Lovebirds: The Dawn Chorus

by Cressida McLaughlin

  She couldn’t help it; she ruffled his hair. Evan bounced up and down on the spot and then, sensing that he should be professional about his discovery, looked through his binoculars again and began telling the interested walkers all the facts he knew about bitterns.

  Abby knew they were in safe hands so she shuffled over to Jack, who was looking in the general direction but seemed at least 85 per cent uncomfortable.

  ‘Want to see?’ she asked, holding up her binoculars.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think—’ he started, then paused. ‘Go on, then. What am I looking for?’

  She lifted her binoculars over her head and handed them to him, and he crouched slightly, put them to his eyes and let her turn him by the shoulders, in the right direction.

  ‘There,’ she said into his ear. ‘In the reeds. Standing very still, its head and beak angled upwards. They don’t often sit on the edge of such a large area of water, they’re much happier nestled in the middle of the reed beds, fishing and surviving away from the other species, out of view.’

  ‘Sensible birds,’ he said softly, and Abby grinned. ‘Oh, I see it,’ he continued, and she felt his shoulders tense as he fixed his gaze on the same spot as everyone else. ‘It’s very serene. Does it ever move?’

  ‘When it finds a fish it’ll dart forward, quick as a flash, and grab it. Blink and you’ll miss it.’

  ‘Noted,’ Jack said, and Abby was taken back to the plush comfort of his car, the flicker of his smile in the dark. The memory brought a smile to her own lips as she watched him. He was oblivious to her scrutiny, blinkered by the binoculars. His hair curled behind his ears, slightly too long, as if it was the one outward sign of recklessness in his otherwise polished appearance.

  She realized she was holding her breath, not wanting to exhale against his cheek, the thought of him feeling it somehow too intimate. She was relieved when Evan, full of exuberance, dragged her away with a question about the bitterns and why they weren’t booming right now, as bitterns were known to do, and what it sounded like. She left Jack to his observation, though thoughts of him followed her to Evan’s side, and for the rest of the walk.

  They arrived back at the centre rosy-cheeked and full of the things they had seen, and Rosa was regaled with the bittern story at least three times, by three separate visitors. The hubbub filled the shop and reception area and drew Penelope out of her office. Evan bounded up to Abby, his spotter book at the ready, and Abby spent several minutes poring over it with him, asking where he’d seen the snow bunting, and the tree creeper, and the hares.

  She glanced up to see Penelope and Jack talking. She was struck all over again by how similar they looked, especially seeing them side by side, and the quiet, conspiratorial nature of their discussion made it clear they knew each other.

  When Penelope glanced in Abby’s direction, nodded briefly and went to speak to Rosa, Jack approached her.

  ‘Good walk,’ he said.

  ‘You’re glad you came?’

  ‘I am. I can see why you love working on the reserve, seeing these people so inspired by the wildlife.’

  ‘But not you?’

  He frowned. ‘It made me realize how ignorant I am, and that’s not something I’m comfortable with. The bittern was beautiful though, and clearly a coup. I feel privileged to have seen it with you.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, good. Glad it was …’ Abby fumbled for words and came up empty.

  ‘I should get back, but have a lovely Christmas. Will you be staying in Meadowgreen?’

  Abby nodded. ‘I’ll spend a few days with my sister in Bury St Edmunds, but otherwise, I’ll be around. Wildlife doesn’t go on holiday, and the reserve is a lovely place to come for a festive walk, work off some mince pie calories, clear the alcohol fug.’

  ‘Always selling the wildlife,’ he said, laughing softly. ‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about, even in the face of Wild Wonders. Meadowsweet, the nature, it’s a part of you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s easy to sell,’ Abby said, ‘because it’s so—’ she stopped, saw the amusement in his blue eyes, that suppressed grin making his lips twitch, as if it cost him something every time he smiled. ‘How about you? What will you be doing for Christmas, do you have family to go and see, or a – a – um, friends?’

