Copyright

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First published in Great Britain as four separate ebooks in 2018 by HarperCollinsPublishers

First published as one edition in 2018 by HarperCollinsPublishers

Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2018

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover illustration © Lindsay Spinks / The Artworks

Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008225841

Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008225858

Version: 2018-07-12

Dedication

For Kate Bradley – thank you for taking a chance on me.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1: The Dawn Chorus

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part 2: The Lovebirds

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part 3: Twilight Song

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part 4: Birds of a Feather

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cressida McLaughlin

About the Publisher

Part 1

Prologue

The autumn wind rustled through the trees, and it was as if the building was sighing. The Georgian house was still beautiful, with its yellow paintwork, white pillars either side of the double front door, a curved gravel driveway and a long-dry fountain. The September sun made the tall grass of what must have once been a manicured lawn shimmer invitingly.

But the black, wrought-iron gates were rusted closed, an ancient-looking padlock and chain adding an extra layer of security. The house had been empty for over fifteen years and, behind its elegant exterior, the cracks were expanding, the sturdy bricks and plaster giving way to trails of ivy and birds’ nests, crumbling to dust after so much neglect.

It still looked proudly over Meadowgreen, the village it had once been the beating heart of, and the Meadowsweet Nature Reserve, its decay shielded behind tall, redbrick walls. But grass, brambles and bushes thrived where there was nobody to tame them. The mansion would soon be lost to nature, only an echo of the home it had once been.

A ruby-red Range Rover drove past the walls and into the village, slowing to a near stop as if the driver were lost, before turning right into a narrow, tree-lined road. Then, towards the south corner of the house, where Meadowgreen’s main thoroughfare met a street of cosy terraces, a young woman, her dark-blonde hair in a ponytail, breathed in the clean, countryside air and started walking, a handsome husky trotting alongside her.

Suddenly, the air was full of birdsong: blackbirds chorusing, the high, repetitive call of a chaffinch, the conversational tweet-chat of a flock of starlings. If anyone had been paying attention they might have noticed the flash of the afternoon sun in one of the upstairs windows, or heard the sudden rush of wind that made each blade of grass stand to attention, almost as if Swallowtail House was waking up.

Chapter One

The robin is a small, brown bird with a red breast, that you often see on Christmas cards. It’s very friendly, and likes to join in with whatever you’re doing in the garden, especially if you’re digging up its dinner. It has a beautiful, bubbly song that always stands out, much like its bright chest.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

Abby Field was off the reserve.

She didn’t know how it had happened, but one minute she was treading the well-worn woodland trail, intent on finding the perfect spot for the ladybird sculpture, the final creature in her nature treasure hunt, and the next she had pushed her way through the branches of the fallen elder and was standing at the side gate of Swallowtail House, looking up at the impressive, empty building. As always, she strained to see inside the grand windows, which remained free of any kind of boards, as if she could discover what Penelope’s life had been like all those years ago.

She wasn’t sure why she had ended up here now, deviating from her course and slipping away from the nature reserve, but something about this beautiful, deserted building captivated her, and not just because it belonged to her boss, and had been standing empty for over fifteen years. She wondered if any furniture remained, or if the large rooms had been stripped bare of everything except cobwebs. She passed the house’s main gates on her way to and from work every day, could imagine the trail of cars that had, at one time, driven through them. But now they were kept secure, the huge padlock not to be messed with.

The house might be abandoned, but Penelope Hardinge was still intent on keeping people out.

She owned the Meadowsweet estate, the greater part of which was now the Meadowsweet Nature Reserve. Only Swallowtail House, abutting the reserve but secluded behind its redbrick wall, was off limits. The stories Abby had been told by long-term residents of Meadowgreen village varied, but it seemed that Penelope and her husband Al had started the reserve soon after their marriage, that Al’s death sixteen years ago had been sudden, and that Penelope’s flight from Swallowtail House had been equally hasty.

She had left it as if it was plagued, purchasing one of the mock-Tudor houses on the Harrier estate, a five-minute drive out of the village, leaving the grand, Georgian mansion to succumb to the nature she and her late husband loved so much, although she had continued his legacy. She had been running Meadowsweet Reserve with a firm grip ever since, showing no signs of slowing down even though she was now in her sixties.

For the last eighteen months, Abby had been a part of it. She had found a job that she was passionate about, and while she occasionally bore the brunt of Penelope’s dissatisfaction, and sometimes felt her confidence shrinking in the older woman’s presence, she could understand why Penelope had to be so strict, especially now the reserve was in trouble.

Abby closed her eyes against the September sun and listened to her surroundings. The wind rippled through the woodland, the dancing leaves sounding like the rhythmic churn of waves against sand. A robin was singing its unmistakable, bubbling song, and she wondered if it was the young one who, for the last few weeks, had been landing on the windowsill next to the reserve’s reception desk, curiosity winning out over any fear of humans. He was a fluffy bird, his feathers never entirely flat, as if he hadn’t quite got the hang of preening, and she and Rosa had named him Bob. But she wasn’t sure he would stray this far out of his territory, and the reserve wasn’t short of robins delighting the visitors with their upbeat chorus.

Somewhere in the house’s overgrown grounds was the melodic trill of a warbler. It could be a blackcap or a garden warbler, their songs so similar that, even now, she found it hard to distinguish between them.

Opening her eyes, Abby turned away from the house and towards the laid-out trails of the nature reserve. She often wondered if Penelope ever returned, if she walked through the rooms of her old home and found it calming, or if her husband’s death had forever tainted the place in her memories.

Abby didn’t know why she was drawn to it, but ever since she had moved to the village she had found herself frequently staring up at the serene house, as if it held answers to questions she didn’t yet know how to ask.

The swallowtail butterfly it was named after wasn’t a regular visitor to north Suffolk, making its UK home exclusively in the Norfolk Broads, and this in itself was intriguing. She wondered if, at the time the house had been built, the population of large, yellow butterflies had been much more widespread; like so many other species, its numbers had declined, crowded out by the constant expansion of humans. Stephan, who ran the reserve’s café, had told her that since Meadowsweet records had begun, there had only been two swallowtail butterfly sightings, and those were likely to be visitors from the continent. In some ways, it added to the house’s mystery.

Threading her slender legs through the fallen elder and the tangle of brambles, she stepped onto a narrow track that led to the woodland trail. When she had first been shown round the reserve she had noticed the house, and as she found out more about its history, had decided that when Penelope and Al had lived there, this must have been their main route to the old visitor centre. She thought that the fallen tree might even have been left there on purpose – discouraging people from heading towards the abandoned building.

Back within the confines of the reserve, Abby turned her focus to her job, to the place she would now have to work so hard to rescue.

Meadowsweet wasn’t the only nature reserve that looked after the lagoons and reed beds around Reston Marsh in north Suffolk. But whereas Penelope owned Meadowsweet, Reston Marsh Nature Reserve – already more identifiable because of its name – was run by a national charity. That the two were so closely situated had never been a problem up until now; the habitats were worth protecting, and while the visitor experience was a little less polished at Meadowsweet, it hadn’t stopped people coming to enjoy the walks, weather and wildlife on offer. There was enough to go around, as Stephan always said, and Abby liked the slightly less kempt trails she walked along every day, the sense that nature was always on the verge of taking over completely.

But Meadowsweet didn’t have a committee to make the decisions, to test ideas collectively. Penelope kept everything close to her chest, and no amount of gentle encouragement or forcefulness could persuade her to share. Nobody had yet worked out how to chip away at her firm, upright exterior.

And now the reserve was in trouble. The last few months had seen falling visitor numbers, the damp summer not helping, and recently there had been another dark cloud hanging over it, something which Abby was convinced was the subject of the staff meeting Penelope had called for later that morning.

She was nearly finished. The ladybird was the final piece in her nature trail, a new activity she had devised for the school visits that would happen throughout the autumn term. She found a particularly gnarly root, easily visible from the wide walkway that cut a swathe through the woodland, and secured the ladybird beneath it, writing down its location in the notebook she always carried with her. The sculptures had been made by a local artist, Phyllis Drum, crafted from twigs and bound with twine. Abby liked the hedgehog best; it must have taken Phyllis hours – days, maybe – to put his spines in place.

When she got back to the visitor centre, she would create the map and the questions that would lead intrepid groups of children across the reserve to each of the crafted creatures.

It was the first week in September and the sun was still strong, sparkling on the surface of the coastal lagoons, but there was a faint chill to the air, a clarity that made Abby shiver with nostalgia for fireworks and bonfires, crunching through drives of shin-high leaves. She loved autumn; the sun bold but not stifling, the ripples of leafy scent and pungent sweetness of apples, the way everything burst forth in a blaze of colour, as if refusing to succumb to winter. She picked up her pace, hurrying along the trail that was one of the reserve’s main arteries. Paths led off it down to the water, to the heron and kingfisher hides, to the forest hide, and along the meadow trail.

She greeted a couple in matching navy parkas, a tripod slung over the man’s shoulder, the woman’s rucksack bulky with extra camera lenses.

‘Anything doing down at the heron hide?’ the man asked, spotting Abby’s reserve jacket, the logo of a sprig of meadowsweet and a peacock butterfly on the breast pocket.

‘A little egret, and some bearded tits were in the reeds in front of the hide about half an hour ago.’

‘Excellent, we’ll head there first. Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ Abby said, and waved them off.

The visitor centre was a round, high-ceilinged building constructed out of wood and glass, the huge windows cleaned regularly, letting the weather encroach on the indoors. It was only eighteen months old, and was welcoming, modern and eco-friendly. Inside, it was split into four sections that reminded Abby of the Trivial Pursuit wedges. Penelope’s office, the storeroom and the kitchen made up one wedge, the reception and enquiry desk made up another, the gift shop was the third and, leading out onto a grassy area with picnic tables that looked out over the lagoons, Stephan’s café was the fourth.

When Abby walked in, Rosa was behind the reception desk, looking elegant in a loose-fitting teal top, her black, springy curls pulled away from her face in a large butterfly clip. She handed over day passes to two men dressed in camouflage and shouldering impressive telescopes.

‘Busy so far?’ Abby asked once they’d taken the map Rosa had offered them and headed out of the door.

‘Not very,’ Rosa admitted, her shoulders rising in a sigh. ‘But it’s still early. And lots of people go back to school and work this week so it’s understandable that it’s quieter than usual.’

‘Of course it is,’ Abby said, their false enthusiasm spurring each other on. ‘Give it a few more days and we’ll be heaving.’

‘I truly hope so.’ The voice came from behind Abby. It was smooth and calm, but with a steel to it that made her heart beat a little faster. ‘How is the treasure hunt coming along?’

‘I’ve placed everything along the trails,’ Abby said, turning to face Penelope. ‘I just need to finish the paperwork that goes with it.’

‘Good.’ Penelope raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘When is our first school coming in?’

‘Next week. The first week back was too soon for most of the teachers I spoke to, but they’re also keen to come while the weather’s still good. I think the possibility of forty children going home to their parents with muddy trousers was too much to bear.’

‘And how’s Gavin getting on with clearing the area around the heron hide?’

Abby’s mouth opened but nothing came out, because she had no idea.

Penelope stood with her arms folded across her slender chest, her long grey hair, streaked with white like a heron’s wing feathers, pulled back into a bun, waiting for the answer. She had used her usual tactic, lulling Abby into a false sense of security by asking her questions she could answer with confidence, then sneaking in the killer blow once she’d become complacent.

‘He’s been working since seven,’ Rosa said, rescuing her. ‘He told me he was making good progress when I saw him half an hour ago.’

‘I wonder, though,’ Penelope said, ‘whether his version of good progress would be the same as mine?’

Neither Abby nor Rosa dared to answer that one, and Penelope pursed her lips and glanced in the direction of the café, from where the smell of cheese scones, as well as a rather ropey a cappella version of ‘Bat out of Hell’, was coming.

‘I want you in my office in five minutes.’ She spun on her heels and walked away, closing her office door firmly behind her.

