A cuckoo’s call is instantly recognizable. It’s friendly and familiar, and makes you think of hazy summer mornings and the glittering mere. But cuckoos have a darker side; they lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, then when the cuckoo chicks are born, they push out the other chicks and are brought up by their new, oblivious foster parents.
— Note from Abby’s notebook.
On Thursday evening, with the rain pounding against the window and Raffle lying contentedly on her feet, Abby undid the Amazon package, the perforated cardboard making a satisfying noise as she pulled it open. After leaving the library she had given in and ordered Jack’s latest novel, The Fractured Path. The story Octavia had relayed had left her unsettled, and in the absence of having Jack to talk to, she thought one of his books would be the next best thing.
She took out the glossy hardback and spent a long time staring at the dark, brooding cover, and at his name, raised in blue lettering on the front. Then she read the acknowledgements, recognizing one name from Octavia’s information-dump – his agent, Leo Ravensberg. As far as she could decipher, there was no mention of a significant other, and the tone of his thank-yous spoke of the humour that she’d seen glimmers of first-hand: dry, self-deprecating but undeniably warm.
As she turned to the prologue and read the graphic description of a body being uncovered in a London alleyway after the thawing of days-old snow, she wondered if he used darkness and irritability as a cover: something he could hide behind to stop people getting too close. Only now the barriers were beginning to recede, and Abby found she couldn’t wait to see what Jack was keeping behind them.
He picked her and Raffle up on Friday morning in his Range Rover, and drove them to a smart, cream-walled pub called the Queen’s Head. It was a few miles away, down twisting, hedge-lined roads, bare winter fields beyond.
The pub was almost deserted mid-morning, but the fire was lit, and Abby picked a table close to it, Raffle barking his appreciation before settling at her feet while Jack went to the bar to order their coffees. He returned with the drinks and a packet of three posh ginger biscuits that he opened on the table between them. He was wearing a black, round-neck jumper, dark jeans and smart tan boots. The fabric of his jumper looked impossibly soft, and Abby had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.
‘This is where Flick brought me, the day you saw us together in the village,’ Jack said.
‘Oh, right.’ Abby focused on her biscuit.
Gorgeous, talented and almost as passionate about nature as Abby was, Flick Hunter was anchoring the national television programme, Wild Wonders, from Reston Marsh, the nature reserve close to Meadowsweet. Abby struggled to feel any warmth towards her, because Wild Wonders was part of the reason Meadowsweet was in trouble, and also because she could still remember the tightening of her chest when she had seen her talking to Jack on the day of the Halloween event. The woman, it seemed, was determined to muscle in on every aspect of Abby’s life.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ he continued, oblivious to her discomfort. ‘There’s no ulterior motive, just that Meadowgreen is very different from London, and being here is more of an adjustment than I’d anticipated. After Christmas, it feels like a bit of a sanctuary, but there’s only so long I can survive with just my laptop for company. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but after your winter walk I feel like we’re on firmer ground.’
Abby sipped her coffee, which tasted bitter compared to her usual cup of tea, and nibbled the edge of a biscuit. ‘Much firmer ground,’ she agreed. ‘And I know what it’s like to move somewhere new, to leave things behind. I was lucky because I was starting at Meadowsweet at the same time as Rosa, so we were thrown into the deep end together, and I had lots of people to talk to. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you.’
‘Even so, my complaints were unnecessary.’
‘You can’t help how you feel,’ Abby said. ‘And anyway, they—’ she was about to say they led her to him, then realized how that might sound. ‘I just have a very long to-do list at the moment. But you’ve stopped complaining – I can tick you off my list!’ She gave him a sunny smile.
‘And I suppose without them, we wouldn’t be here,’ he added, stealing her thoughts. ‘So, there’s that.’
‘Yes.’ Abby swallowed. ‘There is that.’
‘And Meadowsweet?’ Jack asked. ‘Why have you got so much to do? Is Wild Wonders really a threat?’
Abby took a deep breath as she considered her answer. This was something she could talk about; she was on much safer ground with the nature reserve.
An hour later, Jack probably knew more about Meadowsweet than he had ever expected – or hoped – to. But he seemed interested, interrupting her spiel with questions, laughing as she told him about Stephan’s over-enthusiastic singing, commiserating with her about the uncertain future of the reserve, intrigued by the idea of hangover walks and the star species that could be spotted at different times of the year.
She realized, as she finished her second coffee and Jack offered her the last biscuit – Bourbons this time – that he had given up hardly any information about himself. She’d aimed a few questions at him, but he’d deflected them with an ease that probably came with being in the public eye.
