The House of Birds and Butterflies

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 feel 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?’ the 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 shortcut 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 when 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 psychic. 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.

She would have been annoyed, except she was already too angered by what he’d said.

‘Hey. You were the one who came to me, complaining about the reserve. If you hadn’t, none of us would have knocked on this door, probably ever. You would have been left alone to moulder slowly away, moaning to the furniture about who was disturbing your precious writing time.’

‘Technically, I left the note for the reserve in general, not you specifically.’

‘Don’t be so smart! Why not talk to Penelope? She’s your landlady. Shouldn’t any complaints have gone to her? And anyone with any common sense would have realized a country cottage would come with wildlife. We can’t just turn it off, can we? Flick a switch, goodbye butterflies and deer and robins. It’s called Peacock Cottage – didn’t that give you a clue?’ Abby stepped out from under the shelter of the porch. The rain was heavier now, streaming into her eyes.

Jack folded his arms. ‘So first you’re berating me for being too smart, then you’re implying I have no common sense? Come back in, you’ll get drenched.’

‘I’m already drenched! I have been since ten o’clock this morning, and if it hadn’t been for you and your minuscule scratch on your glossy, squashed-frog car, then I would have been dry ages ago. I couldn’t be any wetter, and you didn’t even invite me inside, just under the crappy little porch, so it’s not like you’re actually bothered!’

‘Squashed-frog car?’ Jack was struggling with a smile. It made her even madder.

‘I don’t have time for this! I have to get back and start working on my next event, which I will make absolutely sure doesn’t come anywhere near your precious blue front door.’ She whipped round, skidding on the slick paving slabs, and stormed up the path. She gasped when he grabbed her arm, swallowing another mouthful of rainwater in the process.

‘Come inside for a moment,’ he said. ‘Come and dry off.’

‘I need to get back to work.’ She twisted round, and his eyes held hers. They were icy blue, cold, somehow, and yet so captivating. The dimple made him look like he was smirking.

‘I need to go,’ she said again. ‘I’m sorry we know who you are, but none of my friends would use it to their advantage. They’re just intrigued. It’s not like they’d call the press or anything.’

He nodded. ‘And the wildlife?’

Abby laughed. ‘I’m not apologizing for that. It comes with the territory. Why don’t you come on one of my walks, see if you can’t learn to love it a bit more, realize there are more important things than scratches on your paintwork?’

‘Of my squashed-frog car?’

‘It looks like it’s been trampled on, OK?’ She flung her arm in the direction of his Range Rover. ‘And it’s just a car. You need to sort out your priorities.’ She shrugged out of his grasp and skidded down the path, thinking bitterly that she wouldn’t have done that if her walking boots had been £250 Arc’teryx models, and began to walk back to the reserve. When she turned, once, immediately wishing she was stronger than that, she saw that Jack was still there, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She almost gave him a wave, realized she couldn’t guarantee the sarcasm would be obvious, and so left it.

Let him stand in the rain and get soaked, she thought. What did she care?

Abby’s sister Tessa and her family lived in a new development in Bury St Edmunds. Quite like the Harrier estate five minutes from Meadowgreen, it was a warren of roads and closes, the houses not quite identical. Abby wasn’t sure how she didn’t get lost every time, and always felt a surge of panic when she turned onto the estate, but somehow her hands turned the wheel and found the right driveway, the pale-pink front door and the cuddly Peppa Pig in the upstairs window.

She hauled her craft materials out of the boot of her aged Citroën Saxo, took Raffle by the lead and, propping her pile of paper, fabric, pens and paints under her chin, managed to press the doorbell with one, straining finger.

‘Abby!’ Her sister opened the door and took the stack off her, leading the way through to the large kitchen at the back of the house. The garden was small but neat, with beds Tessa worked hard on and an immaculate lawn. There was a wildlife area at the end, which she was slowly developing with her daughters – and Abby’s advice – and with the wall of windows and French doors, the kitchen was somehow an extension of the outside, a haven of calm. If she lived here, Abby would spend most of her time in this room.

