Birds of a Feather

by Cressida McLaughlin

  Wild Wonders was due to finish its year-long run at Reston Marsh at the end of August, and Abby wondered if that would make a difference, if her grand plans for growing their membership at this event, combined with the end of the live broadcasts, would turn fortune in Meadowsweet’s favour. Even if it did, she knew it wouldn’t be enough to save Swallowtail House.

  While she had been investigating hot air balloons and planning challenges for young nature buffs, Penelope had been shut in her office, accepting visits from Mr Philpott from the bank, and a suave-looking gentleman who announced himself as Travis from the upmarket estate agency Home and Country. He seemed as sharky as any traditional estate agent, and Abby was fearful on behalf of the house about whose hands it might end up in.

  She was also no closer to establishing the connection between Penelope and Leo, though she was utterly convinced there was one. She’d tried to have a roundabout conversation with Octavia about it, two weeks after the night at the pub where, in her drunken state, she’d had a lightbulb moment, but the woman had jumped on her comments like a sparrowhawk on a young sparrow.

  ‘Octavia,’ she’d said, when they were sitting in the older woman’s manicured back garden, glasses of white wine cooling after the heat of the day, ‘Penelope and Al definitely didn’t have any children, did they?’

  ‘No, dear, that’s a well-known village fact. Why do you ask?’

  Abby rubbed her finger along the armrest of her picnic chair. ‘Leo, Jack’s agent …’

  ‘Ah, lovely Jack. What I wouldn’t give to have him in my library again.’

  Abby didn’t voice where she wanted to have him, and she was trying her best not to think about Jack, or imagine what he was doing at that very moment, what he was wearing or where Shalimar was sitting in his London flat.

  ‘What about Leo?’ Octavia asked, when Abby didn’t join in with the Jack admiration.

  ‘There was something so familiar about him. Some of his mannerisms, some of the things he said.’

  ‘Like Penelope?’ Octavia stilled, the crocheted butterfly she was in the middle of making temporarily forgotten.

  Abby nodded.

  ‘How old is he? What makes you think that … that Leo is Penelope’s son?’

  ‘He’s late forties, I guess, which would make Penelope twenty, a bit younger maybe, when she had him.’

  ‘If, Abigail. This seems like two and two making sixty-five to me. As far as anyone knows, Penelope and Al were dedicated to each other, and the decision not to have children was mutual.’

  Abby’s shoulders sagged. ‘You’re right. I’m being ridiculous, looking for things when they’re not there. But Penelope knows Leo, knew him long before Jack rented Peacock Cottage, and there have been a couple of occasions …’ She tapped her fingers against her lips.

  Octavia’s expression was sympathetic. ‘Don’t you have enough to think about without adding some fruitless mystery to your worries? How is this summer fair coming along?’

  ‘It’s all going to plan. No major disasters yet, and it’s bigger than anything we’ve done before.’

  ‘I knew you could do it,’ Octavia said. ‘And your lovely sister, Tessa?’

  Abby frowned. Tessa had not been pleased when, finally, Abby had confessed everything to her; what had happened with Jack, and how her picture had ended up in the paper. She didn’t tell her sister the extent of her feelings for him, but she didn’t need to – Tessa knew her better than anyone. They had spoken since then, and Abby had been round to spend time with her nieces, but things still felt strained between them.

  ‘She’s fine,’ she settled on. ‘Busy with Willow and Daisy, but they’re happy now the summer’s here. They’ll basically live in the garden for the next few months. I’m going to see them this weekend.’

  ‘Sounds like things are looking up for you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Abby said. ‘Though I may as well marry my job.’ She kicked the event plan lying on the grass at her feet. It accompanied her everywhere, like a shadow. While Abby was excited about the scale of their ideas, and the possibility for new members if they pulled it all off, it couldn’t entirely banish her sadness at Jack’s absence, the hole inside her shifting and changing shape each day, sometimes so small she could barely feel it, sometimes gaping and aching so much that she was worried it would swallow her up.

