Читать книгу The House of Birds and Butterflies - Cressida McLaughlin, Cressida McLaughlin - Страница 10

The Dawn Chorus is when birds start singing very early in the morning, as the sun rises. It’s most notable in the spring and summer – because that’s when birds are most active – and can start as early as four o’clock, which is pretty annoying when you’ve had a late night, but helpful if you’ve forgotten to set the alarm on your phone.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

For the next week, the gossip in the pub was at the back of Abby’s mind, hovering like some forgotten item that she meant to add to her shopping list. It would occasionally burst to the surface, sending a twinge of apprehension through her, though she had nothing to be concerned about except the imagined upsetting of the equilibrium of her life at the reserve. Wild Wonders and an increased workload she could cope with – in a way it was better that they knew about it now, the certainty much easier to deal with than worried speculation. And she enjoyed throwing herself into her job, poring over the short evaluation questionnaires she had drawn up for the school visits, reading the comments, bristling slightly when they said ‘dull’, or ‘boring’, or ‘who cares about blackbirds anyway?’ and looking for those that would help her to improve the activities and information she was trying to inspire the children with.

One of the comments stood out: ‘Instead of a fake treasure hunt with wood creatures, why can’t we look for real birds and animals?’ It was a good point, Abby conceded, and enough adults took their spotter books around with them, ticking off godwits, teals and chiffchaffs when they came across them. There was no reason school visits couldn’t include an element of this – she’d only held back because she didn’t want to create disappointment when a whole class failed to find anything she’d listed. If she kept it simple, included a few plants and trees they would be guaranteed to come across as well as the more common birds, then it could be a success.

She was leaning forward on the reception desk, adding to the written plan Penelope had requested while there was a lull in new customers, when Gavin walked out of the office, his hands in his pockets, Penelope following.

‘Thanks for that Penelope,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on it tomorrow, once I’ve finished at the heron hide.’ He winked at Rosa and Abby, then turned to face the older woman. ‘By the way, is it right that someone’s moving into Peacock Cottage? Only I wondered if you wanted me to do any work on the back garden, clear the bindweed?’

Abby gasped and started coughing. Rosa stopped reorganizing the pens on the counter, and Gavin waited for an answer to the prying that, Abby had to admit, was quite well disguised as an offer of help.

Penelope, her claret silk shirt done up to the neck, seemed unmoved, her face impassive. Abby wondered what was happening behind it, whether she was trying to work out who had spilled the beans.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘The garden has been dealt with. Thank you for the offer.’ She walked back into her office and closed the door.

Gavin let out a low whistle. ‘Bloody hell, she’s good. Neither confirm nor deny. Do you think she was a spy in the war?’

‘She’s sixty-seven this week,’ Rosa said, ‘not a hundred and seven. And she was never going to indulge us, was she? However good your attempt to break through.’

Gavin rested his elbows on the desk. ‘Do you think she’s like the Snow Queen? She used to be all soft inside but something’s frozen her solid? Surely it’s not natural to be that icy about everything?’

‘Oh no,’ Rosa said with false sympathy. ‘Did she give you a hard time?’

‘She didn’t actually. She wanted to know how I was getting on with the reed beds around the heron hide. I told her and she nodded, which is as close to a compliment as I’ve ever had, and it gave me the confidence to ask about Peacock Cottage. Thought she was going to answer me properly for a second.’

‘If someone is moving in we’ll know about it soon enough,’ Abby said. ‘We all go past there every day.’

‘Yeah, but when it comes to Meadowsweet, gossip’s the main currency. What’s the good in knowing after the fact? We need to have the info now, then we’ll hold all the power.’

‘Anyone would think the ranger job isn’t stimulating enough for you,’ Rosa said, grinning. ‘I promise the moment I find out anything else, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Scout’s honour?’ Gavin asked.

‘Brownie promise,’ Rosa confirmed.

As Gavin sauntered back outside, his workmen’s gloves sticking out of the waistband of his waterproof trousers, Rosa gave Abby a wicked smile. ‘I do have news, actually,’ she said, glancing at the closed office door before slipping out from behind the shop counter and joining Abby. ‘When I was driving in this morning, the postman put something through the letterbox of Peacock Cottage, which means that whoever is coming has already told people or had their post redirected.’