Rosa leaned her elbows on the desk. ‘Why do we put up with it?’

‘Penelope’s not that bad,’ Abby said. ‘She has the potential to be friendly – it’s just that she’s been on her own for so long, she’s forgotten how.’

‘She’s not on her own though, is she? Her life is the reserve, and we’re all here. You, me and Stephan, Gavin and Marek, the volunteers, the regular visitors. She probably sees more people on a daily basis than most other sixty-six-year-olds. My parents don’t have as large a social circle as she does, and they’re eternally happy.’

‘Your mum and dad don’t understand the meaning of the word miserable.’

Abby had met Rosa’s parents several times since she’d started working at Meadowsweet, and they were the most cheerful people she’d ever encountered, living in a cosy bungalow in the Suffolk town of Stowmarket. Rosa’s Jamaican mother was always laughing about something, and her dad had welcomed Abby with open arms, and was easy to talk to. Abby couldn’t help feeling a pang of longing and envy that Rosa had such a loving family close by. Not that Abby didn’t have Tessa, her sister, but it wasn’t the same as doting parents.

‘My mum and dad don’t take anything for granted,’ Rosa said, ‘which is the best way to live your life. Penelope has this whole estate, she has the houses – Peacock Cottage and that gorgeous, deteriorating pile that could be so wonderful, yet it’s lying in tatters. And she still walks around as if she’s sucking a rotten plum.’

‘Yes,’ Abby said, leaning over the reception desk and lowering her voice. ‘But the reserve is in trouble, isn’t it? We both know what this meeting’s about.’

Rosa sighed in exasperation. Her dark eyes were sharp, inquisitive. She had spent several years in London, buying products for a department store, and had moved back to Suffolk when her mum had had a stroke – one which, thankfully, she was almost completely recovered from. A nature reserve gift shop was undoubtedly a backwards step, but Rosa had told Abby she liked being able to put her personal stamp on it, and the products she had sourced since being at Meadowsweet were good quality and highly desirable.

‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’re reading too much into it.’

Abby shrugged, hoping her friend was right but not believing it for a moment.

Ten minutes later, with Deborah, one of the volunteers, covering reception, Abby, Rosa, Stephan and head warden Gavin were seated in Penelope’s office, in chairs crammed into the space between the door and her desk while she sat serenely behind it, her grey eyes unflinching.

‘I think you know why I’ve called this meeting,’ she said, without preamble.

‘Wild Wonders,’ Stephan replied quickly, and Rosa shot him a look.

‘Gold star for you, mate.’ Gavin crossed one overalled knee over the other.

‘Thank you, Gavin,’ Penelope said. ‘And Stephan. Yes, you’re right. I’ve had confirmation that Wild Wonders has chosen Reston Marsh Nature Reserve as their host venue for the next year.’

There was a collective exhalation, a sense of sad inevitability, but Abby’s heart started racing.

‘Year?’ she blurted, because while she’d been expecting bad news, this was worse. ‘They’re going to be filming there for a whole year?’

‘Got to cover all the seasons, haven’t they?’ Gavin said. ‘Shit.’

‘I don’t need to tell you,’ Penelope continued, ‘that this is not good news for Meadowsweet. While it’s not the most competitive industry, and many of our visitors frequent both reserves, the pull that Wild Wonders will have is considerable. It’s prime time, and as I understand it, they will broadcast a live television programme twice a week, supported by a wealth of online coverage: webcams, competitions and social media. We need to be as proactive as we can.’

‘In what way?’ Rosa asked.

‘In increasing our numbers, and our reach,’ Penelope said. ‘Making Meadowsweet at least as attractive a proposition for a day out as Reston Marsh, if not more, and becoming more visible. You all have your own areas of expertise, and you have to get thinking. We need visitors who will return again and again. It’s not going to be easy, but as a small reserve with no regular funding, we, in this room, are the only ones who can make a difference.’

Abby ran her fingers over her lips. Up until that point the events she’d organized had been fairly standard: walks through the reserve and activities for schools, stargazing and bat watching, owl and raptor sessions, butterfly trails. They’d been well attended, but they weren’t unique, eye-catching, untraditional. Maybe now was the time to start thinking a bit more radically.

‘I have some thoughts,’ she said. ‘I was toying with the idea of—’

‘Excellent, Abigail.’ Penelope met her gaze easily. ‘I’m encouraged that you have plans. After all, your remit is visitors and engagement, so the weight of responsibility is angled more in your direction. But don’t tell me now; this is not the time for brainstorming. All of you go away, come back to me with written proposals and we’ll take it from there. I need to see an almost instantaneous change.’

She indicated for them all to leave, which they did slowly, scraping their chairs back and filing out of her office, gravitating to the reception desk where Abby took up her post from Deborah and waited for an influx of visitors.

‘Not a huge surprise,’ Stephan said sadly.

Rosa shook her head. ‘I’ve got some ideas, but it’s still going to be a tiny shop in an independent nature reserve, without a national television show raising its profile.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Gavin said, giving her a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure your defeatist attitude is exactly what Penelope’s after.’

‘We just need to shake things up a bit,’ Abby said, ‘look at new ways of attracting people who would never ordinarily pick Meadowsweet as a day out. And if we can get the yearly memberships up, then we’ll already be on the way to winning the battle.’

Stephan’s smile was tentative. ‘Exactly, Abby. And I can work on my recipes, expand my scone flavours.’

‘See?’ Abby said. ‘Run a few more lines in the shop, Rosa, and concentrate on the online catalogue. That way we make money without anyone even stepping through the doors. There are lots of small things we can do.’

What Penelope was asking was straightforward. They had to attract more visitors, sell them more scones and sausage rolls, get them to walk away with bulging paper bags full of mugs and spotter books, boxes of fat balls. They all had their tasks, but, as Penelope had reminded her, Abby was doubly responsible because if she couldn’t improve the reserve’s popularity, then the café could have the best cheese scones in the world, but there would be nobody there to eat them.

She pushed down a bubble of panic. Would a few more walks, a few more members truly be able to make a difference against a television programme? In only eighteen months she had come to see Meadowgreen as her home, Meadowsweet Nature Reserve and its staff as her sanctuary and family. She didn’t want anything to threaten the small, idyllic world she had carved out for herself.

The silence was morose, and as Stephan went to check on his trays of flapjacks and Rosa returned to the shop, Abby watched a young man with fair hair and a blue-and-white checked shirt walk through the door.

‘Hello,’ he said, bypassing the reception desk and going over to the binoculars before she’d had a chance to reply.

‘Hi, Jonny,’ Rosa called.

‘Oh, hey.’ Jonny turned uncertainly, as if Rosa was the last person he expected to see in the shop that she ran.

Abby had almost started a pool on when Jonny would actually buy a pair of binoculars, but then decided it was cruel, and that if he ever found out he’d be mortified. It was the regular customers who kept the reserve going, even if most of them only bought a day pass and a slice of carrot cake rather than a £300 pair of Helios Fieldmasters with high-transmission lenses and prism coatings.

‘I need to fill up the feeders,’ Abby said to Gavin, who was leaning on the desk alongside her, turning a reserve map into a paper aeroplane.

She went to the storeroom and lifted bags of seed, mealworms and fat balls onto a small trolley, then wheeled it outside to the bank of feeders just beyond the main doors. It was often awash with small birds: blue tits, great tits, robins, chaffinches and greenfinches. Occasionally a marsh tit would find its way there, or a cloud of the dusky-pink and brown long-tailed tits, their high-pitched peeps insistent. Small flocks of starlings would swoop down, cause a couple of minutes of devastation and then leave again. Squirrels regularly chanced their luck, and rabbits and pheasants waited for fallen seed on the grass below.

Often, before visitors had even stepped through the automatic door of the visitor centre they had seen more wildlife than they found in their own back gardens, and once they were on the reserve, the possibilities were almost endless.

Abby waited for a male greenfinch to finish his lunch and fly away, then set to work.

Her job title, activity coordinator, didn’t encompass all that she did for the reserve, but she didn’t mind. There wasn’t anywhere she’d rather spend her time, and her role mattered. She belonged at Meadowsweet, and if Penelope wanted her to get more creative, to double the number of visitors, then so be it.

Gavin had followed her out, pulling his reserve-issue baseball cap on, and Abby noticed how muddy his ranger overalls were.

‘That was a kick up the backside,’ he said, speaking frankly now they were well out of Penelope’s earshot.

‘Not unexpected, though,’ Abby replied. ‘There have been rumours about Wild Wonders for ages, and taking a fresh look at how we run this place wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?’

‘We could talk about it over a drink in the Skylark later, if you and the others are keen?’

‘You’ve got a pub pass, then?’

‘Jenna’s taking the girls to her mum’s for tea, so I’m jumping on the opportunity.’

‘I’ll see who I can round up,’ Abby said.

‘Grand. I heard it was someone’s birthday at the beginning of the week. We should do a bit of celebrating.’

‘How did you—?’ Abby started, but Gavin placed a full feeder back on its hook, then grinned and sidled off, whistling.

She got back to her task, exchanging pleasantries with visitors as they strolled down from the car park. That was the thing about working on a nature reserve – nobody turned up grumpy. They were all coming for enjoyment, to stretch their legs and get a dose of fresh air, spot a species they loved or discover something new. There were the odd children who were brought under duress, but there was enough on offer to engage a young, curious mind once they gave it a chance.

On the whole, the reserve was a happy place, and she wished that Penelope would embody that a bit more. She had always been a strict, no-nonsense boss, but even so, Abby had noticed a distinct cooling over the last few months. She could put it down to the threat of Wild Wonders, but Abby had a feeling there were other things Penelope was worried about but had so far failed to share with her team.

But then, everybody had things that they wanted to keep to themselves. Abby had made friends here, but the thought of any of them – even Rosa – knowing her deepest insecurities, her past mistakes, made her feel sick. She hadn’t even realized she’d told anyone when her birthday was. She liked to keep them quiet, but she had to concede that a few drinks at the pub would be nice, and nothing they didn’t already do.

On Monday, the August bank holiday, Abby had turned thirty-one. Her sister Tessa, Tessa’s husband Neil, and their two children Willow and Daisy had thrown Abby a birthday picnic in the garden of their modern house in Bury St Edmunds. Abby loved spending time with them. She was helping with the pond they were creating and had started trying to come up with ways to describe the wildlife that Willow, at eight, would be enthusiastic about, writing some of her ideas down in her notebook. Three-year-old Daisy was still a way off being converted, though Abby had her in her sights.

But thirty-one somehow felt even more of a milestone than thirty had. Abby had no children of her own, no husband or boyfriend or even a glimmer of romance on the horizon – not that, after her last relationship, she felt inclined to dive into something new. It had been a long time since she’d shared her bed with anyone besides a large husky with twitchy ears and icy-blue eyes. Raffle wasn’t even supposed to go in her bedroom, but it had taken about five minutes from the moment she’d picked him up from the rescue centre for that rule to get broken.

Working on the reserve, and the long morning and evening walks that kept her husky exercised, meant that Abby was fit, her five-foot-four frame slender but not boyishly flat. Her dark-blonde hair was shoulder length, often in a ponytail, and she wore minimal make-up, usually only mascara to frame her hazel eyes. Being glamorous wasn’t one of her job’s remits, and the village pub didn’t have much higher standards.

As she tidied up the visitor centre later that day, Abby decided an evening in the Skylark with her friends was just what she needed. She took her usual route home, knowing the land like the back of her hand.

The approach road that led from Meadowgreen village to the reserve’s car park was long and meandering, forcing cars to slow down, twisting around the larger, established trees, and a single building. If Abby followed the road it would take her three times as long to get home, so instead she cut through the trees and came out halfway along it, opposite the building it curved around: Peacock Cottage.

