The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin

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?’