The Dawn Chorus

‘Gold star for you, mate.’ Gavin crossed one overalled knee over the other.

‘Thank you, Gavin,’ Penelope said. ‘And Stephan. Yes, you’re right. I’ve had confirmation that Wild Wonders has chosen Reston Marsh Nature Reserve as their host venue for the next year.’

There was a collective exhalation, a sense of sad inevitability, but Abby’s heart started racing.

‘Year?’ she blurted, because while she’d been expecting bad news, this was worse. ‘They’re going to be filming there for a whole year?’

‘Got to cover all the seasons, haven’t they?’ Gavin said. ‘Shit.’

‘I don’t need to tell you,’ Penelope continued, ‘that this is not good news for Meadowsweet. While it’s not the most competitive industry, and many of our visitors frequent both reserves, the pull that Wild Wonders will have is considerable. It’s prime time, and as I understand it, they will broadcast a live television programme twice a week, supported by a wealth of online coverage: webcams, competitions and social media. We need to be as proactive as we can.’

‘In what way?’ Rosa asked.

‘In increasing our numbers, and our reach,’ Penelope said. ‘Making Meadowsweet at least as attractive a proposition for a day out as Reston Marsh, if not more, and becoming more visible. You all have your own areas of expertise, and you have to get thinking. We need visitors who will return again and again. It’s not going to be easy, but as a small reserve with no regular funding, we, in this room, are the only ones who can make a difference.’

Abby ran her fingers over her lips. Up until that point the events she’d organized had been fairly standard: walks through the reserve and activities for schools, stargazing and bat watching, owl and raptor sessions, butterfly trails. They’d been well-attended, but they weren’t unique, eye-catching, untraditional. Maybe now was the time to start thinking a bit more radically.

‘I have some thoughts,’ she said. ‘I was toying with the idea of—’

‘Excellent, Abigail.’ Penelope met her gaze easily. ‘I’m encouraged that you have plans. After all, your remit is visitors and engagement, so the weight of responsibility is angled more in your direction. But don’t tell me now; this is not the time for brainstorming. All of you go away, come back to me with written proposals and we’ll take it from there. I need to see an almost instantaneous change.’

She indicated for them all to leave, which they did slowly, scraping their chairs back and filing out of her office, gravitating to the reception desk where Abby took up her post from Deborah and waited for an influx of visitors.

‘Not a huge surprise,’ Stephan said sadly.

Rosa shook her head. ‘I’ve got some ideas, but it’s still going to be a tiny shop in an independent nature reserve, without a national television show raising its profile.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Gavin said, giving her a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure your defeatist attitude is exactly what Penelope’s after.’

‘We just need to shake things up a bit,’ Abby said, ‘Look at new ways of attracting people who would never ordinarily pick Meadowsweet as a day out. And if we can get the yearly memberships up, then we’ll already be on the way to winning the battle.’

Stephan’s smile was tentative. ‘Exactly, Abby. And I can work on my recipes, expand my scone flavours.’

‘See?’ Abby said. ‘Run a few more lines in the shop, Rosa, and concentrate on the online catalogue. That way we make money without anyone even stepping through the doors. There are lots of small things we can do.’

What Penelope was asking was straightforward. They had to attract more visitors, sell them more scones and sausage rolls, get them to walk away with bulging paper bags full of mugs and spotter books, boxes of fat balls. They all had their tasks, but, as Penelope had reminded her, Abby was doubly responsible because if she couldn’t improve the reserve’s popularity, then the café could have the best cheese scones in the world, but there would be nobody there to eat them.

She pushed down a bubble of panic. Would a few more walks, a few more members truly be able to make a difference against a television programme? In only eighteen months she had come to see Meadowgreen as her home, Meadowsweet Nature Reserve and its staff as her sanctuary and family. She didn’t want anything to threaten the small, idyllic world she had carved out for herself.

The silence was morose, and as Stephan went to check on his trays of flapjacks and Rosa returned to the shop, Abby watched a young man with fair hair and a blue and white checked shirt walk through the door.

‘Hello,’ he said, bypassing the reception desk and going over to the binoculars before she’d had a chance to reply.

‘Hi, Jonny,’ Rosa called.

‘Oh, hey.’ Jonny turned uncertainly, as if Rosa was the last person he expected to see in the shop that she ran.

Abby had almost started a pool on when Jonny would actually buy a pair of binoculars, but then decided it was cruel, and that if he ever found out he’d be mortified. It was the regular customers keeping the reserve going, even if most of them only bought a day pass and a slice of carrot cake rather than a £300 pair of Helios Fieldmasters with high-transmission lenses and prism coatings.

‘I need to fill up the feeders,’ Abby said to Gavin, who was leaning on the desk alongside her, turning a reserve map into a paper aeroplane.

She went to the storeroom and lifted bags of seed, mealworms and fat balls onto a small trolley, then wheeled it outside to the bank of feeders just beyond the main doors. It was often awash with small birds: blue tits, great tits, robins, chaffinches and greenfinches. Occasionally a marsh tit would find its way there, or a cloud of the dusky pink and brown long-tailed tits, their high-pitched peeps insistent. Small flocks of starlings would swoop down, cause a couple of minutes of devastation and then leave again. Squirrels regularly chanced their luck, and rabbits and pheasants waited for fallen seed on the grass below.