‘It’s happening soon, then.’ Abby chewed her bottom lip.

She wondered how she’d feel if she was the object of so much interest simply because she’d moved house, then remembered that when she’d moved into Warbler Cottages, Octavia had been on her doorstep within half an hour of the removal van driving away with a bottle of wine and homemade lasagne, and realized it was simply natural curiosity. Still, the position of the cottage, Penelope’s ownership of it and the fact that it had remained unlived in for so long, not to mention the rumours around Wild Wonders being somehow connected to the new arrival, did make it a bit out of the ordinary. Or maybe Gavin was right, that so little generally happened in the quiet Suffolk village that any news was important currency. She hoped whoever it was didn’t mind a bit of attention.

‘Definitely soon,’ Rosa said, bringing her back to reality. ‘Imminent.’

‘Rosa,’ a voice called from behind the office door. ‘How is the Baywater crockery promotion getting along?’

‘Oh, fine,’ Rosa called back, her eyes wide with horror. ‘I’ve got some great figures to show you, actually.’

‘Excellent,’ Penelope replied. ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘How is she able to hear us?’ Rosa hissed at Abby, her cheeks blushing pink. ‘We know to keep our voices down.’

‘How do you know she did? She could have coincidentally timed it to perfection.’

‘Or she’s got a webcam trained on us,’ Rosa said, ‘and she sits in her office and listens to our conversations all day. Maybe she was a spy.’ She scurried back to her counter and pulled out the sales figures she’d promised Penelope.

If she had been a spy, Abby thought, she must be feeling underwhelmed. Adder and nightingale sightings probably didn’t compare to cracking international codes and chasing down terrorists. Abby’s mind drifted towards what the mail might have been, and who would be on the receiving end of it when they arrived in their new home.

She was distracted by a young couple, a tiny baby strapped onto the father’s chest in an expensive-looking carrier, and Abby’s imagination was quashed by practicalities, explaining where the facilities were and giving a rundown of the different habitats and the day’s sightings, and it wasn’t until she was walking home, eager to get back to Raffle and a long stroll in the balmy, early autumn evening, that she was reminded of the conversation with Rosa and Gavin.

As Abby emerged through the trees, the picture she was usually faced with seemed wrong, distorted somehow, and it took her a few moments to realize it was because there was a car parked in the narrow driveway in front of Peacock Cottage. It was a Range Rover, square and squat, the roof fractionally lower at the back than the front, giving the impression it had been slightly squashed. It was ruby-red, impossibly shiny and definitely expensive. Her eyes trailed to the number plate, expecting to see something personalized like RANG3 1 or C0UNTRY K1NG, but it looked like a standard number plate, though it wasn’t local.

Resisting the urge to walk up to the windows of the cottage and peer inside or, even worse, knock on the front door, feigning a sprained ankle or pretending she was lost, she picked up her pace, texting as she went. It would seem that, this time at least, she held all the currency.

The next day, Saturday, it seemed the whole of Suffolk had decided to descend on the reserve.

‘Perhaps they’ve shut Reston Marsh to get it ready,’ Stephan said as he handed Abby a cup of tea, a part of their morning routine that she never took for granted. It was early, but there were already people spilling from the car park towards the visitor centre, the Indian summer bringing everyone out into the fresh air. ‘You know, give it a makeover before it gets spread all over the television.’

‘When is the first programme?’ Abby asked, sipping her milky tea.

‘Monday,’ Stephan called. ‘Seven o’clock. You going to tune in? I’m curious.’

‘I’m definitely going to watch some of it,’ Abby said. ‘I don’t think Penelope can expect us not to be interested when it’s so close to home. Thanks for the tea, Stephan.’ She slipped her mug onto the shelf under the desk and put on her brightest smile for the queue of waiting customers. ‘Would you like day passes?’ she asked two women in brightly coloured outdoor jackets. One of them, she noticed, was holding a white stick, her eyes staring straight ahead. ‘It looks like the weather’s going to hold.’

‘Yes please,’ the taller of the two said. ‘Is there a concession for disabled people, for my sister?’

‘Of course.’ Abby pressed a couple of buttons on the till and issued them with their passes.

Her feet barely touched the ground all morning, and she could see things were the same in the shop and café. Just before lunch, Penelope emerged from her office and took her place behind the reception desk as a young, enthusiastic boy pleaded with Abby to help him identify a bird he’d found.