Part of the Meadowsweet estate and therefore owned by Penelope, Peacock Cottage was a quaint thatched house with pristine white walls, a peacock-blue front door and four, front-facing windows – two up and two down – as if it had been drawn by a child. It was isolated, surrounded on three sides by trees, but also encountered regularly by visitors going to or from the reserve, the approach road passing within a hair’s breadth of the low front gate. Abby didn’t know who tended to the hanging basket – she’d never seen anyone go in or out of the cottage, though it still managed to look immaculate.

She wondered how many people driving past, or walking the less-trodden paths through the surrounding woodland came across the cottage and thought about who lived there. Was it Mrs Tiggywinkle? Red Riding Hood’s grandma? Did the witch who lured Hansel and Gretel in hide inside, behind walls that appeared completely normal to adults, the true, confectionary nature of the house only visible to children? Abby had conjured up all kinds of interesting occupants, something that she’d never done when peering at Swallowtail House, perhaps because she knew Penelope had once lived there.

Once she’d left the cottage behind and emerged from the trees, Abby was in the middle of Meadowgreen village. She walked past the post box and the old chapel that had been converted into the library-cum-shop, and was run by her inquisitive next-door neighbour, Octavia Pilch, its graveyard garden looking out of place next to the newspaper bulletin board.

Then – as always – she crossed over the main road and walked along the outside of the tall, redbrick wall that shielded Swallowtail House and its overgrown gardens from the rest of the world. As she got to pass the main gates of the house twice a day, she didn’t quite understand her need to visit it that morning, except that it had drawn her to it, as if it wanted to give up all its secrets.

She crossed back over as she came level with her road, unlocked the red front door of No. 1 Warbler Cottages, and was greeted enthusiastically by Raffle. The evening was warm so she discarded her reserve fleece, attached Raffle’s lead and set off on one of her husky’s favourite walks, neither she nor her dog ever tiring of being outdoors. Pounding through the countryside would help her think about how she could rescue Meadowsweet from the threat of closure, something that, until today, she hadn’t even allowed herself to contemplate.

Chapter Two

A goldcrest is a tiny, round bird like a greeny-brown ping-pong ball. It has large eyes, and an orange crest on its head if it’s male or yellow if it’s female. It has a call like a high-pitched, squeaky toy, and it rarely sits still, like Daisy when she’s watching a Disney film.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

The Skylark was a typical village pub. Its paintwork was yellow, but duller than the exterior walls of Swallowtail House, as if it was a slightly desperate copycat. But it had a healthy wisteria over the front door – though its blooms had ended for the year – and picnic tables outside. The wooden floorboards and chocolate-coloured leather seating inside gave it an air of opulence, and while it did a good trade in lunches with local walkers, the evenings were another matter, and Abby had never seen the pub more than half full, even on a balmy summer night.

When she walked in there was the soft hum of voices and Ryan, a few years older than Abby and a big, gentle bear of a man, gave her a cheery welcome. ‘They’re through there,’ he said. ‘Got you one in, unless Stephan’s particularly thirsty.’

‘Thanks, Ryan.’ She made her way to the large table by the window, where they always liked to convene and were very rarely unable to. The window faced the reserve’s approach road, and Abby liked seeing who turned onto and out of it. The visitor centre shut at five, but at this time of year, when the sun took its time going down, people could still park and walk the trails, though signs reminded them they were doing so at their own risk.

Stephan pushed a pint of pale ale in her direction as she sat down, Raffle settling on the floor next to her chair. Along with Gavin, the other full-time warden, Marek had made an appearance, even though it was his day off. This was the largest their gathering ever got; it was rare for them all to be available on the same day.

‘Happy birthday, Abby,’ Marek said, holding up his glass as everyone else echoed his words. ‘What is it, twenty-four, five maybe?’

Abby laughed. ‘You charmer. Thank you, everyone.’ She took a sip of beer, her eyes automatically going to the table. They were all her friends, it wasn’t exactly a surprise party, but she still felt self-conscious. How was it she could lead an activity at the reserve in front of forty strangers, and yet being the centre of attention with people she cared about made her want to hide in a cupboard?

‘If I’d known, I would have baked you a cake,’ Stephan said.

‘You still can,’ Rosa replied quickly. ‘A few days late won’t matter, and cakes can be enjoyed by more than just the birthday girl. That’s what makes them so brilliant.’

Stephan laughed, his eyes bright. He was in his mid-fifties and had run the café at the reserve for the last eighteen months, coming on board at the same time as Abby and Rosa, the supposed turning point for Meadowsweet, when the new visitor centre opened and the venture was supposed to be more professional and profitable. Abby had noticed that Stephan never seemed to have an off day, never appeared grumpy or downcast, and she wondered how much of that was forced, how big a role he’d had to play both to his wife, Mary, and the rest of his friends and family while Mary was dying of cancer.

Sometimes she wanted to ask him how he really felt, sure that he couldn’t be upbeat all of the time, but she knew any delving would be a two-way thing, and she wasn’t prepared to reveal too much about her past – she’d need another decade getting to know them all for that.

‘What did you do, Abby?’ Gavin asked.

‘I met up with my sister and her family at their house in Bury.’

‘No wild nights out on the town? Bury’s got a good nightlife. Relatively speaking.’

‘Tessa’s got a young family, so she’s usually asleep on the sofa by half nine, and besides, this is my night out – what could be better than you lot in here?’

‘Abby, Abby, Abby,’ Marek said pityingly, his accent softening the words. His family had moved to Suffolk from Warsaw nearly twenty years ago, and he’d worked on the reserve much longer than the rest of them, when it was still Penelope and Al’s pet project. He was happy with his position and hadn’t begrudged Gavin the role of head warden when he’d started the year before. ‘This is the best you can do?’

‘It is for me,’ Abby said, patting Raffle. ‘Besides, I have to get going on a plan to save the reserve in the morning, and I don’t want a sore head when I’m doing it.’

‘Bloody Wild Wonders,’ Gavin said. ‘What a fucking curse, eh?’ His glass was empty, and the swearing – usually quite prevalent anyway – had ramped up a notch, which meant he was already on his way to being drunk, making the most of the pass he’d got from his wife.

‘It’s good for the area,’ Stephan said carefully. ‘It might mean more publicity for Meadowsweet as well as Reston Marsh. I don’t think Penelope would have appreciated me saying this earlier, but we shouldn’t knock it until it’s started.’

‘They’re here already.’ Rosa turned to Abby, filling her in on the gossip she had missed by turning up later than the others. ‘Stephan passed three trucks emblazoned with the logo on his cycle over this evening.’

Stephan nodded. ‘I went home to feed Tilly her Whiskas, and I passed them on my way back here. Great big bloody things, I wouldn’t be surprised if they get stuck in the mud at some point. I wonder, did they not do a recce when they decided to come to Reston Marsh and realize that the reserve is, unsurprisingly, in marshland? Even car parks and properly built trails won’t always cut it for fifty-ton trucks in this kind of environment.’

Marek chuckled. ‘You would have thought the name would give them a clue. Wouldn’t it be great if they started off with a huge disaster like that? All the expensive filming equipment lost, because one of the trucks tipped over into the mire.’

‘I’m not sure even that would be enough to raise a smile from Penelope,’ Rosa said. ‘She’s so austere – more so than usual.’

‘She has a lot on her plate.’ Stephan echoed Abby’s earlier words. ‘Wild Wonders is real. And I’m the only one who thinks it could be a bonus for us, instead of a problem.’

‘It’s like putting two mobiles on the table,’ Marek said. ‘One’s the latest iPhone, and the other’s the Nokia 3330 with the tiny buttons and the snake game. No matter how nostalgic you feel, you’ll go for the iPhone, 100 per cent.’

‘But why can’t people have both?’ Abby asked. ‘The iPhone for the cool features, the Nokia because it reminds you of simpler times. Why won’t people go to Reston Marsh for the thrill of being somewhere they see on the TV, and then come to us because it’s more peaceful?’

‘I’ll give you a reason,’ Gavin said. ‘Flick Hunter. That’s why.’ He sat back, a smug grin on his face and tried to drink the now non-existent dregs of his pint.

‘I’ll get another round in.’ Rosa stood and disappeared to the bar, but not before Abby had seen the eye-roll.

‘Who’s Flick Hunter?’ she asked. ‘It sounds like a made-up name.’

‘Wild Wonders TV presenter,’ Marek said. ‘She is a hottie. Blonde hair, long-limbed, twinkly eyes. A reason to watch all on her own, never mind the wildlife.’

‘But she’ll only be there when they’re broadcasting, surely?’ Abby tried not to be annoyed at their obvious objectification of this woman.

‘But people will still go to Reston Marsh on the off-chance,’ Gavin said. ‘Hell, I’m trying to come up with a detour home so I can get a glimpse of her striding through the trees.’

‘Oh God.’ Abby put her head in her hands. ‘I can’t believe the success or failure of Meadowsweet is going to come down to a television presenter who probably doesn’t know that much about wildlife in the first place.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Stephan said. ‘The lads are exaggerating. Thinking with their lower halves. We’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Gavin gave a humourless laugh, and the table settled into quiet, not remotely jubilant contemplation. Beside her, Raffle whined softly, and Abby scratched his ears, reminding him that he wasn’t forgotten.

‘I thought we were supposed to be celebrating Abby’s birthday, not bemoaning the fate of our workplace,’ Rosa said, returning to the table, Ryan behind her with the tray of drinks, his large hands making the glasses look like they belonged to a child’s tea set. ‘Can we stop talking shop for five minutes, please?’

‘Go on then.’ Marek folded his tanned arms. ‘If you can beat the Wild Wonders gossip then I’ll get the next round in, and a bag of crisps each. Push the boat out.’

‘Fine.’ Rosa gave them a wide, confident grin, her dark eyes sparkling, and then delivered her news. ‘Someone’s moving into Peacock Cottage.’

‘Oooooh.’ Gavin waved his hands in mock excitement.

‘Shut up, Gav,’ Rosa said. ‘It’s good gossip.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Penelope owns it, obviously, but like the big house up there—’ she pointed, and Abby cut in, her interest piqued by her friend’s news:

‘Swallowtail House.’

‘Thanks, Abby, like Swallowtail House, it’s been empty ever since I’ve worked on the reserve. So, why is Penelope moving someone in now? And is it someone she knows, or is she renting it out to boost her income, add another string to the Meadowsweet bow?’

‘I don’t understand why she doesn’t sell Swallowtail House if the reserve’s in trouble,’ Marek said. ‘That would surely go for a pretty packet and help fund the reserve for a while to come.’

‘She won’t,’ Abby said. ‘It’s a reminder of her life with Al, isn’t it? She can’t bear to part with it, that’s what everyone says.’

‘It’s a shame she and Al never had children, someone to inherit it or live in it, even if Penelope couldn’t bear to.’ Rosa sipped her wine.

‘All these romantic notions are very well and good,’ Gavin said, ‘but can you imagine Penelope with kids? Poor fucking kids!’

‘Gavin!’ Abby squealed. ‘You can’t say that. She might have been a wonderful mother; we don’t know her well enough to pass judgement.’

‘She could do with a little bit more humanity,’ Rosa said quietly.

‘How do you know about Peacock Cottage anyway?’ Abby asked. She wanted to have faith in Penelope. Nobody who cared about wildlife as much as she did, who had – along with her late husband – put all her money into turning her private estate into a nature reserve, could be heartless. But the news about Peacock Cottage was safer ground. No longer would little Red Riding Hood’s gran live there, but someone real. It was good gossip.

‘I overheard Penelope on the phone,’ Rosa said. ‘I was in the storeroom getting some more coaster sets out, and the office door blew open a bit. She was talking to some guy called Leo. Said something about them being able to move in whenever they liked, the sooner the better, and that it was a “quiet little cottage that was hardly ever disturbed”. Guys,’ Rosa added, ‘I heard Penelope laughing.’

There was a moment of stunned silence.

‘Laughing?’ Stephan said the word as if it were a foreign language.

‘Christ,’ Gavin shook his head. ‘Are you sure it was Penelope?’