He put the empty biscuit packet in his mug and stretched his arms to the ceiling. ‘I should think about getting back. I can’t avoid the laptop forever.’
‘Is your new book going well?’
‘I’m working a bit slower than I’d like, but that’s often the way at the beginning. And it feels promising, so far.’
The cold hit her as they stepped outside, the previous day’s damp pavements drying in a brisk, icy wind. Jack, coatless, hurried to the car, unlocking it as he went.
‘There are some days when I don’t even have the inclination to be creative,’ Abby said as he started the engine. ‘When the well is dry I focus on logistics instead. It must be a nightmare when your whole career revolves around your imagination.’
‘I have memories and experience to draw from, and I spend a lot of time researching beforehand, so I’m not always working from a blank slate.’
Abby thought of his book, lying a quarter read on her bedside table. It was undeniably dark, but she loved the central character, and she’d had to force herself to stop reading at an ungodly hour the previous night. ‘I hope you don’t have too much relevant experience,’ she said, laughing.
Jack smiled. ‘As I said before, I’m not smart enough to get away with murder, but coming up with flawed characters who will do anything to get what they want is part of the fun. And like everyone, I have my fair share of unpleasant memories, situations I should never have got into, things I regret. You just twist those emotions, take them to extremes so that they’re truly dark.’
Abby stared at the dashboard. He’d said it in such a conversational tone, as if it was something he tripped out regularly at events, but it brought up images of her own unhappy past, the bits that Abby didn’t need to embellish to make darker. She thought of what Octavia had told her; the role Jack had supposedly played in Eddie Markham’s plagiarism case, the suggestion of a less than perfect past and then the attack, much more recently.
It had been so easy in the pub. She had felt comfortable with him, listened-to and attractive in his presence, her own attraction to him growing. But she had got it so wrong before.
‘Abby?’ he prompted. ‘Are you OK? Did I say something—’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ She could hear the concern in his voice and resisted the urge to be honest with him in a way she hadn’t been with anyone else in Meadowgreen.
‘It’s nothing,’ she rushed. ‘I’m interested in knowing more about your writing, and about you. Just – everyone has unhappy memories, don’t they?’
As they approached Meadowgreen she felt the car speed up. He drove through the village, onto Warbler Cottages, and pulled up outside her house.
He undid his seatbelt and turned towards her. ‘I find it hard to believe that you, Abby Field, have a past full of dark deeds you wish you could undo.’ He spoke softly, as if he was picking his words carefully. He tried a tentative smile, and Abby wanted to roll her eyes and tell him no, of course not. But she couldn’t.
Instead, she fidgeted in her seat. ‘They weren’t necessarily my dark deeds, but I still wish I could erase them.’
Jack’s smile disappeared. ‘Abby, I’m sorry.’ He ran a hand over his jaw then reached out towards her, his fingers brushing her arm. ‘I shouldn’t have been flippant. I don’t know enough about you. Are you OK? Do you want to talk—’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I should let you get back. But I’ve had a lovely time. Whenever you need to get away from your book again, just let me know.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m good. Really. Thank you for coffee. See you again soon, I hope?’
‘I’d like that.’ He leaned towards her and kissed her cheek, repeating the mistletoe kiss she’d spent so much time replaying. She tried to capture the feel of his lips on her skin, holding his gaze when he sat back, wishing it could have lasted longer.
Once they’d said goodbye and Abby was inside, filling up Raffle’s water bowl, she felt a wave of embarrassment. Why had she opened up to him in a pointless, cryptic way like that, leaving him feeling awkward and confused? ‘It should have been all or nothing,’ she said to her husky. ‘What on earth must he think of me now? What can he possibly be imagining about my past? He’ll probably never want to see me again, despite what he said.’
The thought of Jack steering clear of her should have been the answer to all her prayers, but instead it made her feel overwhelmingly sad.
Abby’s first hangover walk – advertised on social media and in the local paper – was on a Sunday morning at the end of January. There were seven people on it, and at least three of those looked like they had taken it at face value. Abby had gone to the Skylark with Rosa the night before, but had stopped after two pints, knowing that, while her visitors should be able to identify with her in some respects, it wouldn’t help if she was too bleary eyed to notice any of the wildlife.
She introduced herself, told everyone what they could expect from the walk, and then led them down to the heron hide. It was a crisp day, the winter sun casting everything in a whitish hue, bleaching the landscape and making it seem even colder than it was. A pair of marsh harriers kept everyone’s interest piqued, and the telescope she had hefted with her proved popular, a couple of the men asking her questions that were technical enough for her to have to refer to the notes Rosa had written out.
