The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin
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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