‘Yup,’ Rosa said. ‘She said something like “He’ll be perfect, Leo. We can see if there’s hope left for either of us.” Maybe she thinks the rent money will go some way to restoring reserve fortunes?’

‘She’s not telling the truth about Peacock Cottage, though,’ Marek said. ‘It may look quiet, nestled there in the trees, but visitors go past it all the time. If Penelope’s using that as a selling point, it’s false advertising.’

‘And it’s right on the road to the car park,’ Abby added. ‘With cars slowing to go over the speed humps. You didn’t find out who was moving in, though? Or when?’

‘Nope,’ Rosa said. ‘We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.’

Gavin grunted. ‘I expect Octavia knows, has their shoe size, their health history and the exact minute they’re going to pitch up here. She’s probably already picked out a selection of library books for them based on their reading preferences. Bloody woman.’

There was genuine, hearty laughter round the table, Gavin’s scathing tone being mostly false.

Octavia, Abby’s next-door neighbour, kept gossip circulating like blood through Meadowgreen’s veins. She had a handle on everything that was happening in the village and, to a certain extent, on the reserve, but her heart was in the right place. The community library would have disappeared a long time ago had it not been for her selfless commitment.

‘You’re probably right,’ Rosa said. ‘I’m almost tempted to go and ask her.’

‘Imagine if she’s unwittingly rented it to one of the Wild Wonders crew members?’ Marek’s eyes widened.

‘Or Flick Hunter herself,’ Stephan added.

‘No way,’ Gavin said, breaking off to down his pint in three long gulps. ‘No fucking way would it be that fucking interesting. Come on, guys, this is Meadowsweet we’re talking about here. England’s most sedate fucking visitor attraction. If a squirrel farts it’s the highlight of the day.’

Abby laughed at Gavin’s crudeness. He, as much as anyone, was dedicated to his job and looking after the wildlife on the reserve, even though he sometimes did a good impression of not caring.

She felt a slight change in atmosphere round the table. Things were already so precarious with the confirmation of the Wild Wonders team turning up at Reston Marsh, and a new tenant in Peacock Cottage shouldn’t be a massive deal, but she was sure everyone else was having the same thoughts she was.

Any relative or friend of Penelope’s would stay with her on the Harrier estate – she had enough room in her house there – so it seemed unlikely that was the answer. Had she brought someone in to try and rescue the reserve, a professional project manager because none of them were up to the task? Or could it be someone who was interested in buying the Meadowsweet estate, Swallowtail House and the reserve included, and wanted to spend some time there first, getting the lie of the land? Penelope wasn’t the type to rent her property out to a complete stranger; she was far too private a person for that, unless the financial situation had become so desperate she had no choice.

That last option would, surely, be the worst of them all, and would suggest they were in even more trouble than Abby had first thought.

Chapter Three

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.

Chapter Four

The mistle thrush is a large brown bird with a spotty tummy like a bread-and-butter pudding. It got its name because it likes to eat mistletoe berries from the plant people kiss beneath at Christmas. Its song is a bit like a high-pitched recorder – it’s pretty, but can be quite repetitive.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

‘You are Abby Field, aren’t you?’ the man asked. ‘You left me this?’ He waved the piece of paper she had pushed through his letterbox, and she felt her neck heat with embarrassment.

‘Yes, I – we got your note, at the reserve.’ It was a coherent sentence, which she was thankful for. She wasn’t sure who she’d imagined JW would be – someone more obviously curmudgeonly, perhaps a contemporary of Penelope or a similar age to the man she’d seen leaving the cottage a couple of days before. But he wasn’t, and neither was he Red Riding Hood’s grandma, or the witch who ate children.

He was, quite simply, gorgeous.

About her age, she thought, tall and slim built, but with wide shoulders and a suggestion from the definition of his arms under a navy, cotton jumper, that he kept himself fit. His nose was straight, his jaw firm, defined, and beneath the thick wavy mane of chocolate-coloured hair and matching brows, he had blue eyes. They were looking at her sternly, her notepaper scissored between the ends of two fingers, held with disdain, on the verge of being discarded.

‘And this is your response?’ he asked. His voice was deep; every word enunciated perfectly, no hint of a Suffolk accent. He could easily, she decided, be Penelope’s son. He had that same air of entitlement about him, the same chiselled features, a frown that was probably etched in permanently.

She took two steps forward. ‘You didn’t answer when I knocked, and I didn’t want to go away without responding. We don’t want you to be unhappy here, far from it, Mr—’ she stopped, realizing she had no idea what his name was.

‘I’m Jack,’ he supplied. He held out his hand, and she took it.

His skin was warm and dry, the shake firm. Closer to him, she could see the faintest hint of stubble, and a dink on the left side of his jaw – a friendly dimple that he probably despised. He smelt expensive. Of citrus and bergamot, like a posh cup of the Earl Grey you only got with champagne afternoon tea in fancy hotels.

‘So, you’re going to do something about it, are you?’ His voice had softened, questioning rather than accusatory when Abby continued to be tongue-tied, and she relaxed a fraction. ‘Only I don’t know if living in harmony is achievable, as nice an idea as it is.’

His expression was neutral, but was his eyebrow raised a millimetre? Was he making fun of her? She took a deep breath. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I am terribly sorry you feel so aggrieved by visitors to the nature reserve passing your cottage, both in their vehicles and on foot, and if there is anything you think I can practicably do to help reduce the stress it is causing you, without closing the reserve down, then please let me know what that is. I’ve had a look at the garden, and I think it’s very unlikely that walkers are actually crossing your lawn, and the woodland around it is accessible to all. The reserve has been open for decades, and you – well, you’ve been here a couple of days.’

Jack looked down at her, and Abby felt scrutinized in a way she hadn’t been before. She fidgeted, pulling her short ponytail tighter, widening her feet to give the impression of being steadfast and unwavering.

Eventually, he spoke. ‘How am I supposed to get any writing done when there’s a constant thrum of chatter outside the windows, walking boots pounding the gravel, cars groaning past at four miles an hour, every three minutes? I had thought this property was secluded.’

‘It’s not exactly Piccadilly Circus, is it?’ Abby shot back. ‘If you wanted to be completely undisturbed, why didn’t you rent out an island in the Hebrides?’

Jack folded his arms. ‘None were available at the time of asking.’

‘Right, well then. Not much more I can say, is there?’

‘So that’s it, you’re not going to do anything about it?’

Abby inhaled, waiting for her lungs to fill. ‘I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what I can do. I can’t stop people walking and driving past, the reserve’s in trouble as it is, and my job is to encourage more visitors, not send them away. I can’t afford to soundproof your cottage, and while Penelope probably could, I’m not sure it would be a priority, and other than that I’m at a loss. Can’t you put on some really loud classical music or something, to drown them out?’

‘I can’t write to music. It needs to be quiet.’

‘Where did you write before this, then?’ Abby couldn’t help it; she was intrigued.

‘I have a flat in London, but—’

‘London?’ Abby laughed. ‘And you’re complaining about a sleepy Suffolk nature reserve?’

‘I went to libraries, clubs – there were always places to go in London where I could think straight.’

‘So, go back there then,’ Abby said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. She bit her lip.

Jack rewarded her with a humourless smile. ‘Point taken. If you do think of anything, I’d be keen to hear your ideas. I’m tearing my hair out here.’ He stepped back, one hand on the open door, and Abby knew it was her cue to leave.

‘Sure,’ she said, because she was feeling bad about her last comment. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on.’

Jack nodded once, and then gently closed the door. Abby turned and walked back to the reserve, the blackbirds’ song drowned out by her clamouring thoughts.

‘So, come on then, what is this fucker like?’ Gavin flicked ash off his cigarette, shoulders hunched against the chill. Rosa wrapped her cream wool duffel coat more tightly around her.

The temperature had dipped that afternoon, the clouds barrelling over like they were late for an important engagement, and by closing time the reserve was chilly and grey. The three of them were standing at the far end of the car park, where the designated smoking area was. Rosa and Abby were ready to go home, while Gavin had said he needed to stay and finish clearing an area of scrubland but couldn’t wait any longer to hear about Abby’s unsuccessful visit.

‘He’s … he’s a bit posh,’ she settled on. No way was she going to tell Gavin she found their new neighbour physically attractive, even if his personality left a lot to be desired.

‘And? Come on Abby, spit it out.’

‘He’s tall, untidy dark hair, blue eyes, cross face. He genuinely wanted me to send all the visitors away and seemed very disgruntled when I couldn’t. Then I told him to go away.’

Rosa gasped. ‘You did what? I thought you said to Penelope you’d placated him?’

‘He wasn’t shouting at me by the end, which is a good sign, and that comment was a mistake. He said there were loads of places he could write in peace in London, so I told him to go back there. I didn’t mean it, I was frustrated.’

‘Hang on a moment,’ Rosa grabbed her arm. ‘He’s a writer? What’s his name?’

Abby grinned. Rosa was the biggest bookworm she knew, and probably, along with Octavia, was the reason the community library managed to stay open. ‘He won’t be well known.’

‘How do you know that? How many authors would you recognize if you bumped into them in the street?’

‘J.K. Rowling,’ Abby said, raising a finger, and then hesitated.

‘Exactly!’ Rosa clapped her hands. ‘So, we know he’s called Jack, and he’s tall with dark hair. Age?’

‘My age, probably, maybe a couple of years older.’ Abby pictured him again, surprised how easily she could conjure up Jack’s face in her mind, and then felt a prickle of something, as if a shadow was passing through her thoughts. ‘Maybe I did …? No.’

‘Did what?’ Rosa asked, excitement threading through her words.

‘Perhaps – I mean, maybe I’d seen him somewhere before. But I think that’s just because you’re suggesting he might be famous. It wasn’t like – wham – there’s Al Pacino or anything. He was … he acted like he was owed everything, though. Like it was his right to have all the peace and quiet in the world, because he’d moved into the cottage.’

‘Snooty sod,’ Gavin said. ‘Not inclined to sort out the bindweed now.’

‘I will!’ Rosa said. ‘Not sort out the bindweed, but I’m going to have to go and see if he is a well-known writer. Just imagine if he was?’

‘What difference would it make?’ Abby asked. ‘We can’t exactly advertise him as a feature of the reserve, in the same way Flick Hunter’s going to draw the crowds to Reston Marsh. He’s already made it clear he wants no distractions.’

‘It’ll be exciting for us, though,’ Rosa said. ‘A real live celebrity in the vicinity.’

‘A real live, pain in the ass celebrity,’ Gavin added.

‘We don’t even know that he is,’ Abby said. ‘He could write medical textbooks, history magazines, dull business reports – anything. Just because he said he was a writer, doesn’t mean he’s Stephen King’s hot nephew.’

‘Oh, so he’s hot, is he?’ Gavin asked.

Abby cursed inwardly.

‘Tomorrow,’ Rosa said, clasping her hands together. ‘I’ll find an excuse to go there tomorrow. See how he’s getting on, that kind of thing.’

‘Poor guy’s not going to know what’s hit him, with all this interest and fluttering about.’ Gavin waggled his fingers and shook his head.

‘Two minutes ago you were calling him a snooty sod,’ Abby protested.

‘Yeah, well … maybe I’ve changed my mind. Us guys have to stick together.’

The following day began with a short, and somewhat depressing, debrief. Wild Wonders had started the previous evening, and Abby – along with all the other staff at Meadowsweet – had tuned in to see what they were up against. The resounding conclusion was that it was professional, interesting, and made nature accessible to people in a way Abby managed to on a much smaller scale.

The female presenter, Flick Hunter, was the perfect anchor. Undeniably beautiful, she treated the camera as if it was a close friend, speaking to her unseen viewers with warmth and passion about the wildlife being uncovered, day-by-day, at nearby Reston Marsh. Grudgingly, they all admitted that, while it might not be ideal in some respects, promoting nature could never be a bad thing.

Later that morning, Jonny was hovering by the binoculars. He looked friendly and cosy in a cornflower-blue jumper, his fair hair neater than usual. The reception desk was momentarily quiet, and so Abby left Maureen, one of the volunteers who was working alongside her, to cover it and went over to say hello.

