ‘Dear God,’ Stephan whispered once Penelope had retreated. ‘What’s got into her?’

  ‘Maybe she’s been on a social skills course,’ Rosa said. ‘What about Monday, when she was in London? What was that about?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Abby shrugged. ‘It’s not like she’s going to come back with goody bags for us all and share her escapades over a hot chocolate.’ The image made them laugh, Penelope’s good mood infecting them.

  ‘Seen any more of our literary antihero recently?’ Stephan asked as he wheeled the mop back towards the café.

  ‘Nope,’ Rosa said. ‘Not a peep. He’s backed down easily.’ She raised an eyebrow at Abby.

  She was wearing a denim shirt that would have looked outdated on anyone else, but Rosa, with her beautiful colouring, her bold Jamaican hair and dark eyes, was always stylish. Sometimes Abby wished she had her friend’s elegance, but as lots of her time was spent out on the reserve, helping the wardens, running walks and messy activities, jeans or cargo trousers paired with a reserve brand T-shirt or fleece were ideal for her, if not exactly eye-catching.

  ‘I’ve not heard from him either,’ Abby said, though she’d heard enough from everyone else about their new neighbour.

  That was the other talking point adding to the buzz on the reserve. The fact that Octavia had been here when Rosa returned from her trip to establish Jack’s identity was the undoing of everything. Abby had noticed more familiar faces at Meadowsweet than she ever had before, people who she said hello to in the Skylark in the evenings, or bumped into at the chapel store, and who wouldn’t be able to tell a blackbird from a bullfinch. She just hoped the buzz stayed within Meadowgreen, and no journalists got hold of the news. She’d had to rub The lesser-spotted Jack Westcoat off the sightings blackboard on two occasions over the past couple of weeks.

  She didn’t know how she felt about her encounter with Jack. He had been stubborn, certainly, and unreasonable to begin with, and finding out about his recent fall from grace should have been enough to cement her dislike of him.

  But the truth was, her mind had returned to those few minutes on the pathway of Peacock Cottage more often than she would have liked, though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone. She had enough to deal with – her booked-out walk for one thing. It was only a few days away now and the weather looked like it would be dry but cold. The thing she hadn’t told Penelope was that there were a couple of names on the list of attendees that she recognized.

  The local councillor, Helen Savoury, and her husband, had booked places. She didn’t know if there were any council grants available, but she thought that if she did a good job, they would at least see how beautiful, and valuable, the reserve was to the local area.

  The forecast, inevitably, had lied. Tuesday turned out to be warmer than planned, but with a constant drizzle that penetrated almost all types of clothing within minutes. Bob the robin was perched on the top of the feeder station as Abby set off with her group of visitors, serenading them as they passed.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said, facing the expectant crowd and clapping her hands together to get their attention. ‘Welcome to Meadowsweet Nature Reserve on this glorious October day.’ There was a smattering of laughter. ‘I’m Abby Field, and I’m your lead on today’s walk. I’m going to start by taking you through the woods, and then we’ll angle left, down towards the coastal lagoons to look at the waterfowl and migratory birds, and then back along the meadow trail which, while without its butterflies at this time of year, has beautiful views across the water and some autumn wildlife all of its own.

  ‘Please ask questions as we go, and if you spot anything and can point it out without disturbing it, I – and I’m sure some of you – should be able to help identify it. Is everyone covered up well enough? Luckily not many of our bird or animal species are put off by a bit of rain, though some of the birds of prey will wait until it’s dry to go hunting. Still, I’m hopeful we’ll see a lot today.’

  She took a breath, realizing that her introduction was too long, hoping she hadn’t lost everyone’s attention completely. Mr and Councillor Savoury were hovering at the back of the group but, she was relieved to notice, looked interested. Helen Savoury was a solid, imposing woman who dressed impeccably and had a kindness to her dark eyes. Today she was wearing a light-grey, fitted waterproof jacket, the hood pulled up over her bobbed brown hair.

  There were also the two women – sisters, she remembered – who always came together, one with a white stick, the other leading her. Abby had seen them several times over the last few weeks but had never got their names. They always wore bright colours, today waterproof jackets in lemon yellow and coral pink, so different from the camouflage browns and greens that people often donned to visit the reserve.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Two hours later, things were looking up. The rain had abated, though after the first half an hour Abby was sure everyone was too wet to care anyway, and they’d spotted a marsh harrier, a reed warbler, two herons and a cluster of bearded tits, which were always popular with their dusky gold and grey colouring, bouncy, toy-like movements and ping-pong song. As they reached the beginning of the meadow trail, however, Abby’s plan faltered. It was far too muddy for any of them to pass easily, even with sturdy walking boots on.

  A woman in her forties with spiky red hair, who Abby had decided was the world’s most enthusiastic visitor, walked ahead of her.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to go that way,’ Abby called. ‘The mud is deeper than it looks.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ the woman said, waving her away.

  ‘I’m not sure all of us are as intrepid as you are,’ Abby replied. ‘Our warden, Gavin, tried to walk through a similar patch a couple of days ago, and came back to the visitor centre looking like a golem. The best thing to do is probably head straight to the café for coffee and cake.’