Often, before visitors had even stepped through the automatic door of the visitor centre they had seen more wildlife than they found in their own back gardens, and once they were on the reserve, the possibilities were almost endless.

Abby waited for a male greenfinch to finish his lunch and fly away, then set to work.

Her job title, activity coordinator, didn’t encompass all that she did for the reserve, but she didn’t mind. There wasn’t anywhere she’d rather spend her time, and her role mattered. She belonged at Meadowsweet, and if Penelope wanted her to get more creative, to double the number of visitors, then so be it.

Gavin had followed her out, pulling his reserve-issue baseball cap on, and Abby noticed how muddy his ranger overalls were.

‘That was a kick up the backside,’ he said, speaking frankly now they were well out of Penelope’s earshot.

‘Not unexpected, though,’ Abby replied. ‘There have been rumours about Wild Wonders for ages, and taking a fresh look at how we run this place wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?’

‘We could talk about it over a drink in the Skylark later, if you and the others are keen?’

‘You’ve got a pub pass, then?’

‘Jenna’s taking the girls to her mum’s for tea, so I’m jumping on the opportunity.’

‘I’ll see who I can round up,’ Abby said.

‘Grand. I heard it was someone’s birthday at the beginning of the week. We should do a bit of celebrating.’

‘How did you—?’ Abby started, but Gavin placed a full feeder back on its hook, then grinned and sidled off, whistling.

She got back to her task, exchanging pleasantries with visitors as they strolled down from the car park. That was the thing about working on a nature reserve – nobody turned up grumpy. They were all coming for enjoyment, to stretch their legs and get a dose of fresh air, spot a species they loved or discover something new. There were the odd children who were brought under duress, but there was enough on offer to engage a young, curious mind once they gave it a chance.

On the whole, the reserve was a happy place, and she wished that Penelope would embody that a bit more. She had always been a strict, no nonsense boss, but even so, Abby had noticed a distinct cooling over the last few months. She could put it down to the threat of Wild Wonders, but Abby had a feeling there were other things Penelope was worried about but had so far failed to share with her team.

But then, everybody had things that they wanted to keep to themselves. Abby had made friends here, but the thought of any of them – even Rosa – knowing her deepest insecurities, her past mistakes, made her feel sick. She hadn’t even realized she’d told anyone when her birthday was. She liked to keep them quiet, but she had to concede that a few drinks at the pub would be nice, and nothing they didn’t already do.

On Monday, the August bank holiday, Abby had turned thirty-one. Her sister Tessa, Tessa’s husband Neil, and their two children Willow and Daisy had thrown Abby a birthday picnic in the garden of their modern house in Bury St Edmunds. Abby loved spending time with them. She was helping with the pond they were creating and had started trying to come up with ways to describe the wildlife that Willow, at eight, would be enthusiastic about, writing some of her ideas down in her notebook. Three-year-old Daisy was still a way off being converted, though Abby had her in her sights.

But thirty-one somehow felt even more of a milestone than thirty had. Abby had no children of her own, no husband or boyfriend or even a glimmer of romance on the horizon – not that, after her last relationship, she felt inclined to dive into something new. It had been a long time since she’d shared her bed with anyone besides a large husky with twitchy ears and icy blue eyes. Raffle wasn’t even supposed to go in her bedroom, but it had taken about five minutes from the moment she’d picked him up from the rescue centre for that rule to get broken.

Working on the reserve, and the long morning and evening walks that kept her husky exercised, meant that Abby was fit, her five foot four frame slender but not boyishly flat. Her dark blonde hair was shoulder length, often in a ponytail, and she wore minimal make-up, usually only mascara to frame her hazel eyes. Being glamorous wasn’t one of her job’s remits, and the village pub didn’t have much higher standards.

As she tidied up the visitor centre later that day, Abby decided an evening in the Skylark with her friends was just what she needed. She took her usual route home, knowing the land like the back of her hand.

The approach road that led from Meadowgreen village to the reserve’s car park was long and meandering, forcing cars to slow down, twisting around the larger, established trees, and a single building. If Abby followed the road it would take her three times as long to get home, so instead she cut through the trees and came out halfway along it, opposite the building it curved around: Peacock Cottage.

Part of the Meadowsweet estate and therefore owned by Penelope, Peacock Cottage was a quaint thatched house with pristine white walls, a peacock-blue front door and four, front-facing windows – two up and two down – as if it had been drawn by a child. It was isolated, surrounded on three sides by trees, but also encountered regularly by visitors going to or from the reserve, the approach road passing within a hair’s breadth of the low front gate. Abby didn’t know who tended to the hanging basket – she’d never seen anyone go in or out of the cottage, though it still managed to look immaculate.

She wondered how many people driving past, or walking the less-trodden paths through the surrounding woodland came across the cottage and thought about who lived there. Was it Mrs Tiggywinkle? Red Riding Hood’s grandma? Did the witch who lured Hansel and Gretel in hide inside, behind walls that appeared completely normal to adults, the true, confectionary nature of the house only visible to children? Abby had conjured up all kinds of interesting occupants, something that she’d never done when peering at Swallowtail House, perhaps because she knew Penelope had once lived there.

Once she’d left the cottage behind and emerged from the trees, Abby was in the middle of Meadowgreen village. She walked past the post box and the old chapel that had been converted into the library-cum-shop, and was run by her inquisitive next-door neighbour, Octavia Pilch, its graveyard garden looking out of place next to the newspaper bulletin board.