‘How’s it going, Jonny? Any closer to making a decision? You could always get Rosa to go over the specifications of a few pairs with you.’

‘Oh, err, no thanks. I’m fine. I’ll get there in the end. Good of you to offer, though. Where is Rosa, by the way?’

‘Funny story,’ Abby said. ‘She’s gone to spy on the guy who’s moved into Peacock Cottage, you know that white house on the approach road to the car park? Thinks he might be some famous author or something.’

Jonny frowned, and Abby wondered why until a hand landed on her shoulder. Looking down, she saw it had talon-like red nails.

‘Octavia,’ she said, turning. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just dropping these off for Rosa. Where is she, my love?’

Octavia held up a wicker basket full of the crocheted birds that she made for the reserve’s gift shop. Abby loved them. She already had four on her bedroom windowsill – a puffin, wren, blue tit and greenfinch – and from a quick glance, could see that she would be buying half of Rosa’s new stock before she’d even put it on display.

‘They’re gorgeous,’ Abby said, picking up a robin that was fat, round and utterly desirable.

Octavia gave her a kind smile, slowly took the robin back and popped it in her handbag. ‘I’ll take this one home with me, and you can come and pick him up later. I’ll bring Rosa a new one next week.’

‘Octavia, you don’t have to give me the robin!’

‘What robin?’ She winked, her eyelid a shimmering green, which went well with her dyed, carroty curls. Slightly shorter than Abby, with a large bosom always clad in bright clothing, Octavia was a good-natured whirlwind in Meadowgreen. Her vantage point in the chapel library and convenience store was the ideal spot from which to gather and circulate her gossip. Abby loved her, though didn’t always feel in the mood for her outgoing, inquisitive nature. She was equally blessed and cursed living next door to her.

‘That’s so kind of you,’ Abby said. ‘And Rosa will be back in a moment, she’s just nipped over to Peacock Cottage.’

‘Oh yes,’ Octavia said. ‘This new resident. What do you know about him? Is he a personal friend of Penelope’s?’

Abby glanced at the office door before replying. ‘He’s already complained about reserve visitors trampling through his garden. He seems—’

She didn’t get to finish her sentence because Rosa burst through the door, emitted a high-pitched squeak, and gestured to Abby to follow her into the centre’s airy café.

‘Will you be OK here for a bit?’ Abby asked Maureen.

‘Of course, chuck,’ Maureen replied, her glasses chain shaking. ‘Take as long as you need.’

Abby arrived at Rosa’s table in the café to find that Jonny and Octavia were already there. She felt a spark of sympathy for Jack, who was clearly the object of this impromptu huddle, and thought how ironic that the complaint about his invasion of privacy had, in only a day, sent everyone digging deeper.

‘Come on then,’ Stephan said, bringing over a tray of hot drinks and doling them out before sitting down. ‘Tell us all.’

‘OK.’ Rosa took a deep breath, and then jiggled excitedly, her curls bouncing. ‘Oh my God, guys, the man living in Peacock Cottage is Jack Westcoat!’

Abby frowned, trying to dredge the name from her memory, and found she couldn’t. Stephan and Jonny looked as perplexed as she felt.

But Octavia clapped her hands over her mouth, and Abby wondered if she was about to burst into tears. Then, she exploded.

‘Jack Westcoat?’ she screeched. ‘As in, acclaimed thriller writer, puncher of fellow author at recent awards ceremony, once-glowing reputation now in tatters, all-round literary bad boy Jack Westcoat?’

‘That,’ Rosa said, ‘is exactly right. And wow, is he smouldering in real life too.’

Abby’s frown deepened. She had perhaps seen something in one of the café copies of the Daily Mail about some scandal involving two famous authors, but there was nothing concrete to hold onto.

‘This is incredible,’ Octavia was saying, her eyes flitting between them as the cogs worked. ‘Think what he could do to raise the profile of the library.’

‘I’m not sure he wants the publicity,’ Abby said slowly. ‘He seemed quite keen on maintaining his privacy when I met him.’

‘And not after what happened,’ Rosa said. ‘I mean, the story is crazy, like something from a soap opera. But he was polite to me, if not exactly delighted, when I turned up on his doorstep to see how he was getting on. Like you, Abby, I’m not sure what he expects us to do. He’s probably just venting his frustration.’

‘He must have a lot of it if he goes around punching people,’ Stephan said, sipping his coffee.

‘That was just the once,’ Octavia said. ‘Before that, he was one of the country’s up-and-coming author superstars. Granted, he’d put a murky past behind him – university high jinks that got out of hand, apparently, but he’d become a true golden boy by all accounts, until this latest incident. I’ll have to find out what happened now, why the punch got thrown. Goodness me, it’s really him?’

‘I recognized him from the photographs I’d seen in the paper when it happened.’ Rosa hugged her mug to her chest. ‘He must be hiding out here, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Writing his new book, staying out of the limelight.’

‘I wonder if Penelope knows who she has staying in her house,’ Stephan said. ‘It’s not exactly got the same kudos as Wild Wonders, has it?’

‘But he’s not going to be involved in the reserve, is he?’ Abby pressed. ‘There’s no reason anyone else should know that he’s here.’

‘Do I sense some protectiveness there, my love?’ Octavia asked.

Abby shrugged. After his initial priggish note and their less than friendly encounter, she suddenly felt sorry for their new neighbour. Everyone had areas of their past they’d rather keep quiet about, and it must be worse if everything you did played out under a media spotlight. Stephan clearly thought there was no excuse for him hitting someone, and maybe it was unforgivable and Jack was a world-class dick, but nothing, Abby knew, was ever as simple as it seemed.

‘I just don’t know if we should go spreading it about,’ she said. ‘Especially as he’s so adamant he doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Ah, Abby, you always were the sensible one.’ Octavia patted her hand. ‘Still, no harm in asking, a few months down the line once he’s integrated himself a bit more in village life, if he’d fancy giving a talk at the library. I expect I could rustle up my biggest-ever crowd.’

‘Octavia,’ Stephan said, ‘he punched someone at a very public event, and now he’s taken up residence in a secluded cottage on Penelope’s estate. He’s unlikely to want to advertise his presence by coming to talk to the great and good of Meadowgreen.’

‘In a couple of months, I said. I’m not that much of a dragon.’

Abby sipped her tea. She couldn’t help but think that having Jack Westcoat here, with all the interest and scandal he seemed to have brought with him, was going to complicate things.

She had to focus on bringing visitors to the reserve for all the right reasons, and now not only did the new resident of Peacock Cottage seem averse to other human beings, but he might draw unwanted attention all of his own. Did authors get paparazzi appearing on their doorsteps like actors? The man in the Mercedes had clearly been Jack’s friend – the words she’d overheard were much friendlier than her encounter with him. But was he really that much of a celebrity? If he was, then she couldn’t imagine anyone – the press, regulars, holidaymakers – being interested in the nightingales on the reserve when there was a real-life, disgraced superstar author in their midst. And – Abby thought ruefully as Jonny, who hadn’t said a word the whole time, quietly excused himself – an incredibly attractive, disgraced superstar author to boot.

As the weeks passed, the Indian summer they had been enjoying slipped slowly out of sight, like a shy guest leaving a party, and autumnal weather took over with full force. Abby noticed there was a new vibrancy about the reserve, not necessarily because it was busier, but because there was suddenly a whole lot to talk about. Wild Wonders had been an instant ratings hit according to Stephan, who was watching every episode. Gavin and Marek were also unashamedly regular viewers, and Abby was finding their conversations on the subject more and more juvenile.

‘Did you see what Flick Hunter was wearing last night?’

‘Bit low cut, wasn’t it?’

‘Is anyone complaining, though?’ Marek said thoughtfully, leaning on his rake handle like something out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Penelope even weighed in on the discussions occasionally, much to everyone’s surprise.

‘How are our figures?’ she asked one Friday afternoon, when Abby was rolling her neck, thinking about the weekend and a visit to see Tessa. ‘It seems those television bods may not have sunk us, after all.’

‘Didn’t I say?’ Stephan said, walking over. ‘It’s not the world’s most competitive market, is it, nature? Enough to go around.’

‘There may be enough nature to go around, but are there enough visitors? That’s what we need to determine.’

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 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?

‘There’s just a lot to get done,’ she settled on. ‘But if Willow and Daisy aren’t around, how good are you at drawing bats?’

That evening, once Willow, Daisy and Raffle had worn each other out running around the garden, and two of them were upstairs asleep, and the other was snoring gently in front of the fireplace, ears twitching, Abby, Tessa and Neil sat in the snug living room, a bottle of wine open on the table. Abby had relented and decided to stay over, as she often did, the thought of going back to her homely but silent terrace unappealing after spending time in her sister’s boisterous household.

‘We’ve been watching that Wild Wonders thing on the TV,’ Neil said into an easy silence, earning a slap on the arm from his wife.

‘Ssshhh, no we haven’t. Not every episode, anyway.’ Tessa looked mortified, and Abby laughed.

‘I’ve watched some of it too – I had to know what we were up against.’

‘And what do you think? Does that presenter, what’s-her-name, know anything about nature at all?’

‘Flick Hunter,’ Neil supplied.

‘The name on the tip of every Englishman’s tongue this autumn,’ Abby said. ‘I don’t know. She seems competent enough, and they’ve got a good range of experts to provide the detail. It’s well put together, and it’s a great advertisement for Suffolk nature reserves.’

‘You’re not losing customers because of it?’

Abby wrinkled her nose. A month ago, she would have said no, absolutely not. But over the last couple of weeks the footfall had dropped off, takings had dipped and Abby hadn’t found a reason for it – unless the popularity of the television show was growing, and customers who ordinarily would have taken a punt, picking either Meadowsweet or Reston Marsh for their day out, now automatically chose the latter because they’d heard of it.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Possibly. The thing is, I don’t have the answers, and Penelope won’t like that. She wants to know why we’ve lost visitors, and what I’m doing about it. The drop-off is too vague, too gradual, and I need to work on reversing it. But we’ve got a night-time wildlife walk, mask-making, apple bobbing and now, with our stunning drawing examples, who wouldn’t want to come and see us? If I can make this Halloween event successful, then the ripples will perhaps be enough to get us back on track.’

‘It seems like she’s put a lot of the responsibility on you,’ Tessa said. ‘You’re not the only member of staff.’

Abby shrugged. ‘I know, but Rosa’s got the shop and Stephan’s in charge of the café. My remit is activities, visitor numbers, memberships. It makes sense that I should be the one driving it, but everyone mucks in and comes up with ideas. I’m not on my own.’

‘That’s good,’ Tessa nodded. ‘And all this, for Halloween, is bound to be a sure-fire winner, even without leggy blonde television presenters to lure people in.’

‘I’m blonde,’ Abby said. ‘Not so much of the leggy, though.’

‘You’re gorgeous.’ Tessa drained her wine and reached for the bottle. ‘How’s lovely Ryan in the pub? What did you describe him as – a fuzzy St Bernard?’

‘Subtle, sis.’ Abby rolled her eyes. ‘Ryan’s got a girlfriend, and even if he didn’t, I’m not attracted to him. He’s a friend. They all are.’

‘Yes, I know. Gavin’s married, Marek’s not far off being a granddad and even before this girlfriend development, you couldn’t possibly date Ryan because you couldn’t get past his beard to kiss him. There are excuses for everyone, but I refuse to believe there isn’t someone at that reserve, one of the volunteers maybe, or a guy in the village, who hasn’t piqued your interest. You can’t stay single forever.’

‘Why not, Tessa? Why can’t I be happy, just Raffle and me? Why do I need someone else to complete me?’

‘I’ll open another bottle,’ Neil said quietly, slipping from the room.

‘Of course, I’m not saying that.’ Tessa scooted closer, drawing her knees up in front of her. ‘But I also know that ever since you finished with Darren you’ve stayed away from men and dating as if the mere concept could damage your health. Just because Mum and Dad’s relationship was …’ she searched for the word, ‘… volatile, doesn’t mean we’re going to turn into them. Look at me and Neil.’

