The Dawn Chorus
Cressida McLaughlin
‘Captivating, uplifting and heartfelt’ Heat Magazine‘A wonderful ray of reading sunshine’ Heidi Swain‘What a beautiful, heartwarming story… the perfect book to lose yourself in’ Zara StoneleyAbby Field is living the dream. As events coordinator at the Meadowsweet nature reserve on the idyllic Suffolk coast, every day is an adventure with the birds and the butterflies, and she couldn’t feel more at home. When another local nature reserve is chosen as the hot location for a new television series, however, Meadowsweet looks set for seasonal hibernation – unless Abby can whip up a creative plan to keep the visitors flocking.With the help of the Meadowgreen villagers, and her cute rescue huskie, Raffle, can Abby rescue the nature reserve from oblivion? Or will she be distracted by the arrival of a brooding – and annoyingly handsome – new neighbour…The Dawn Chorus is the first part of a four-part serial.
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First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2018 by HarperCollinsPublishers
Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2018
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover illustration © Alice Stevenson
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.
Ebook Edition © March 2018
ISBN: 9780008225803
Version 2018-02-21
Table of Contents
Cover (#u195dea64-31b9-591f-a2ac-a3ae41efeb50)
Title Page (#u4570b872-a199-5071-8b53-3a566a31c7ce)
Copyright (#ua3ebd9af-4735-5480-8511-67fc0935b05d)
Part One: The Dawn Chorus (#u6cf434e4-84e9-5619-9fad-812dc8860c76)
Prologue (#uc70caae0-8265-525c-bb80-225805465f60)
Chapter One (#u363ab408-6372-5433-89cc-8055bdb5a1b9)
Chapter Two (#ua56967f5-37b6-5b63-8882-0d23401f6f7a)
Chapter Three (#u1d5e26f0-fffa-598c-9842-cf3f11fddd1d)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Cressida McLaughlin (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Part One (#u21946814-456a-5b7c-9648-713195636a8b)
Prologue (#u21946814-456a-5b7c-9648-713195636a8b)
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 (#u21946814-456a-5b7c-9648-713195636a8b)
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 red brick 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 she 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 given 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 66-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 keeping 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 edge of the tall, red brick 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 Number One 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 or 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 (#u21946814-456a-5b7c-9648-713195636a8b)
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’s head. ‘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 worm 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 spot 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 interested 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 (#u21946814-456a-5b7c-9648-713195636a8b)
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.
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