  There was a low muttering as the group discussed the options.

  ‘What happens in that direction?’ Helen Savoury asked, pointing at a smaller, less worn track through the trees. ‘That looks like it could go around in a loop to the visitor centre, but in the opposite direction to the meadow trail. It doesn’t look too muddy, either.’

  ‘Oh, that way,’ Abby said. ‘It does, it comes out at the top of the car park, but—’

  ‘Sounds perfect then,’ the red-haired woman said. ‘We’ve got thirty minutes left, so why don’t we follow that path and see what we can see?’

  Abby paused. She didn’t want to curtail the walk unnecessarily, and she should listen to what her visitors wanted, but that route would involve going past Peacock Cottage. She would be directly responsible for the behaviour that Jack had complained about, and it seemed like the problem had gone away. The last thing she wanted was to resurrect it. Still, if she stopped the walk now, she wouldn’t get perfect feedback from her visitors – Councillor Savoury included – and word would get back to Penelope. Jack might not even be at home, anyway. It seemed the lesser risk.

  ‘OK then,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  At first, the gamble paid off, and within minutes one of the visitors had picked up on the loud rat-tat-tat of a great spotted woodpecker. After creeping through the trees – a movement Abby was practised at, but which always made her fee
l like she was in a slow-motion film – they found the culprit, high up in a beech tree, his red, white and black plumage startling in the gloom.

  With a sense of satisfaction, Abby led the group out of the woods and along a small section of the approach road. Cars were limited to five miles an hour here, and encouraged to slow further by the speed humps, so it wasn’t as precarious as it could have been, but still Abby kept the pace up, wanting to get off the road as quickly as possible.

  ‘This is a pretty house,’ said a voice from the middle of the group, as Abby tried to hurry them past Peacock Cottage.

  ‘Oooh, lovely,’ said another. ‘So picturesque. I wonder who lives here?’

  To Abby’s horror, everyone slowed behind her. She heard her footsteps distancing themselves from the rest of the group and, closing her eyes momentarily in despair, turned around.

  ‘Come on folks,’ she said. ‘We really should get—’

  ‘Do you know who lives here, Abby?’ It was the woman with red hair.

  Abby chewed the inside of her lip. ‘It’s part of the Meadowsweet estate, rented out, so it’s a private residence and I think we should—’

  She heard the unmistakable sound of the door opening. She turned her head, the slow-motion scene becoming a horror film as she anticipated the scowl on Jack’s face. She wasn’t disappointed, either by her premonition, or by seeing him again, and her feelings clashed. The shame of causing him aggravation, anger at her own stupidity as it could have easily been avoided, anticipation of the harsh words she was about to receive, and the joy of being able to top up the memory of his looks, to redefine the image that was so often in her thoughts. She was surprised how much that feeling rode above the others, how pure a jolt of happiness it was, when the outcome of him seeing them could only lead to another complaint.

  ‘Abby,’ he said, his voice already resigned. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Her visitors were looking eagerly between them, this human interaction matching the wildlife for intrigue. She wondered if any of them recognized Jack, whether he had been reluctant to show his face to more than just her, but she noticed he was hovering inside the doorway, the shadowy hallway doing a half-good job of hiding him.

  ‘Give me ten minutes to take my visitors back, and I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Good. Great. See you then.’ His eyes did a swift sweep of the cluster of people with Abby and then, bowing his head slightly, either to get out of sight or as a goodbye, he closed the door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Red-haired lady whispered loudly.

  Abby made sure they were a few paces from the cottage before responding. ‘That’s Penelope’s tenant. I don’t know much about him.’

  ‘But he wants to see you?’ She was curious, shameless, thinking that because the exchange had happened in her presence she had as much right to the details as she did to knowing the number of nesting pairs of cuckoos on the reserve. Abby pushed down her irritation.

  ‘He wants to see me because he wants to complain to me,’ she admitted.

  ‘Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,’ the visitor said, as if that was somehow reassuring.

  ‘I know that,’ Abby said under her breath. It made her feel worse.

  Chapter Five

  Bearded tits are small, attractive orange-and-grey birds with long tails. The males have black markings either side of their beaks like a moustache. They feed and live in reed beds, and communicate with each other in loud, short squeaks, a bit like when Mum is calling for you and you ignore her.

  — Note from Abby’s notebook.

  By the time she had got everyone safely back to the café, spoken to Helen Savoury for twenty minutes about the future plans for the reserve and then introduced her to Penelope, Abby was almost half an hour later than she had told Jack she would be.

  As she took the short cut back to Peacock Cottage the rain began to fall again, which seemed entirely appropriate. She was already soaked through to her underwear, despite her supposedly waterproof jacket, and had begun to shiver. She wasn’t averse to a bit of rain – she had experienced much worse over the last eighteen months – but she wanted to appear professional and firm in front of Jack, which she couldn’t do if she looked like a drowned rat with chattering teeth.

  She walked up the path and banged the brass knocker twice.

  The door opened seconds later. Jack’s eyes widened, then the perma-scowl was back.