‘I know that,’ Abby said, already weary at treading over well-worn ground. ‘But doesn’t it make sense to stay away from relationships that look like they could go that way? With Darren, I let it go on too long, and before that …’ She rubbed her hands over her face. ‘I get it wrong, Tessa. Every time, I go for the guys who aren’t like Neil, who aren’t kind and gentle and decent. And then, it’s as if what happened with Mum and Dad is playing out all over again, that somehow I subconsciously go looking for it.’ Her voice dipped, the pain of those memories still able to hurt her despite the time that had passed. ‘It’s easier if I just stay on my own.’

‘But you got out,’ Tessa protested. ‘You put up with Darren’s crap for far too long, but you left him. You didn’t let it get like Mum and Dad, and you are not the same as them, neither of us are. The way Dad behaved was unforgivable, and you have to give Mum credit for fighting back, even if walking away would have been better for everyone.’

‘Tessa—’

‘I understand your reservations. You haven’t made the best decisions with men in the past, but you can’t let it hamper your whole life. Not every guy is going to be like Darren, or Dad.’

‘Except they’re all I’ve experienced.’

Tessa shook her head. ‘No, Abby. Don’t let Dad’s failings stop you from having a rewarding, healthy relationship. He’s caused both of us – you, especially – enough pain. Don’t give him that satisfaction, too.’

‘But whenever Darren raised his voice, or I lost my temper with him, I thought—’

Tessa took Abby’s hand. ‘No relationship is without arguments; what matters is how you deal with them. Dad never got it right. Darren was an idiot, and those guys before … Abby, it doesn’t mean every man is like that, or they’re the only ones you’ll ever come into contact with. You can’t live your life believing that, because you’ll lose out on so much. You’ve had a bad run of things, but you’re much more settled now, with your house and your wonderful job. I don’t see why a loving relationship can’t follow.’ Tessa gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Besides, you’re going to get overheated about stuff unless you’re the Dalai Lama. You need to build up a head of steam then clear the air sometimes. It’s all part of it, and making up can be the best thing.’ Her smile turned into a cheeky grin, but it faded quickly when Abby didn’t reciprocate.

‘But what if they frustrate you every time they open their mouth?’ Abby said. ‘And you feel this rage building up inside you, and you want to scream and pummel their chest, and then every time you imagine doing that, you picture them taking hold of your arms and silencing you with this kiss, this amazing, powerful kiss, so that you don’t even feel the rain or—’ She stopped suddenly, heat going to her cheeks.

Her sister was staring at her with a look of shocked delight, and Neil was standing in the doorway, open-mouthed, holding a bottle of wine.

‘Who the hell is that?’ Tessa asked.

‘Nobody,’ Abby said hurriedly, stretching her glass out towards Neil, who had recovered and was holding the bottle aloft.

‘Bullshit is it nobody,’ Tessa whispered. ‘That is a very well-formed fantasy, and I need to know right now who the man is.’

‘It isn’t anyone real,’ Abby said. ‘It’s just … Octavia got this book for me, from the library. She clearly believes, as you do, that my sex life is somewhat lacking. Anyway, this ridiculous novel is full of—’ she glanced at Neil, who was intent on his iPhone, his nose almost pressed into the screen. She was embarrassing everyone, though in some ways that was better than continuing the depressing conversation about her parents and her own, less-than-happy relationships. ‘It’s a bit raunchy, that’s all. Not what I’m used to.’

‘With a dashing, infuriating hero who you argue with in the rain?’ Tessa hugged her knees. ‘It sounds like the Pride and Prejudice film with Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. That scene in the downpour is perfection. Whoever this author is,’ Tessa said, and Abby jolted upright, almost spilling her wine, ‘then they’ve clearly been watching that film. You’ll have to give me the details.’ She glanced at her husband then winked at Abby, and Abby felt all at once like she’d been let off the hook and dug herself a deeper hole.

She wished she’d remembered that film adaptation and pretended it was the reason for her over-excitable imagination. Now she would have to invent an author and a book title that sounded convincing – but then Tessa would look online and not be able to find it, or else she’d have to search through Octavia’s stock and see if she could pick out a book to match, which sounded like a hopeless task, and one which would no doubt result in the rumour being spread around the village that Abby Field was looking for erotic literature.

The irony was that the person who would probably be best at conjuring up novel titles was the one who was responsible for Abby’s ludicrous outburst. If only he hadn’t stood there in the rain, in his expensive jacket with his scowling, sea-blue eyes and perfect jawline, and then pulled her beneath the porch with him, she would never have let her imagination run away with her in front of her sister in the first place.

But as long as she kept it to herself and had no more slip-ups like that, then the unhelpful feelings were bound to go away and Jack Westcoat would simply be her irritating adversary, until he realized the delights of the reserve were too much for him and skulked back to London to write his dark books. She was confident that he would be a short-lived problem, and she would soon be able to tick him off her to-do list for good.

Chapter Six

Contrary to some beliefs, pheasants are not known for damaging cars – unless they fly into them, which sadly happens quite often. They are beautifully coloured game birds, with shiny orange and green feathers, and they have a mechanical walk, as if the floor is cold and they want to make as little contact with it as possible. Their loud call is, perhaps, a bit like a hooting rooster.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

Abby had to admit that Destiny, the face painter she’d hired for the Halloween event, was top-notch. A little boy was running around with his features covered in an intricate web, a sinister spider crouching, poised, at his hairline. The pumpkin faces were terrifying or friendly, depending on the age of the child, and now she was creating a kestrel’s elegant face on a small girl who was sitting impeccably still.

The drawing table was full, the café had been taken over by mask-makers when the sequins and feathers started blowing away in the wind gusting through the picnic area, and there was an air of happy chaos throughout the visitor centre. Abby wondered how the real wildlife was coping, but a quick glance showed her that the coal tits and chaffinches decorating the feeders weren’t remotely bothered by the noise and hubbub.

She waved at Rosa as she hurried back to the picnic area, the wind not disrupting a competitive game of apple bobbing, currently being overseen by Gavin. She gave him a grin as he handed a goody bag to a successful bobber, and went to stand next to him.

‘Going well, Gavin?’

‘Never better, Abby. Bloody cold out here, though.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I was planning on dunking your head in the bucket in celebration of all your hard work, but I don’t think even I can be that cruel.’

‘Thanks!’ Abby laughed. ‘I think. It is November in a couple of days, we can’t expect balmy weather.’

‘Yeah, don’t I know it. The girls have already written out their bloody Christmas lists. I’ve told them to talk to Santa, because I’m not interested.’

‘Gavin! You can’t—’

‘They said they wanted them from Santa anyway, so we’re on the same page.’

‘Except Santa’s not real, so you will actually have to go and get the toys.’

Gavin shrugged. ‘There’s loads of time yet. Loads.’

Abby held her hands up in submission. ‘Fair enough. And thanks for the no-dunking thing. I’m leading the night-time walk later, so I could do without getting soaked beforehand.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He saluted, and then stepped forward when two boys got over-exuberant in their attempts to win the prize. ‘You two, stop it, now. We don’t stand for drowning each other at this nature reserve, whatever you might have heard.’

When Abby made it back inside, Rosa was showing Jonny a pair of high-end binoculars. They had a 20 per cent sale on all their birdwatching equipment, and this was the closest she’d seen Jonny come to actually buying something. Everything was going to plan; she just had the night walk to contend with.

When a packet of felt tips was discovered to be dud, and Abby realized they weren’t going to make it through the afternoon with only two orange pens, she took the opportunity to escape the madness and walk to the village shop to pick up some more. She resisted the urge to take the longer route past Swallowtail House. It looked simultaneously regal and slightly spooky at the best of times, but would it seem particularly sinister today? A large, abandoned house was the perfect location for a Halloween investigation, but the padlocks and thick chains would put paid to that, even if there had been anyone brave enough.

Peacock Cottage was quiet as she passed, none of the windows showing signs of life, and she hurried on. On Meadowgreen’s main road, she headed towards the shop, the wind whipping her hair against her face. Her pace slowed as she noticed two people standing next to the postbox, chatting.

Abby felt the familiar yet unwanted flicker of emotion as she saw Jack, his hands shoved into the pockets of his expensive jacket. And then she focused on the person he was with, the long blonde hair falling over the shoulders of a smart black coat, and knee-high, tan leather boots over skinny jeans. It took Abby a moment to place her, to realize she had seen her on the television but not in real life.

Flick Hunter was in Meadowgreen. She was even more beautiful in the flesh, the comfortable intimacy between her and Jack clear even from a distance.

Abby hesitated, wondering whether to keep going or turn quickly around. She didn’t know why she felt so strange seeing them together, or so reluctant to simply walk past them. Jack leaned closer to Flick, his lips twitching into a smile. Abby scrunched her fingers into fists, hovering uselessly on the side of the road, but then Flick put her hand on Jack’s shoulder and steered him to a black Land Rover parked close by.

Abby breathed a sigh of relief, waiting until they were next to the car before she crossed over. But as she reached the shop she noticed a glimmer of movement out of the corner of her eye and turned instinctively towards it. Jack was looking at her, his hand raised in recognition. Her stomach fizzed and she gave him a quick, nervous wave, their eyes meeting briefly, then he climbed in alongside Flick Hunter, the sound of the door closing a heavy clunk that reached her despite the wind.

She decided that she wouldn’t tell anyone what she’d seen. She didn’t want to fuel a fresh wave of gossip about Flick Hunter and Jack Westcoat, and acknowledging that she had spotted them together made her uneasy, as if she was about to come down with an unpleasant bug. There was no reason for her to feel like that. She hadn’t exactly hit it off with Jack, and what business was it of hers if they were good friends or, perhaps, even more than that? Returning to Meadowsweet with felt pens aplenty, Abby went back to the drawing competition. Once it was over, she would have a couple of hours to tidy up the visitor centre before the night walk began.

They set off as dusk was falling, and Abby could hear the usual excited whispers behind her as they made their way along the meadow trail. She stopped everyone at the end of the path, where a fence looked out across a field. It was part of Penelope’s estate, and until a few months ago had been let out to a local farmer for cattle grazing. Abby wasn’t sure what had happened to the cows, but now it was empty and, at this time of day when it was in different degrees of shadow, a good spotting place for one of their best nocturnal creatures.

‘Now,’ she said quietly, ‘if we’re very lucky, we might just see—’

‘There!’ someone whispered loudly. ‘Oh my God!’

As if on cue, a large, pale bird swooped gracefully over the field, its heart-shaped face clearly visible in the gloom. It was mesmerizing, and almost luminous against the twilight backdrop.

‘A barn owl,’ Abby said. ‘There she is. She roosts over in those trees and is seen frequently by visitors and our reserve wardens. She hunts mainly at dawn and dusk, but she’s sometimes out mid-afternoon. The weather can set their hunting patterns off – her feathers aren’t very water resistant, so if it’s raining she avoids flying.’

‘She’s magnificent.’

‘Stunning.’

‘She’s like a phantom,’ said one, younger-sounding visitor. Abby couldn’t disagree.

She immersed herself in the wildlife and her guests’ interest in it. This was where she was happiest, and a night walk on a cold October evening was somehow easier than one on a summer’s afternoon, because she knew the people who had booked onto it would be a more hardcore breed of nature lover. She wanted to inspire more people, of course, but sometimes it was nice to know that she wouldn’t have to work hard at their enthusiasm, that it was already ingrained. The woodland yielded bats, visible coming out of their bat boxes, flying round in wide circles. Abby had brought her monitor, so she could make their weirdly regular clicks audible, and explain how they used echolocation to navigate and find food in the dark.

Everyone was fascinated, the questions kept coming and, as they turned back towards the visitor centre, the darkness almost complete, a Chinese water deer bounded across their path, its large ears and white-rimmed nose so distinctive.