  ‘Heard a lot from him?’ Octavia asked softly.

  ‘A bit. Text messages, mainly. He’s on publication countdown now, so it’s all pretty hectic.’

  ‘The Hidden Field,’ Octavia said. ‘I saw an early review of it in the Guardian. They gave it five stars and said it’s his best yet – A shocking triumph, apparently. I think lots of the credit for that needs to go to Meadowgreen and, probably, to you.’

  Abby laughed. ‘I don’t think so. We distracted each other.’

  ‘Distracted, or saved?’

  ‘Octavia.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘We all know he was in a bad place when he arrived and look what’s come out of it; this incredible, career-resurrecting book. And you – these last few months, you’ve been more alive, more determined than I’ve ever seen you. All Penelope’s words about you not putting enough effort into the reserve are claptrap. You and Jack, you gave each other new breath.’

  ‘Even if that’s true,’ Abby said, Octavia’s turn of phrase feeling entirely accurate, ‘I can’t think about Jack now. I have to concentrate on the Summer Spectacular.’

  But Abby couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. Their text messages continued and, three weeks after Jack had left Meadowgreen for London, she received the first letter. It was waiting on her doormat when she arrived home late, after working all evening on the event budget. The envelope was damp, because while she had long ago persuaded a fat-pawed young husky that tearing up the mail was unacceptable, he still couldn’t resist the odd, gentle chew.

  She picked it up, leaning against the wall as she recognized the handwriting. It was so familiar to the letters he’d left her at the reserve, except this time it was her whole address instead of just her name. She tore the envelope open, her breath faltering as she unfolded the paper.

  Dear Abby,

  I thought of you today as a small brown bird landed on my windowsill in the sunshine. I have no idea what it was – I knew you would have told me in an instant. How is Meadowsweet? I’m imagining the woods full of bullfinches, like out-of-season Christmas trees with red, tweeting baubles, and you walking beneath them, your head full of new ideas for the reserve’s next, brilliant event.

  All is heading in the right direction here, and I’m meeting with Bob Stevens tomorrow. It seems my hopes of being an ambassador aren’t entirely lost, but I still need to make a good impression.

  The first reviews of the book are coming in, and I wish you were with me, to soothe my nerves, make me laugh, remind me that I can still do this.

  JW x

  She sat in her armchair, reading it over and over, and then found a fresh, smart notebook, so she could write a reply and send it to the address in Shoreditch that he’d printed neatly at the top of the letter.

  Dear Jack,

  I got your note, and nobody else read it over my shoulder – it was all mine! J Your bird was probably a sparrow, but if it appears again try and take a photo.

  The reserve is beautiful at this time of year, all soft greens, sunshine and colourful butterflies, the lagoon sparkling like sequins. I saw a pair of bullfinches yesterday and immediately thought of you. The summer event is coming on in leaps and bounds, but if I think too much about all the things that could go wrong I get a bit panicky, so I’ve stopped doing that now! J

  You must have had your meeting with Bob Stevens by now – how did it go?

  You can most definitely do this! You can do anything you want to, but I wish I was with you too. Every single day.

  Abby xx

  She could have written pages and pages, but somehow it didn’t seem right to make it any longer. Their notes should be in keepin
g with the previous ones, despite the distance being greater, their meetings now non-existent instead of infrequent.

  As the weeks passed and the event got closer, Abby scoured the newspapers and the internet for news of Jack; for reviews of his book, and for the article that he had promised, setting the record straight about him and Eddie.

  It appeared on a Saturday morning early in July, in one of the weekend magazines. She saved it until after work and then, sitting cross-legged on her living-room floor, a plate of chips cooling next to her, she opened the thin, slippery paper to find a black-and-white portrait of Jack accompanying the interview.

  He was looking straight at the camera, his hands clasped in front of him, a flop of thick hair half-obscuring one eye. She could see the line of his strong shoulders through a tailored shirt, the hardness of his jaw, softened slightly by the hint of a smile that gave her such a flash of familiarity it was almost as if he was in the room with her.