‘I know you’re busy,’ his mum said, smiling apologetically. ‘I wouldn’t ask, except we bought Evan a wildlife book for his birthday and he does nothing but pore over it when we’re at home. Even the iPad’s been abandoned, unless he wants to find out some more information about a particular species.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Abby said, smiling at Evan. ‘You’re going to save the planet, you know.’

‘I am?’ he looked up at her with wide eyes, his whole body jiggling in anticipation. ‘I’m nine now.’

‘You and people like you – and it’s never too young to start.’ She glanced at Penelope, who made a shooing motion with her hands. Abby could see amusement, and something like warmth, in her grey eyes. For what seemed like the first time in months, her boss was in a good mood, and Abby wondered if it was just the busyness of the reserve, or something else, that had lifted her spirits.

‘It might fly away,’ Evan whispered seriously, reaching out to take her hand.

‘Come on then.’ She let him lead her down the path, past the bird feeders and into the trees, his parents following.

‘It’s here,’ he said solemnly, already aware that excitement had to be tempered around wildlife. Abby followed the line of Evan’s finger to where a fat bird sat contentedly on a low branch, its song high and trilling.

Abby grinned and spent a few moments listening. Evan seemed happy to do the same.

‘What is it?’ he asked eventually.

‘It’s a mistle thrush,’ Abby said. ‘They’re not as common as a song thrush, and much more speckled. Look at its tummy.’

‘Like bread-and-butter pudding,’ Evan said, ‘with all the currants.’

Abby stifled a laugh. ‘That’s a great description. The mistle thrush with plumage like a bread-and-butter pudding.’

‘Do you name the birds?’ Evan asked.

‘No,’ Abby said. ‘We have so many it would be hard to keep track of them. Except, there’s this robin who comes and sings on the windowsill sometimes. We call him Bob.’

‘Why?’

Abby shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good name. Robin, Bob. And he does bob quite a bit, he’s very inquisitive.’

‘Inquisi—’ Evan tried, stumbling over the word.

‘He wants to know what’s going on with everything, like you do with the birds.’

‘So I’m inqui-si-tive? Is that a good thing?’

‘A very good thing,’ Abby said. ‘The best, in fact. I’ll leave you to your walk, but if you spot anything else and you don’t know what it is, write down a description and when you come back to the centre for some of Stephan’s chocolate cake, which I’m sure you will,’ she glanced at Evan’s parents and they smiled, ‘I can try and help you identify it. And the more you come, the better you’ll get. Soon, you’ll be helping me identify the birds.’ She pulled a small notebook out of her jacket pocket – she always kept one on her, in case she needed to make notes or take down a comment from a visitor – and handed it to him, along with a biro.

‘Thank you, miss.’ Evan held out his hand again, this time for her to shake.

‘You’re very welcome.’ She shook it. ‘I’m Abby.’

‘Thank you, Abby.’ He grabbed his dad’s hand, and began pulling him further down the path, deeper into the woods. ‘There’s a hide down here, Dad, let’s go and see.’

‘That was very kind of you,’ Evan’s mum said. ‘I saw how busy you were.’

‘Busy is good, and so is inspiring people like Evan. If everyone loves their local wildlife they’ll want to protect it, and that’s all we can hope for.’

By the time she got back to the centre, the queue had diminished. As she took her place, relieving Penelope, the older woman patted her hand and Abby felt a surge of pleasure that this stern, proud woman was happy with what she was doing.

She went back to welcoming customers, directing them to different areas of the reserve, talking about the highlights – the kingfisher, the pair of marsh harriers soaring close to the heron hide – as if they had been put on specially. It was only when it got to five o’clock, and they began closing down computers and shutters, that she realized Evan and his family hadn’t come back with a list for her to look at. She was surprised by how disappointed she felt, how much she’d looked forward to firing his enthusiasm even more.

She said goodbye to Stephan and Rosa, stayed behind for a few minutes to tidy up the reception desk, then called goodnight to Penelope and stepped outside.