  ‘I’m very sorry about today,’ she started. ‘I had never planned for us to—’

  ‘That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,’ Jack said. ‘I left another note at reception, but you’ve clearly not seen it yet.’

  ‘What?’ Abby took a deep breath. ‘But I thought that—’

  ‘It did seem coincidental, though, you bringing your touring party right past the front door. Almost as if you were making a point. Hang on.’ He disappeared inside, leaving Abby on the doorstep, the warmth of the snug cottage inches away, perhaps with a burning fire and a cup of cocoa on the table, a blanket on an impossibly soft, leather sofa … She snapped out of her daydream when Jack reappeared, pulling on a navy padded jacket. It was Arc’teryx. Of course it was. Ten times the price of her own reserve-issue coat. He probably went skiing twice a year at an exclusive Swiss resort.

  ‘Look at this.’ He walked past her and crouched next to his Range Rover, pointing at a spot above the wheel arch. Abby tried to keep her sigh silent and crouched alongside him. She peered at the glossy, rain-splattered paintwork.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘This.’ He jabbed his finger at the car. Abby peered closer, and spotted the faintest, almost non-existent white line.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, her mind whirring, trying to get ahead of the game.

  ‘It’s a scratch,’ he said. ‘Caused by the pheasants that come stalking through here constantly, hooting like roosters.’

  Abby closed her eyes, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she started to stiffen up. ‘You’re complaining about the wildlife now?’ she asked quietly. ‘Your cottage is in the countryside. Even if it wasn’t on a nature reserve, you’re going to get pheasants, deer, birds crapping on your precious Chelsea tractor.’

  ‘What?’ His voice was sharp. He looked more shocked than angry, as if he wasn’t used to people answering back to him.

  ‘I can’t do anything about the pheasants,’ she said, more gently. ‘And this scratch – I can barely see it, you need a magnifying glass. I honestly don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t close your cottage and garden off from the rest of the world, wrap it up in bubble wrap.’

  Jack stood quickly, and Abby wondered how outraged he’d be if she used his shiny car to hoist herself up, envious of the fact that his knees worked better than hers. Then she looked up and found he was holding his hand out to her. She took it, and he pulled her to standing, the momentum closing the gap between them.

  The raindrops were beading on his coat like pearls, and his hair was slowly losing its volume, flattening against his forehead.

  ‘I just need to write,’ he said. ‘How am I supposed to do that with all these distractions?’

  Abby shook her head. ‘Can’t you … be inspired by them, instead? It’s an idyllic setting, the roses in the garden, the hanging basket, the birds singing, even the pheasants. There’s Swallowtail House a short walk in that direction, beautiful and mysterious. And in the spring you’ll have bees again, butterflies – can’t you use all that in your writing? And surely overhearing conversations is helpful. Isn’t people-watching a writer’s favourite pastime – after writing, obviously.’

  Jack put his hands on his hips. ‘My writing doesn’t contain many butterflies. It’s usually quite dark.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. But … weren’t there butterflies – or moths, at least, in The Silence of the Lambs?’ She could picture the DVD cover now, a girl’s face with a moth covering the mouth. It was a death’s-head hawkmoth, though she hadn’t known that wh
en she’d first watched it.

  ‘What do you mean “of course?”’ Jack asked.

  Abby frowned, trying to put herself back in the conversation. ‘I – uh.’ Her teeth chattered violently, and Jack pulled her by her sleeve until they were huddled under the half-shelter of the porch. She could smell the heather in the hanging basket, its scent enhanced by the rain, even though it was close to the end of flowering.

  ‘You said “of course” when I told you my writing was dark. Why did you say that?’

  ‘Because I … oh.’ It was common knowledge who was living next to the reserve, but news of the interest it had aroused obviously hadn’t reached the man himself yet, probably because of his self-imposed seclusion.

  ‘So, you know who I am, then? Who else?’

  ‘I didn’t know to begin with,’ Abby said. ‘I didn’t recognize you. But Rosa, who works in the reserve shop, was just … we were wondering, when you told me you were a writer, and I … she came by, and said that—’

  ‘Who else knows?’ Jack prompted.

  Abby looked at her sodden walking boots. ‘Pretty much everyone who works on the reserve, and in the village too, I would have thought.’

  ‘Fuck.’ It wasn’t directed at her. Jack was staring over her shoulder, his jaw clenched, the muscles so tight Abby thought they might lock together.

  ‘It’s a normal village mentality,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Gossip spreads like wildfire, every arrival and departure is noticed, and especially into a cottage that’s been deserted for years. If you didn’t want to be a—’

  ‘A what? A talking point? A figure of fun?’ He looked at her now, his eyes blazing. ‘So, I should have figured out there’d be all this wildlife, I should have known I’d be assailed by bloody twitchers, or whatever you call them, and that I wouldn’t be left alone from the moment I arrived? Well, I’m sorry I’m not a mind reader. My agent said it was ideal, that it would give me the space I needed. That’s all I want – some peace and quiet to write my book.’ He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it off his forehead and spraying Abby’s face in the process.