  ‘I’ll head back to London to see my parents, but I wouldn’t have thought I’ll be away long. There’s only so much of them I can take, and I’ve got used to my cottage with its night-time visitors, now. I’m sure I’ll miss it.’

  Abby didn’t know whether the night-time visitors he was referring to were the deer barking like dogs, owls calling from the trees, or her, tripping over outside his front door. ‘So, you’re admitting you’re fond of this place? Peacock Cottage, and all that comes with it?’

  Jack ran a hand over his jaw. ‘More than perhaps I should allow myself to be. Anyway, you have people who want your attention, I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned to go, and his gaze fell on the mistletoe that Rosa had hung from the ceiling and Abby, a few moments before, had noticed she was standing beneath.

  He moved towards her again, ran his fingers softly down the back of her arm and kissed her on the cheek, his lips brushing close to the corner of her mouth. ‘I wonder if,’ he said, when he’d stepped back, ‘after the festive period, you’d like to get together for a coffee? You could come to Peacock Cottage, or – I don’t know …’ He seemed suddenly unsure, his nervousness heightening Abby’s tension, and her desire to see him again. ‘January’s bleak,’ he continued, ‘and friendly faces help. I think, hope, I can count you as one of those now?’

  Abby tried to find her voice, fighting through the warnings sounding like alarm bells in her head. He hit someone. He’s had a troubled past. He’s the same as the others. And then she remembered his tenderness when she’d tripped, his light as a feather touch, and found herself nodding. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘Friendly faces are important, and I’d like that very much.’

  He didn’t reply immediately, as if surprised that she’d agreed, and then the smile was back, warmer this time, his eyes alight with it. ‘Great. I’ll be in touch, then. Happy Christmas, Abby.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Jack.’

  She watched him stride off in the direction of Peacock Cottage and the shortcut through the trees. Her breath was lodged in her throat, her skin tingling where his lips had been. It was a physical effort not to touch the spot, aware that she was standing in the middle of the visitor centre, that her exchange with Jack wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by certain people, and she needed it to seem as ordinary as possible. But inside, she felt anything but. Something was happening, something she wasn’t ready for, something that – when Penelope had handed her his first letter, written on the bee-adorned Post-it Note, pretentious and full of confidence – she would never have imagined in a million years.

  She had seen him only a handful of times, but Jack Westcoat was consuming her thoughts. It was as if he felt entitled to take them over, as well as asking her to remove all traces of wildlife, and people, from around his rented cottage. How dare he? How dare he take her peaceful, undramatic life and turn it on its head? He was haughty, self-righteous, and obviously had an aversion to people. Smiling was not something he did readily.

  And yet, when they’d been talking in the café and Octavia had suggested he did as he pleased and damn the consequences, Abby had been on the verge of defending him, so strong was her sense that he wasn’t like that. She couldn’t be sure – she knew so little about him, had spent less than three hours in his presence, and most of that time with ten other people in tow.

  But she was convinced that beneath the hard, handsome exterior, Jack Westcoat was worth getting to know. She had seen glimmers of his kindness and his humour, and she wanted more. She felt it so strongly that it scared her, as did the power of her reaction after the quickest, faintest kiss, and her elation, like a giddy teenager, when he’d asked her out for coffee.

  ‘Abby?’ R
osa called. ‘Fancy a gingerbread hot chocolate with cream? A customer requested a couple but has changed her mind, and Stephan doesn’t want them going to waste.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Over in a second.’

  As she waved Evan goodbye, checked the state of the welcome desk and whether Maureen needed any help, Abby tried to push her thoughts of Jack aside. Christmas was on the way, he would return to London and she could busy herself with entertaining Willow and Daisy, firming up the plans for her New Year events. The grim, icy and often unappealing months of January and February would be the toughest to draw visitors in, and she had to be on top of her game if the reserve wasn’t going to falter just as she had started to gather momentum.