The sun was still warm, but it had begun to sink below the trees. Abby could hear at least two blackbirds, and a tree creeper somewhere in the distance, and the reserve felt peaceful now that most of the visitors had gone. Taking her usual shortcut, she registered that one of the downstairs windows of Peacock Cottage was golden with a soft, welcoming light, and not only was the Range Rover parked outside, but there was another car, a silver Mercedes, pulled up onto the side of the road, blocking it in. Abby found herself slowing, wondering who was inside. As she’d almost passed the cottage, she heard the echo of an opening latch in the quiet and, before she’d realized what she was doing, had slipped behind one of the older, sturdier trees and was peering out at the doorway.

A man stepped onto the path, and then turned and called back into the house. ‘OK then, don’t work too hard. Actually, I shouldn’t be saying that, should I? Work your socks off. It’s not like you’ll have any distractions here.’

There was a response from inside that Abby couldn’t hear, to which the man threw his head back and laughed, an open, unselfconscious gesture. He looked to be in his late forties, slender, with close-cropped dark hair, his navy trousers and grey jumper somehow too smart for a Saturday evening. Abby watched as he unlocked the Mercedes, climbed in and started the engine, then spent several moments turning the car round in the narrow space. Abby moved further behind the tree as he passed with the windows down, the sonorous sounds of the radio slipping out into the still evening air.

She stayed where she was, waiting for something else to happen. Were there two new occupants of Peacock Cottage? But the man’s words had made it sound as if he wasn’t staying: It’s not like you’ll have any distractions here. Was this a friend, lover, brother? Had a woman or a man moved into the idyllic cottage? Briefly she entertained the idea that this was Flick Hunter’s older boyfriend, and then pushed the thought aside. The presenter would surely be staying in an upmarket hotel, or somewhere less remote, at least.

After her WhatsApp to Rosa, Stephan and the reserve wardens the evening before, there had been a flurry of interest about her discovery, but she hadn’t had a chance to follow up with them today.

I saw someone leaving Peacock Cottage tonight! She sent to the group as she walked. NOT the owner of the Range Rover – whoever it is has visitors already! The plot thickens!

As she picked up her pace, she wondered what the new resident of Peacock Cottage was working on, and why their friend was so keen for them to get on with it.

When Abby returned from lunch on Monday afternoon, Gavin was leaning on the reception desk, intent on a piece of paper that Penelope and Rosa were also poring over.

She had sat outside on one of the picnic benches, staring at the memorial wall Penelope had installed as a feature of the new visitor centre. It was metal, with space for bronze, bird-shaped memorial plaques that people could purchase. In the middle was a plaque to Al, which had been the first. If questioned, Abby was sure she would be able to list all the names and dates that were up there now, she had spent so much time eating her lunch alongside it.

Today, the breeze was strong, the freshness autumnal, the sun and wind conspiring to create glistening ripples on the surface of the water, making her squint as she had walked back inside. The reserve was busy, despite Wild Wonders premiering that evening, and she was starting to wonder if Penelope had been over-cautious.

Now, though, Gavin looked up at her, raised his dark eyebrows and said, ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Abby asked.

‘This.’ Rosa handed her the piece of paper they had been looking at.

The first thing Abby noticed was that it wasn’t actually a piece of paper, but a large Post-it Note with an illustration of a honeybee in the top corner. Rosa sold them in packs in the shop, the drawings alternating between bee, ladybird, toadstool and dormouse.

Abby peered closely at the handwriting filling the note. It was narrow, slanted to the right as if it was teetering, on the verge of toppling, but also neat, elegant, beautiful. The words, however, were not:

Dear Meadowsweet Nature Reserve,

Is it customary for people to tramp through the garden of Peacock Cottage on their way to, or from, your front door? The incessant cars I can just about put up with, but surely the boundaries of the cottage itself are sacrosanct? How am I supposed to concentrate when there is constant chatter outside my windows? Not to mention the blatant invasion of privacy. If you would address this issue then I would be most grateful.

Yours, JW

As Abby read it, her hands clenched into fists. ‘What the fuck?’ she whispered. ‘This is the new tenant of Peacock Cottage? Moaning because people are daring to walk near the house?’ She thought of the man she’d seen laughing as he climbed into his car, and his assertion that whoever was inside would have no distractions. Clearly, they didn’t agree with their friend.

‘The letter does seem to suggest that they’re walking through the garden,’ Rosa said.

‘So why doesn’t he or she tell them not to? And how do they expect us to stop them? And what’s with the flipping sacrosanct business? Penelope …’ she said, ‘… isn’t this sort of your business? It’s your lodger.’