‘It’s great, this,’ said one man, whose stubble looked several days old and who, she hadn’t failed to notice, wasn’t wearing any gloves. She had almost said something but didn’t want to come across as prissy. ‘Can you use it for stargazing? My nephew’s dead keen, and we got him one of those cheap jobbies for Christmas, but I’m not sure it spots anything further away than the trees in his garden.’
Abby scanned her notes. ‘Yes, it’s good for stargazing too. It’s not specifically for that, but it’s often used as an entry level star scope, so – dual purpose.’
‘And the tripod comes with it?’
‘It’s meant to be eighty, but if you buy them together I can do it for fifty-five, which is a pretty sweet offer.’ The words sounded alien to her, but the gloveless man was nodding away.
‘Come and see this, love,’ said the woman he had arrived with. ‘All these pretty little ducks, there are hundreds of them.’
‘They’re teals,’ Abby said. ‘Beautiful, aren’t they? We have a resident population, but gain a lot more in the winter months, when they fly over from colder climates. Like they’re all coming somewhere warmer for their winter holidays.’
‘Seriously? Couldn’t get much colder than this, could you?’ someone asked.
‘Oh, believe me, it gets colder.’ Abby grinned. ‘Sometimes, when we’re doing surveys, we spend whole days down here. It takes ages for the feeling to come back in your feet, and when it does – God, it’s so painful. But worth it,’ she added swiftly, not wanting to put anyone off. ‘The cold might be extreme, but the views are too.’ The hide quietened as everyone looked out over the frostbitten scene, the low sun, the birds, geese and waders going about their business on water that looked like fractured glass.
Abby breathed in deeply, felt the air and the love fill her up as it always did, a kind of euphoria that this sight was a few minutes from her house, that it existed for everyone to see. She wished more people felt as strongly about it as she did, but this morning, reaching out to a new audience, was a start.
Of course, Wild Wonders was doing the same thing on a much larger scale, with their fact-filled television programme and their beautiful presenter, but she couldn’t think about that; she had to focus on Meadowsweet, and hangover walks were an idea she thought she could develop further.
As she left her visitors in the capable hands of Stephan, the warm café sizzling with the sounds and smells of cooking bacon, Abby went to check the post. It was a Sunday, so there wouldn’t be anything from Royal Mail, but she was still waiting for a letter, hand delivered, in response to hers.
It had been over two weeks since their coffee, and she hadn’t had even a text message from Jack. She had walked past Peacock Cottage every day, and on most occasions the Range Rover was parked outside, so he was still there, beavering away at his book. Had she scared him off for good? So far, she had resisted the temptation to knock on his door, the awkwardness of their last parting at the forefront of her mind, wondering if what she’d written had somehow made it worse.
Dear Jack,
Thank you so much for coffee the other day, and sorry if things got a bit serious at the end. I’d love to see you again, to talk some more, to distract you from your dark words occasionally.
Hopefully see you soon,
Abby x
PS. I forgot to mention last time that my neighbour, Octavia, is gearing up to ask you a library-related favour. Tell you more when I see you.
She hoped it was this last part that had sent him into hibernation rather than their exchange in the car. She could entirely understand if he didn’t want to put himself on display any more than was strictly necessary.
Perhaps he was just so engrossed in writing that he was barely giving himself time to eat or sleep, let alone consider going for more coffee dates with a strange woman that – he had reminded her – he barely knew.
Abby logged her walk visitors into the online system, watching the numbers creep ever so gradually up, and tried to take her mind off Jack. Her next planned event was a new-shoots walk, and she needed to spend a few hours outside, finding the signs of spring that would delight her customers and plotting a route that encompassed them all. The way her mind was tangled at the moment, time alone in the fresh air would do her good. She checked the volunteer schedule, to see when Maureen or Deborah were working and she could make her escape.
‘That sounds like satisfied customers to me,’ Penelope said, making Abby jump.
‘It does now they’re in the warm with bacon sandwiches.’
A frown flittered across the older woman’s face. ‘They didn’t enjoy the walk?’
‘Oh, they did, I think. It was very cold today, though. I’ve asked them to fill in a survey, either online at home or before they leave. I made it clear they were guinea pigs and it was really important I get some feedback – positive or negative – so I hope they’ll oblige and I can improve it for next time. I’ve also given everyone a “bring a friend” voucher, so they can come on another walk for free, as long as they bring someone else who pays.’
‘That’s excellent, Abby. The guided walks are so important for teaching people that nature spotting can be for everyone. And how is your larger event coming along? Any thoughts about a membership initiative to get numbers soaring?’