  She wouldn’t see Jack again between now and the New Year. Still, she thought, grinning gratefully as Rosa handed over the hot, sweet drink, he had left her with a kiss, his parting gift. Now, she couldn’t help but touch the skin his lips had briefly caressed. She would keep her feelings to herself, she thought, turning away from Rosa’s curious gaze. Her ridiculous attraction could run its course and burn itself out, and everything would go back to normal. Meeting up for coffee was nothing, a favour to someone who felt out of place in a strange village. Almost two years earlier, she had been in the same position. As irritating as Jack was – and he was irritating, wasn’t he? – Abby wouldn’t wish loneliness on anyone.

  She was being a good citizen, that was all. Saving the reserve, sharing her love of wildlife, indulging Raffle, spending time with Tessa and with her friends. This was her life, and it would become her mantra, fuel everything she did. There was no room for a man amongst all those things, and even if there was, it couldn’t be someone as dark, as dangerous, and as utterly distracting as Jack Westcoat.

  Chapter 1

  Even with its cloak of December grey, Campion Bay was beautiful. Robin Brennan tucked her gloved hand through her mother’s arm and slowed her pace. The sand was compact beneath their feet, and Robin wanted to take her boots off and feel it against her bare soles, despite the blistering cold.

  She had been back here for three months; back in her childhood town, with its quaint teashops and Skull Island crazy golf course and the sea stretching out alongside them, never the same, today a dark, gunmetal grey with barely a hint of blue. It was the last day of the year, a time to think about starting afresh and promised resolutions, but Robin felt in some respects like she’d gone backwards.

  ‘It’s encouraging that we’ve got a full house for the New Year,’ she said to her mum. ‘We can celebrate properly tonight.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ Sylvie Brennan patted her arm. She was trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice, but Robin could tell her mind was elsewhere. ‘No empty rooms for the first time in … well, months.’ She gave Robin a quick, unconvincing smile.

  ‘Maybe things will improve now.’ Robin bent to pick up a pebble polished smooth by the sea, the thin sliver of quartz running through it glinting in the weak sun. ‘I know there are going to be fireworks later, but it’s not exactly an extravaganza. Most people like to spend New Year’s Eve in big cities or at house parties, not the Dorset seaside, so the fact that people have booked to spend it here means that … that they want to come here.’ It was a pathetically obvious statement, but Robin was finding positivity as hard to come by as her mum was.

  The Campion Bay Guesthouse, Sylvie and Ian Brennan’s pride and joy since the family had moved to the area when Robin was four, was in trouble. Robin had returned from London because of her own problems, feeling like she had nowhere else to turn, and had discovered that she wasn’t the only one who was suffering. She’d thrown herself into helping out, managing the changeovers, baking fresh bread for the breakfasts, setting up Twitter, Instagram and Facebook accounts. She’d used her experience to try and give the guesthouse a boost, and it had taken her mind off her own struggles for a time, but then her parents’ worries about the business – the worries they had obviously been trying to keep from her – had become her own. Now it was New Year’s Eve, they were hosting a party for their guests and for a few friends in the bay, and if her mum and dad were feeling anything like she was, it would be hard to muster up enough celebratory spirit to pop a single champagne cork.

  Sylvie steered her daughter left, angling them towards the water, and the icy December wind met them head on. Robin felt her dark, shoulder-length curls tugging out behind her, her cheeks burning from the cold. She squinted against the assault, wondering why her mum had brought her out for an impromptu walk when the weather was so hostile, and whether she could encourage her back home, or perhaps to the Campion Bay Teashop. It was a few doors down from the guesthouse along Goldcrest Road, the seafront street of houses with an unimpeded view of the English Channel.

  The seafront was colourful despite the December gloom. Most of the three- and four-storey buildings had, over the years, been converted to guesthouses, or businesses on the ground floor and accommodation above. As well as the Campion Bay Guesthouse and the teashop there was an Italian taverna, its façade in sunny greens and yellows, the candyfloss-pink door of Molly’s beauty parlour, and the cornflower trim and net-curtained windows of the Seaview Hotel, run by Coral Harris.