‘What can I get you?’ Tessa asked. ‘Tea, coffee, wine? Are you staying tonight?’ Abby’s sister was older by three years, taller, and, since giving up her job as a swimming teacher to be a full-time mum, even leaner than Abby, which she attributed to running around after Willow and Daisy all day. But Abby knew she was conscious of her appearance, much more so than Abby was, and had her dark-blonde hair dyed a strange violet hue that somehow made her look much younger than her thirty-four years.

‘Tea for now, thanks,’ Abby said. ‘Not decided about staying.’

‘You’re not working tomorrow, though?’

‘Nope. This is my challenge for the next two days.’ Abby settled herself at the island in the centre of the room and spread out her craft materials. Raffle did his usual slow peruse of the space, and then lay at Abby’s feet. She’d taken him for a two-hour walk this morning, knowing that he wouldn’t get as much of a run around in the evening. The following weekend was her first big event – Penelope was calling it the autumn flagship event, a term that made Abby feel slightly nauseous – and she had this weekend off to prepare. Which was what she was hoping to rope Willow into, maybe Daisy too, though a three-year-old was perhaps slightly too young to design Halloween bunting.

‘Are your events going well?’ Tessa brought the teas over along with a plate of pastel-coloured fondant fancies. She had a grey jumper pulled over her hands, the thin fabric threaded through with silver, and her nails were the colour of fresh lavender.

Abby glanced down at her own outfit, a navy jersey dress. She’d rolled the sleeves up, and the fabric had started to tear at the hem where she’d walked Raffle for hours, catching it on endless twigs and bramble bushes. She pushed her hair away from her face, and Tessa reached out and pulled a strand forward again, appraising her silently in the way she often did.

‘They’re fine,’ Abby said. ‘It’s mainly been walks and school activities so far, trying to widen the reach of the reserve. We’ve sent emails out to all the schools in Suffolk, as well as some just over the border, and we’ve got the county and borough councils to link through to our website on their days-out pages. Take-up’s been good, and the feedback so far has been positive. Next weekend, though, that’s the biggie.’

‘Halloween,’ Tessa said. ‘Willow’s been talking about it non-stop. I think some of the other parents are really into it, having parties and all sorts. She’ll love that you want her to help with all this.’

‘Where are they?’ Abby asked.

‘Neil’s taken them to the park, making the most of it while the weather’s still good. They keep asking about your bird book, and when they’re going to get to read it.’

‘Oh God,’ Abby said. ‘I should never have mentioned it. It’s ridiculous!’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s a lovely idea. Have you done any more?’

‘A few notes,’ Abby admitted. ‘We had a boy at the reserve a few weeks ago who described a mistle thrush as having a bread-and-butter pudding tummy, so I’m going to steal that.’

‘It’s perfect. See – get young people to help you create it, then they’ll definitely be able to identify with it.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Come on, then.’ Tessa picked up a packet of pumpkin-shaped confetti and wiggled it. ‘What’s the plan with all this?’

‘Bunting for the visitor centre, and I’m running a scary drawing competition. I wondered if Willow and Daisy would like to do some examples for me, so I’ve got something to show the children when they turn up. I think if we keep it light, I won’t end up with pictures full of blood and gore.’

Tessa laughed. ‘Of course you will – they’re children. No risk assessment will ever prepare you for the imaginations of small people.’

‘You think I should stick to a nature theme?’

‘I think,’ Tessa said, picking up a fondant fancy and biting into it, closing her eyes in ecstasy, then waiting until she could speak again, ‘you could theme it around kittens and you’d still end up with some unexpected drawings. Go with horror – at least it’ll be entertaining.’

‘You’re not helping to calm my nerves.’

‘What do you have to be nervous about? You’ve got this, Abby.’

Abby toyed with the yellow icing on her cake. She debated telling Tessa that she thought Penelope’s financial concerns were bigger than she was letting on, that she was beginning to feel the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, and that she had this irritating, left-field problem she was thinking about more than she should be – because how much of a risk was he, really, with his petty notes and his non-existent car damage?