‘Thank you, wildlife,’ Abby whispered under her breath, as there were low murmurings of delight from those around her.

In the café, Stephan had produced a batch of zombie brownies, with white and pink marshmallow pieces that looked like flesh oozing through the chocolate. He was poised to make hot drinks, and Abby hovered while everyone tucked in, on hand to answer any more queries.

One of the youngest visitors on the walk, a girl of about twelve, came up to her.

‘All those things tonight, the owl and the bats and the deer, they’re a bit creepy in the dark, aren’t they? You can see why people believe in ghosts. If you didn’t know what a barn owl was, you might think it was something scarier.’

‘That’s a very good point,’ Abby said. ‘I bet our native wildlife could explain away lots of spooky sightings.’

‘Is there anything else you see that we missed out on?’

‘Not really. We were particularly lucky tonight, though we do occasionally see badgers. It’s not that they aren’t there, but they’re so elusive it’s much harder to spot them. I’ve only seen one once, and I’ve been here nearly two years.’ The girl stared at her, her eyes wide with interest, and so she kept going. ‘I was on my way home, and it really made me jump. This huge thing was lumbering through the trees towards me, and suddenly there was this white, striped nose, which was a bit ghostly. We looked at each other for a second, then it changed course, going back into the woods. But I can’t remember the last time any guests or other staff reported seeing one – we’re not usually around in the dead of night.’

‘It’s been a brilliant walk, though. Thank you!’ The girl held out her hand and, surprised and touched, Abby shook it.

‘Thanks for staying with me,’ Abby said to Stephan as they pulled on their coats. ‘Are you cycling home?’

Stephan nodded. ‘I’d offer you a lift, except space is quite limited on the saddle.’

Abby laughed. ‘I’ll be fine. I know the route like the back of my hand, and I’ve got my torch.’

‘Still a bit late for you to be heading home alone. I could walk you back, get on my bike from there?’

‘Honestly, Stephan, I’m fine.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘It’ll take more than a few ghoulish masks to scare me.’

They switched off the lights and locked the doors, then wished each other goodnight. Abby listened to the sound of Stephan’s bike wheels whirring down the car park, his headlight bright in the darkness.

She started walking, taking her usual shortcut through the trees. She wasn’t scared of the dark – she was a night owl herself, only the need to walk Raffle twice a day forcing her out of bed with the sunrise, and she often pottered or watched television until the early hours of the morning. But tonight, after the young girl’s comments, and recalling her own encounter with the badger – a moment that had truly scared her – she found that she was on edge.

The wind was rustling through the trees, the woodland was never quiet at night, and she couldn’t help picturing Swallowtail House, its dark, hulking shape looming over the village. Her hands shaking slightly, she twisted the back of her torch, checking the beam was on full, pointing it directly ahead, her steps slow and deliberate so she didn’t upend herself over a rock or tree root. It was fine, she told herself; she’d done this so often before. But she wished she had Raffle with her, or even Gavin making ridiculous wisecracks, or Stephan – why hadn’t she taken him up on his offer? It would only have been a few minutes out of his way.

Something screeched to her left and she copied it, clamping her hand over her mouth at the ridiculous outburst, knowing the instant she’d screamed that it was one tree branch rubbing against another in the wind.

‘Come on, Abby, get a grip.’ She surged forwards, seeing the smooth concrete of the road up ahead, and then the glowing, beckoning light of Peacock Cottage. It was just in one downstairs window, but it looked so inviting, so safe, away from the murmuring trees and the darkness creeping in around her. She tried to think of the robins, greenfinches and blackbirds all safe on woody perches, little balls of puffed-up feathers, unconcerned by the wind raging around them. She tried to take strength from her feathered friends, but the pull of the cottage was so strong, her legs automatically turned towards the front door, its bold blue hue hidden in shadow.

And then she thought of Jack’s smirk as she’d ranted about his car, the way that, despite complaining to her about ridiculous things, he’d been entirely confident and unashamed in his self-centred opinions. She felt again the disquiet of seeing him and Flick Hunter together. Her anger returning, Abby’s train of thought led swiftly and predictably to the fantasy she had conjured up, his strong arms grabbing hold of her, his lips, when they met hers, tender but with clear intent, tasting of lemon-scented Earl Grey tea.

She disliked Jack, what little she knew of him. Her mind had no right to be gallivanting off in these wayward directions. Angry at herself now as well as him, she was distracted, and as she stepped with relief out of the trees and onto the road she missed the biggest, most obvious tree root and got her foot caught, her momentum propelling her forward, the torch clattering to the ground as she put her hands in front of her to stop herself landing on her face.

The light went out. It sounded loud, probably fatal for the torch, and she could feel the sting of her grazed palms, a painful tug in her ankle where her foot had been wrenched out of the root as she fell. She swore and scrabbled in her bag for her phone, switching the light app on and casting around for the bits of torch. She didn’t want to risk causing anyone a puncture in the morning.

She worked quickly, finding the black metal casing, the batteries and the spring. She was nearly there, so close to being able to leave the darkness and run home to safety and warmth, when the meagre light from her iPhone was joined by a much bigger, softer, glow. She looked up to find that the front door of Peacock Cottage was open, light spilling across the road, a tall figure silhouetted against it.

‘Hello?’ Jack said. ‘Is anyone there?’

Abby stayed still. Chances were he wouldn’t see her – she was just out of the reach of the pooling light – would dismiss it as any one of a number of irritating creatures, and go back inside.

‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Who’s there?’ Was his voice wobbling? Abby couldn’t tell over the blood pounding in her head.

She spotted the torch bulb and reached inchingly towards it, and then a third, almost blinding light had her in its grasp. Of course he had his own, powerful torch. Of course he did. It was probably MI5 issue.

‘Abby! Shit, are you OK?’ He was at her side in moments, kneeling in the dirt. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’m fine. I tripped, broke my torch. Nothing to worry about.’

‘OK, but can I …?’ He placed his torch on the ground.

‘What?’ she asked, but he’d started running his hands down her arms, his touch feather-light, pausing as he turned over her hands and saw the grazes on her palms. She didn’t want him to touch her, it reminded her too much of her daydream. She tried to pull away but he’d let go of her hands anyway, was patting his hands gently down her legs, from her knees to her feet. She winced as he got to her right ankle.

‘I’m fine, thank you, Jack. I should get home.’

‘You have no light – that doesn’t count,’ he added, when she waggled her phone. ‘And you’ve hurt your ankle.’

‘I haven’t. It got stuck, that’s all.’

‘Come inside, let me check you over properly.’

‘No, I—’ she sighed as he gripped her elbows and pulled her to standing. ‘I’m fine to get home.’ She put her foot gingerly on the floor, relief spiking as she realized it wasn’t that sore, that walking wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Thank you for looking out for me.’ She started putting the bits of broken torch in her bag.

When she’d finished, Jack hadn’t moved.

‘I’m not letting you walk home on your own with only that ridiculous phone light to guide you.’

‘Well, I’m not letting you force me into your house so you can do God knows what to me. Are you a qualified doctor as well as a novelist? It seems unlikely! Your pat-down just then was more like you were searching for hidden weapons at an airport than seeing if I was injured.’

He stared, aghast, and for some reason, Abby kept going.

‘Perhaps you want to experiment on me, to work out all the gruesome ways the victims in your next book will get murdered. How do I know I can trust you?’

‘If I practised my murders before I wrote about them, don’t you think the police would have put two and two together before now?’ Jack shot back. ‘Discovered victims who had reached similarly bizarre ends, and done a bit of digging? I’m not clever enough to commit the perfect murder, and even if I was, right now I’m too cold to even entertain the prospect, and I’m just offering to look at those cuts on your hand for you, check your ankle’s OK. I’m sure your parents told you never to talk to strangers, but I’m really not an ogre, whatever our last two encounters may have led you to believe. Come on, I’m not wearing a coat.’ He bounced up and down on the spot, and Abby bit back the urge to laugh.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but I have to be at work early in the morning, so I need to get home.’

‘At least let me drive you.’

‘It’s a ten-minute walk! Do you have any idea how much fuel you’ll use up in that huge thing doing a completely pointless journey?’

In the light from the door, she saw Jack roll his eyes. ‘I am not going back inside and leaving you out here,’ he said. ‘Either you come in with me, or you let me drive you home.’

She wondered briefly whether, if she was to take him up on his offer, she’d find Flick Hunter sitting on his sofa. She almost said that he could walk her home if he was that bothered, and then she realized that would involve spending more time with him, and also that she would worry about him getting back safely when he was such a city boy and couldn’t even cope with a few pheasants.

‘Fine,’ she said, sighing heavily. ‘You can drop me at home. Thank you.’

‘Good. Arm?’ He held his hand out, and she reluctantly let him take her arm. It was a few short steps to the Range Rover, and her ankle was barely bruised, and yet she found herself leaning into him, feeling the solid weight of his support. He pointed his fob at the car to unlock it, opened the passenger door and waited while she climbed into the seat. It was even more luxurious than it had looked, and she sank into the soft leather, smelt its creaminess, felt sleep tugging at her instantly so she had to pinch her arm to stay awake.

Jack hopped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, which was much quieter than she had expected, and reversed expertly out of the driveway. She held her breath, waiting for the telltale crunch that meant there was a stray piece of torch she’d failed to pick up, then relaxed when none came. Jack drove slowly, turning left as she instructed when they reached the junction with the main village road, and then round, past the darkened walls enclosing Swallowtail House, the silent building and whatever ghosts inhabited it beyond, then turned right into Warbler Cottages.

It took no more than three minutes, but Abby spent that time studying Jack’s profile, the straight, proud nose, the high forehead partly obscured by his thick, untidy hair. His fingers on the wheel were long and slender, he wore no jewellery, no rings, but a plain, white-faced wristwatch with a gold surround and tan leather strap. It looked classic, expensive.

‘This one?’ he asked, cutting the engine.

‘Yes, this is it.’ Abby looked at her terraced house. It wasn’t remotely cottagey, not in the way Peacock Cottage was, but it was snug, it was her home, and she could see Raffle, his nose pressed up to the glass of the downstairs window, waiting for her as if he could sense when she was on her way back to him.

‘Is that a husky?’ Jack asked, peering over her shoulder.

‘That’s Raffle. He’s my rescue husky. Do you want to come in and meet him?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She looked back at Jack, frozen mid-breath, hoping with equal measure that he would say yes, and also no.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I’d love to, but perhaps not now. It’s late, as you say, and I … sure you’ll be OK?’ He gestured towards her hands.

‘They’re just grazes, fine once I give them a good clean. Thank you for the lift, and for … coming to look for me. It was brave.’

Jack frowned and ran a hand over his jaw. ‘Brave?’

‘Your cottage is in the middle of the woods,’ she clarified. ‘I’m a fan of nature, as you know, but if I lived somewhere like that, there is no way I’d step outside after dark in response to a noise, not unless I had a weapon with me, not even if it sounded like there was a fairground starting up right outside the front door. I was only there because I had no choice. If we were in opposite places, I wouldn’t have come to your rescue, I would have left you to get eaten by bears, or make your own way home, whatever.’

‘Which, I seem to recall, is pretty much what you wanted me to do when I found you.’

Abby felt the flush creep up her neck and was glad of the darkness. ‘Sorry about that. I was flustered, annoyed with myself for getting scared, and—’

‘I was the last person you hoped to see?’

‘You were inevitable, considering where I tripped.’

Jack laughed, the sound loud inside the confines of the car. ‘I was inevitable?’

‘God, that came out wrong! I just meant nobody else would be around, only you.’ The words somehow had more weight than she had intended, and she scrabbled to change the subject. ‘I saw you venturing out into the village today.’

He nodded, not quite meeting her eye. ‘I know Flick Hunter from a charity event we did a couple of years ago,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize she was here, but it was good to see her. A friendly face amongst, well—’ he gestured around him. ‘I’m new here, as you know.’

‘She’s anchoring the television show at the nature reserve on the other side of the marsh,’ Abby said quietly.

