The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
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