‘I’m advertising the murmuration event for the end of February,’ she said. ‘We can take people to the end of the meadow trail, where there’s a good view across the fields. And because it’s on such a large scale, I thought that we could sell more tickets than usual, about fifty, and get the press to come. That way we could talk about the walks and the spring camping event I’m planning, show off the reserve and give people a taste of the amazing things they can see, so they’re more likely to sign up for membership.’ She took a breath, aware that she was rambling.
Penelope smoothed down the fabric of her blue dress. Her necklace was made of pink and purple translucent beads, picking out the grey of her eyes. ‘Good work, Abby,’ she said eventually. ‘How many tickets have you sold so far?’
‘Eighteen,’ Abby said proudly. ‘And the local paper have agreed to come, but they haven’t confirmed a named reporter yet so I’ll chase them tomorrow.’
‘Excellent progress. Keep me updated, will you?’
‘Of course.’ Abby fiddled with her notebook, debating whether to ask her next question, then realizing she might burst if she didn’t find out what – if anything – had happened. ‘Penelope, have you heard from Jack recently?’
‘Why do you ask? Has he been giving you more trouble?’
‘No, no,’ Abby said hurriedly. ‘Not at all. I’ve not heard from him for a while, and I … I wondered …’ She didn’t know what she wondered, except whether he was OK or not.
Penelope’s expression softened. ‘That poor boy – man – has had a difficult time of things recently. I assume you’re aware?’
‘I’ve heard some of it. Mainly from Octavia, and only what’s in the press, so I don’t know how much to believe.’
Penelope sighed and took a step closer to the desk as a couple walked past, thanking Abby for the walk on their way out. ‘The papers are always going to turn to the worst possible scenario,’ she said. ‘Whatever will have more readers picking copies off the shelves, and you can’t blame them for that. But Jack …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure his Christmas was ideal. His father is very exacting.’
He had hinted at a less than happy Christmas, but that didn’t explain his silence since their coffee. ‘Do you know him well, then?’ Abby asked.
‘I’m beginning to,’ Penelope admitted. ‘And finding him very agreeable, despite what the world at large is saying about him. But these last few weeks, he hasn’t seemed quite himself. Pressures of this new book, the concerns of his editors, the lingering bad publicity. I do think it’s beginning to weigh on him, almost like delayed shock after the event. When he first moved here, he was rallying – as you well know, having to deal with his obstinacy. Now though, I’m worried he’s too isolated here.’
‘I think he’s trying to make friends,’ Abby said carefully. ‘But … is there anything else we can do? To help him?’
Penelope scrutinized her. ‘His complaints didn’t turn you entirely against him, then?’
‘No,’ Abby said. ‘I’m not against him.’
‘Good. I have someone I can talk to about it, someone who should be able to help, but thank you. You have a kind heart, and not just for our feathered friends. I’m sure Jack, were he to know about it, would appreciate your concern.’ She turned to walk back to her office.
‘Penelope,’ Abby called. ‘Will you let me know how he is? Once you – you’ve spoken to this other person?’
‘I will,’ she nodded. ‘And if you do see him, and even if he’s railing against one inconsequential thing or another, please bear in mind what he’s been through, and find it in you to continue that kindness.’
Abby smiled as she thought of their closeness in the pub, the way he had seemed interested and relaxed in her company. She was desperate to know what had happened to change that. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Penelope returned to her office, a thoughtful look on her face.
Abby rolled her shoulders, trying to release the tension. She’d had no idea that Penelope would speak so frankly to her about Jack, a subject that had, before Christmas, seemed off limits. But maybe her change of heart was because Penelope was worried about him, and while Abby was pleased her boss had told her, she knew that she would worry even more about him now too.
What had happened since their coffee date? Had there been some setback with his publishers, or was it simply that Abby had got things wrong, had started to open up about her past in a way he had no time or inclination to hear? She had felt something growing between them, the warmth of it expanding her chest, and yet since he’d kissed her on the cheek and driven away, she’d heard nothing. Had she misjudged him after all? Was he a man who had never truly put his chequered past behind him, the punch at the awards ceremony more characteristic of his nature than his kindness when she’d tripped, his generosity and attentiveness in the Queen’s Head? Was she making the same choices in men as she’d always done?
She wouldn’t knock on the door of Peacock Cottage. As troubling, and frequent, as her thoughts about Jack were, he’d made his decision by failing to respond to her letter. No, it was best to let Penelope handle it, speak to this mysterious person who she thought might be able to help him, and focus on saving the reserve.
She set about editing the page for the murmuration event, trying to inject the blurb with enthusiasm. It had the potential to be spectacular, as long as the starlings showed up and the weather was kind. But when it came to nature, nothing was guaranteed, you just had to do all you could and hope for the best.