Penelope’s sigh was almost imperceptible. She was wearing a thin black jumper and a necklace of large red beads that glinted in the sunshine. Abby was struck by how beautiful she still was, how imposing.

‘Abigail,’ Penelope said, ‘he is complaining about the reserve, the impact it has on the cottage – not anything to do with the cottage itself. I’ve tasked you with increasing footfall, encouraging visitors, and this man is against that. I see it as your responsibility to remove this disturbance before it becomes more serious. Placate him, tell him that the cottage boundaries are sacrosanct. Do what you need to do to make this go away.’

Abby stared. ‘Seriously?’

‘I’d pop on the charming face instead of that one, though,’ Gavin said. ‘You’ll scare him off. Mind you, under the circs, that might not be a bad thing.’

‘Do you know who he is?’ Rosa asked Penelope.

‘Of course I do,’ Penelope said. ‘I believe he is a very suitable candidate for the cottage, once this wrinkle has been ironed out. Something, Abby, I know you will do with the utmost professionalism.’

Abby gripped the desk. ‘Right. Sure. No problem. I’ve just got to—’

‘Now, Abby,’ Penelope said. ‘I’m sure you’d agree that it’s best we nip this in the bud immediately.’

‘Of course,’ Abby replied. Catching Rosa’s eye, she turned and walked outside, a blue tit abandoning a feeder as she stomped past.

This was not her job. Mollifying Penelope’s personal tenants was not part of the role of activity coordinator, even if the cottage was on reserve land. What was the activity – damage limitation? She took her usual shortcut, gritting her teeth as she saw the squat, overpriced Range Rover in the driveway. It looked smug. Whoever JW was, she was sure he was smug, too.

She walked up the path and knocked on the front door. A late, lazy bee drifted off the purple heather in the hanging basket and droned towards the garden that was the object of so much consternation. She listened, hearing no sounds inside, and so followed the path of the bee, round the side of the cottage and to the back garden.

It wasn’t really fenced off from the surrounding land, she had to concede that. There were no wooden posts, no wire mesh, no walls, but then she supposed that if it had once been the groundsman’s cottage on the Meadowsweet estate, it wouldn’t necessarily have needed them. Still, there was a small patio and a square of well-manicured grass, surrounded by beds that looked like they would be full of flowers in the spring. Beyond that, the grass became unkempt, rough, full of the bindweed Gavin had mentioned, before dissipating as the ash, beech and birch trees took over.

Abby knew people hiked through the woodland, the more experienced walkers not wanting to stick solely to the reserve’s trails, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would walk purposefully on the lawn behind the cottage or come up to the patio. JW was clearly just agitated that he could hear people outside the house. Where had he come from, a hermitage?

Walking round to the front door again, Abby pulled her trusty notebook out of her pocket – she had replaced the one she’d given Evan on Saturday – and leaned it against the white wall to write.

Dear JW,

I am sorry to hear of your dissatisfaction with the nature reserve, and its impact on your wellbeing. If you’d like to discuss it further, you can find me at the visitor centre, or call me and I will happily return to see you. We would like you and our visitors to live in harmony while you are staying at Peacock Cottage. Anything within my power I can do to make that happen, I will.

Kind regards,

Abby Field.

She had almost signed it off with her own initials, and then remembered that Gavin liked to remind her that AF could stand for As Fuck. She didn’t want Mr High-and-Mighty JW to get the impression she was angry with him – Kind regards, angry AF – although as she stood there and read her letter back, noting at least three cars passing in the short space of time she took, she wondered if it was a little on the passive-aggressive side.

Sighing, she ripped the page out of the notebook, folded it and shoved it through the letterbox, then made her way back down the path, peering into the passenger window of the Range Rover as she went. It was all cream leather seats and a dizzyingly busy, glossy dashboard.

She had reached the end of the path and was waiting for a Volvo to pass before she could cross the road, when she heard the door of Peacock Cottage open behind her, and a voice call her name.

‘Abby? Abby Field?’

She closed her eyes, summoning up some inner patience, ready to be as charming to the mysterious, already irritating JW as she could manage.

Then she turned, took a step towards him and found that, while at least her anger disappeared in an instant, she couldn’t actually speak at all.