  She tore her eyes away from his image and turned her attention to the words, and the cringing, overwritten introduction from the journalist:

  I meet Jack Westcoat on a sunny June morning in an obscure, noisy café in East London, close to his flat. He’s smartly dressed, his hair the dishevelled mane of a man who wants to give the impression that looks are unimportant, but not even he would deny that he’s attractive, almost disarmingly so. A film star of an author, and perhaps that’s partly at the root of his recent, public troubles. He greets me warmly, but there’s an unmistakable wariness in his piercing blue eyes, as if he already knows the unflinching questions I’m going to ask him.

  ‘Ugh.’ Abby rolled her eyes and read on. The interview focused on the furore with Eddie Markham as much as it did his new book, and Abby read through a less candid version of the story Jack had told her that morning in Peacock Cottage. He left out the admission that Eddie had spiked his drink but was open about the plagiarism and his role in it, and set the record straight about Eddie’s claims about the journalist, ensuring readers it was purely monetary.

  ‘Nothing else happened, though that alone is surely bad enough. I did what I felt was right at the time; maybe disloyal to the literary world, but at that stage, I could think about nothing except helping my friend. I know now that it was wrong, that I was fighting a losing battle, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

  The article moved on to The Hidden Field. The interviewer asked him about his self-imposed seclusion.

  ‘It saved me, really, that time in Suffolk. And not just because I had the space to think and to write, but also because it helped me put things in perspective. I discovered something that is more important than all of this, than Eddie Markham, than writing – certainly more important than my pride or reputation.’ I ask him what that was, and he smiles – the first genuine smile he’s given since I arrived. ‘That would be telling,’ he says simply and, asking if I want another coffee, deftly changes the subject.

  Jack’s two-page spread hadn’t escaped the attention of Abby’s friends, and when she arrived at the reserve the following morning, she found that someone had carefully torn out his interview and photo and pinned it on the wall behind the reception desk. There was a heart-shaped Post-it Note stuck next to his head, with the word Dreamboat written on it. The cheeky sentiment was surely Gavin’s, but she was certain the handwriting was Rosa’s.

  As her event drew ever closer, Abby’s to-do list got longer rather than shorter, and when the printers sent her first batch of membership sign-up forms with the pages printed in the wrong order, she almost had a meltdown in the middle of the shop. She had to be soothed by Karen and Joy, who had come to sample Stephan’s new meringue cakes.

  Added to that, sharky estate agent Travis was spending more and more time with Penelope, often walking out of her office rubbing his hands together and winking at Rosa and Abby in a way that, they agreed, made their skin crawl. And Jack’s pre-book publicity was ramping up, his name appearing in a new online article almost daily, usually a rehash of the Saturday paper interview tacked onto the standard spiel about The Hidden Field. It was being published on Thursday the 2nd of August, the day before the Summer Spectacular started and, Waterstones’ website told her, would be celebrated with a launch event that evening in one of their flagship London stores.

  On Wednesday evening, publication-eve, she sent him a text, though she’d already posted a card to his flat – a photo of a bullfinch – along with a box of the luxury Fairtrade chocolate truffles they sold in the shop.

  Her message read:

  Good luck for tomorrow. I hope your publication day is full of bubbles, and the launch goes well. I want to see photos! xx

  He replied half an hour later.

  Thank you! I wish you could come, but I know it’s T-minus two days to your summer fair. All set? x

  Yup, though drinking champagne and hearing your speech sounds much more fun. But Meadowsweet will survive, even if the house of birds and butterflies is out of our hands. I miss you. xx

  Ditto, Abby Field. x

  After a run of glorious weather, on Thursday morning Abby was woken by rain pattering against the open window, the scent of hot, damp gardens reaching her on the breeze that drifted through it. Raffle lifted his sleepy head, gave a long, grunting whine and shifted position, lying his nose on Abby’s ankles.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But we have to go out, rain or shine, remember? Besides, it’s a big day for me. And Jack too, obviously.’

