The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin

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