‘She was telling me about it. Has it affected things at Meadowsweet?’

‘Not really,’ Abby admitted. ‘Not that noticeably, anyway. We need to be more proactive about drawing in visitors regardless, so in some ways the push has been good.’

Jack stared out of the windscreen. ‘That’s often the way, getting forced in a direction you never intended, finding out that it was the right move all along.’ He faced her again. ‘Let’s hope it works out for both of us.’

Abby wanted to ask more, to connect the dots between his words and what Rosa and Octavia had told her about him, but she didn’t want to seem nosy, and now, with Raffle waiting inside and her bed calling to her weary bones, wasn’t the time. ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ she said. ‘Thanks again for rescuing me. Your car’s comfortable, by the way.’

‘Noted.’ He nodded, suppressing a smile, his lips lifting at the corners. Abby wondered if she’d conjured them up right in her fantasy, how the lips she was staring at would feel if they were pressed against hers.

‘Right then,’ she said, her voice paper-thin. ‘Night.’

‘Goodnight, Abby.’ He waited until she’d closed the door, walked up the front path and put her key in the lock. She stepped into her warm, vanilla-scented hallway and turned. He made a gesture that was half wave, half salute, and pulled away from the kerb.

When she fell into a fitful, broken sleep that night, the memory of her fall enhanced by the smarting of her palms, all she could think about was Jack running his hands up her arms, and the concern in his eyes when he’d knelt beside her in the mud.

When she woke the following morning, Abby felt like she hadn’t had any sleep at all. She took a longer route to work, walking along the brick wall around Swallowtail House, getting that extra peek of the building that intrigued and calmed her. The wind was still raging, low clouds racing across the sky so the sun had no chance to break through, but it never stopped the wildlife, and Abby paused to watch a pair of goldfinches, their regally coloured feathers flashes of bright in the grey. They bobbed along the high wall then disappeared over it, into a place she longed to explore.

She wasn’t the only one who wondered why, if the reserve was in trouble, and Penelope no longer wanted to live in the grand mansion, she didn’t sell it. Did she really hold onto it simply because it was a reminder of her and Al’s life together? And if that was the case, then why wasn’t she looking after it? The longer it was left, the less likely it was to survive at all. If Penelope wanted to preserve it then handing it over to someone else, and making a profit in the process, would surely be for the best.

But she couldn’t suggest it. The older woman would have considered it, would have her own reasons for handling things the way she did, and wouldn’t have listened to Abby in any case. Perhaps selling the house had some implications for the reserve, as it was all part of the same estate. She turned away from it and fought her way through the fallen elder to get back onto Meadowsweet’s woodland track.

She didn’t know why she wanted to avoid the sight of last night’s fall, but she felt off kilter, uncomfortable despite the success of the previous day’s event. She was gratified that the only disaster had come at her own hands, had harmed nobody but herself, but still she wished that, if there had to have been a witness, it could have been anyone but Jack. And yet, in some ways, she was glad it had happened. She couldn’t help but replay their encounter, the softening between them in his car a reconciliation of sorts. There had been no sign of Flick Hunter at Peacock Cottage, and he’d offered up the information about her freely, as if Abby deserved an explanation. She felt as if she was at the edge of a tunnel, knowing she should turn back but desperate to see where it led.

When she arrived at the visitor centre, she had a welcoming committee.

Penelope was standing at the reception desk, her arms folded accusingly, and Rosa and Stephan were in the shop, pretending to rearrange the display of Halloween chocolates but obviously waiting for whatever dressing-down was about to be handed out. Gavin, never one for subtlety, was leaning against the wall, a piece of grass in his mouth in place of a cigarette. When she caught his eye, he winced sympathetically.

Abby slowed, putting her hands behind her back, suddenly conscious of the grazes on her palms even though, now they were clean, they were hardly visible.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Is there – did something happen, yesterday?’

‘I don’t know,’ Penelope said. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

She put the emphasis on the last word, glaring at Stephan, Rosa and then Gavin, reminding them this wasn’t a spectacle, but none of them budged and Abby was thankful. She knew that, as embarrassing as it was to be reprimanded in front of her friends, they would also back her up if they could. The only thing was, Abby couldn’t think what this could possibly be about. The event had gone smoothly. Unless Gavin had let those boys go too far with the apple bobbing and failed to tell her about it.

‘I’m not sure what there is to say,’ she said slowly, casting around for anything that might help her understand what had happened.

‘Well, would you like to explain this?’ Penelope put something down on the desk. It was an envelope. White, pristine and, when Abby looked closely, sealed.

‘You haven’t opened it?’

‘Of course not,’ Penelope said. ‘It’s addressed to you. But I doubt whatever is inside will be particularly complimentary, going by the last one we received.’

Her insides suddenly churning, Abby turned the envelope over. In the slanting, elegant script she now recognized as Jack’s, was her name. Abby Field. They had come a long way from bee Post-it Notes, at least. A hundred things went through her mind – was he going to complain about the event after all, the swathes of people it had brought to the reserve? Had he meant to do it all along, and only failed to say anything last night because Abby was there alone, and he’d seen her as vulnerable? Or was this because she’d insulted him by saying he was inevitable? She had been encouraged by the thaw between them, but maybe she’d misinterpreted it.

They were all looking at her now, even Stephan and Rosa abandoning their pretence of display reorganization. Penelope’s politeness at not opening other people’s mail didn’t extend to letting them read it in peace, she noticed. She didn’t want to open it in front of anyone; she wanted to take the blow in private because, she realized with startling clarity, it would be a blow, to see harsh words from Jack aimed at the reserve, aimed at her.

‘Come on then,’ Gavin said. ‘We’re all dying of curiosity here. What has Mr Snooty got to say for himself now?’

She took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope, sliding out the folded piece of A4 paper and laying it out flat on the table before she lost her nerve. She skimmed over the words, then read them again more slowly, clamping her jaw together to stop her emotion from showing.

Dear Abby,

How are your hands this morning, and your ankle? I hope they’re suitably recovered and not suffering too much from passing up the chance of being tended to by me. When is your next guided walk? I’ve been wondering if I should take you up on the kind offer you spat at me several weeks ago.

Yours, JW

PS. Glad the squashed frog met with your approval.

‘What is this?’ Penelope asked, her brows furrowing. ‘What does this mean? Squashed frog? Has he been hurting the wildlife?’ She levelled Abby with a piercing, unsympathetic gaze, waiting for full disclosure.

‘No no,’ Abby said quickly. ‘It’s a conversation we had, a little while ago. He hasn’t harmed anything. But he’s not angry, see – he’s even considering coming on one of our walks. We’ve turned things around.’

‘What is this business with your hands and ankle? Just what have you been doing with my tenant?’

‘Nothing,’ Abby said. ‘Nothing at all, Penelope. There’s really no reason to worry; everything’s good.’

She folded the note and put it back in the envelope, then in her handbag, and hurried to the storeroom to take off her coat. She should be mad with Jack – there was no way she wanted Penelope, Gavin or Stephan to know about her ridiculous accident the previous evening, and as much as she would have been happy to tell Rosa, and Rosa, by her keen look, would be more than happy to find out, she didn’t want to risk it spreading.

Her feelings for Jack Westcoat, as conflicted as they were, were her business alone, a tempting fantasy to fill her idle moments. They would come to nothing, would fade out as quickly as they had arrived. It was good he was no longer against her or the reserve, and hadn’t once mentioned the extra traffic passing by his cottage during the Halloween event, but that was as far as it went. He was a writer, a disgraced one, and obviously as keen on his privacy as she was. She wondered if he would have written the note at all if he’d known that Penelope would force her to open it in front of everyone. They were destined to bump into each other occasionally, but so what? It didn’t mean anything.

As she hung her coat up and slipped the note into the inner, zipped compartment of her bag, she found that she was smiling, almost tempted to take it out and reread it, study the slopes and curves that his long fingers, pen held between them, had produced. But that would be taking it too far. She hadn’t delved into the background behind the scandalous events Octavia had taken much delight in telling them about, and she didn’t want to, even though she knew they would be readily available online. She didn’t want to know what had happened, discover something that would damage her view of him, just as, conversely, she didn’t want to make him a bigger part of her life than he was.

Jack Westcoat was a mirage in her mind, almost as much a work of fiction as the books he wrote, and that was where he needed to stay. The spark between them couldn’t be healthy; she knew that from personal experience, could easily replay the memories of verbal arguments between her mum and dad that had started on the right side of cheeky and ended with slammed doors, thrown crockery, and then, towards the end of their relationship, the abuse her mother had faced at her father’s hands. Her own escape, as a child, had been the fields behind her house, the calm and quiet, the colourful flutter of the butterflies and the high, unconcerned trill of warblers.

And yet, in her adult life, she had begun to repeat the pattern, drawn towards men whose passion started out as attractive but became dangerous. Jack was obviously next on her list of hopeless decisions, and she needed to stay away from him, even if the pull to see him got stronger.

There was just the small matter of his proximity to the reserve and her journey home, and the fact that now, it seemed, he wanted to come on one of her guided walks, was actively showing an interest in the nature reserve and the wildlife he’d been so against. She couldn’t allow that opportunity to pass by, however complicated it made things. Getting people inspired by nature was her job, after all.

She took up her post behind the reception desk and busied herself straightening the already neat maps, spotter books and day passes, ignoring the curious, almost knowing look Rosa was giving her.

Chapter Seven

Barn owls are like ghosts in the dusk. Graceful, honey-and-white birds with heart-shaped faces, they glide through the countryside looking for food. They are not the same type of owl as Hedwig in Harry Potter, which is a snowy owl, but I think they’re just as beautiful.

— Note from Abby’s notebook

With Halloween and bonfire night out of the way, Christmas seemed to hurtle towards them, and Abby and Rosa agreed to meet early in the visitor centre one mid-November morning to adorn the space with decorations. As Abby left her house and locked the door she found Octavia at her side, wearing a bright-green coat with white fur trim which, on top of her red hair, made her look like a large Christmas elf.

‘You’re decorating the reserve this morning, aren’t you?’

Abby had a brief vision of trying to hang paper chains from the trees. ‘The visitor centre,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, something I overheard. I’ve been busy.’ She thrust forward bulging carrier bags, and Abby saw they were full of glittering decorations: baubles, strings of tinsel and birds made out of gold, silver, blue and purple wire. They looked homemade.

Abby stopped worrying about where Octavia had overheard her and Rosa discussing their plans, and whether she had started to bug their phones, because she was too distracted by the beautiful decorations.

‘These are … did you make these? For the reserve?’

‘There are some up in the library too, though book themed rather than avian. I thought it would be nice if Meadowgreen had continuity to its festiveness, and was seen as one harmonious village. I’m hoping to convince Ryan to hang up the offerings I’ve made him in the pub, too.’

‘But how much time did it take you to make all these? And what if it’s all wasted, and Ryan says no? I’m not going to, of course, and Penelope has got more important things to worry about than Christmas decorations, but … won’t you be upset if he rejects them?’

‘Not a worry, pet,’ Octavia said, patting her shoulder. ‘I’ll bring him round.’

Abby could imagine it, too.

They walked to the reserve, Abby taking her usual shortcut, aware that Octavia also knew it, and if she took the detour she had used for the last couple of weeks the older woman would start asking questions. As they got to Peacock Cottage, Octavia’s pace slowed almost comically, and she peered towards the windows. They were dark, the shiny red Range Rover absent from its usual space, and Abby felt a twinge of disappointment as she wondered where Jack had gone, whether he was out shopping or had disappeared back to London for good.

It had been two weeks since he had rescued her from the dark, and then followed it up with his good-humoured note, but since then she hadn’t seen or heard from him and had spent far too much time wondering if he was expecting an answer to his question about her guided walks. She had thought it was rhetorical, but should she have let him know the dates? Had she pushed him away? She had been going around in circles, telling herself it was a good thing, and then feeling a sharp sense of loss that she might have done just that.

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