  A couple of the buildings had remained single dwellings, and Robin could just make out the gleam of blue glaze on the clay plaque next to number four’s front door. Tabitha Thomas had lived there, observing everything that had happened on Goldcrest Road with a quiet watchfulness, until her death earlier that year. Robin felt the familiar twinge of regret when she thought of Tabitha, who she’d known so well growing up, but who had become a distant memory after Robin’s move to London.

  ‘Robin,’ Sylvie said, raising her voice to compete with the whistle of the wind, ‘I wanted to have a chat with you about something.’

  ‘Righto,’ Robin said warily, her shoulders tensing. ‘Fire away.’ Her mother was the more serious of her parents, but this tone was especially solemn, and Robin felt that whatever was coming was the reason Sylvie had brought her out here. It wasn’t likely to be about the fireworks. She tried to interpret the expression on Sylvie’s face but found that it was unreadable, her features scrunched up against the wind. Her mum was a couple of inches shorter than she was, her frame more fragile. She’d always said that Robin was lucky to have been gifted her delicate features and her dad’s long, lithe limbs in equal measure.

  ‘Your dad and I have had a talk,’ she said now. ‘To be honest, we’ve had thousands, on a daily basis, and long before you came back to Campion Bay in September.’

  ‘You are married,’ Robin said. ‘It would be strange if you didn’t.’ She smiled, but the joke remained unanswered. Robin bit her lip, dreading what was coming next.

  ‘We can’t run the guesthouse any more,’ Sylvie said bluntly. ‘Bookings are down too much, with no sign – despite your optimism about tonight – of picking up. Our advanced bookings for the spring are paltry, and by now we’d usually have a few full weeks in May and June. We’re both getting on and the truth is, darling,’ she turned towards Robin, grasping her hands and looking her square in the face, ‘we’ve made an offer on a house in Montpellier, and it’s been accepted.’

  Robin stared at her mum, trying to let the words sink in as the winter gusts squeezed tears out of the corners of her eyes.

  ‘What?’ It came out as a hoarse whisper. ‘I knew you’d been looking, thinking about retiring, but … but you’re actually going? When? What will happen to – I mean, what about the guesthouse?’ She released a hand and flung her arm in the direction of Goldcrest Road.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Obviously we don’t want to leave you here without …’ She sighed, the sentence trailing off.

  ‘Anything to do?’ Robin gave her mum a quick, humourless smile, realizing how pathetic it was to depend on her parents to give her purpose.

  ‘You can’t spend the rest of your life helping us run our guesthouse,’ Sylvie said, her tone softening. ‘You’
re destined for greater things. I know this was – is – a stepping stone, that you needed to come back here after what happened in London, but you were always going to have to think about your future.’

  ‘I know that,’ Robin murmured, turning towards the water. She hadn’t even started to think about what she wanted to do after London; she’d come back to Campion Bay to regroup and hadn’t realized she was working to a deadline.

  ‘We’re buying the house in France with the money your gran left me,’ Sylvie said, ‘so it’s not dependent on us selling the guesthouse. There’s no rush for you to move out, though I imagine you won’t want to stay in such a big place.’ She resisted adding ‘alone’, but Robin heard the inference.

  ‘But what about the business?’ she asked, choosing to focus on less complicated things than her emotions or her own future. ‘You can’t just close it. It’s been running for almost thirty years, it’s nearly reached its pearl anniversary.’

  Sylvie smiled at Robin’s attempt to lighten the mood, but her tone was grim. ‘Yes, but it’s failing. It’s had some wonderful years, we’ve been very successful, but it’s not what people want any more. Sometimes you have to count your losses.’

  ‘Everyone wants to come to the seaside,’ Robin protested, flinging her arms wide. ‘The seaside never goes out of fashion.’