  She shrugged on a thin mac over her shorts and T-shirt, put on her walking boots and took Raffle for his walk. She could sense the greenery unfurling in the rain, and a bedraggled coal tit sat cleaning itself in a tree close to Peacock Cottage as they walked past. The sight of the pretty cottage, now devoid of lights or that ridiculous car outside, never failed to dampen her spirits, ironic today as the rest of her was already soggy, and she considered whether she would have been more open with Jack if she’d known how limited their time was.

  By the time she’d taken Raffle home and set out for the reserve, the sun was peering through the trees. It was the day before the event, and some of the craft and food stands were arriving that morning, along with the hot air balloon, which was being carted in on a huge lorry.

  ‘All right, Abs, how are you today?’ Gavin asked, as she stepped through the doors of the visitor centre. ‘Prepared as fuck?’

  ‘I am as fucking prepared as I’ll ever be,’ she replied, and Gavin laughed. ‘Has the balloon arrived?’

  ‘It has indeed. Want to come and take a look? Then we can start getting this fair off the ground. Literally.’

  Abby was pulled in a hundred different directions, setting aside half an hour to respond to telephone queries, then greeting the owners of the hog roast van, the mobile bar and the Mediterranean delicatessen stand, the smell of fresh olive oil making her stomach rumble. The rain shower hadn’t been long enough to muddy the parched ground, and with the forecast set to be sunny for the whole weekend, she wasn’t too worried that her fair would turn into a mire more suited to hippos than humans. She thought of Shalimar, of Jack hugging him as he told her about his history with Eddie. She blinked the thought away.

  Once she’d spent fifteen minutes on the phone giving directions to a man who was delivering a talk on wild living – which seemed ridiculous when his address was Brent Cross – and eaten a very late lunch, she settled down to answer the emails that needed to be responded to. She relished the idea of a quiet half hour, leaving Gavin and Marek to deal with the Jenga-type puzzle of stand holders the field was becoming.

  She’d just hit reply to a message when Octavia bundled through the door, clutching a parcel to her chest.

  ‘Oh Abby, I’m so glad you’re here!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Abby asked. ‘The marquee for your bookshop and craft stall has arrived on time, and it’s not meant to rain for the whole weekend.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that. This is much more important. Where’s Penelope?’

  ‘She
went out about an hour ago,’ Rosa said, joining them. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because … I have news.’ Stephan peered in their direction and Octavia beckoned him over. ‘Gather round, children.’

  Abby laughed. ‘Did you actually just say that?’

  ‘Shush. So, here it is.’

  They all waited while Octavia dragged out the silence, as if she was Tess Daly announcing the winner of Strictly Come Dancing.

  ‘Get on with it.’ Gavin had crept up behind Abby, and smelt distinctly of fudge, leading her to wonder who else had arrived to set up while she’d been busy elsewhere.

  ‘Swallowtail House has been sold,’ Octavia said, giving a little whoop of triumph.

  ‘It has?’ Stephan asked.

  ‘How do you know?’ murmured Abby.

  ‘Prove it,’ Rosa and Gavin said at once.

  Octavia grinned. ‘While you’ve been working hard here to get your event set up, those grand, double gates have been unlocked, and a van has driven inside.’

  ‘But it – it’s uninhabitable,’ Abby said. ‘Nobody could live in it in its current state.’

  ‘We don’t know what it’s like inside,’ Rosa replied, and Abby’s cheeks flushed.

  ‘It wasn’t a removal lorry,’ Octavia said. ‘It was from a high-end surveying outfit. Not the kind you get as part of a mortgage, but an independent, exclusive company, come in to assess the state of the building, what structural work needs to be done on it.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Stephan asked.

  ‘I wrote down the name on the van and looked them up on the internet,’ Octavia said, entirely unembarrassed.

  ‘But surely that’s someone who’s just interested in the house,’ Rosa protested. ‘You wouldn’t spend a whole heap of money on somewhere like that unless you knew it wasn’t falling down, so I don’t see how they can have bought it yet.’