The Dawn Chorus. Cressida McLaughlin
work this week so it’s understandable that it’s quieter than usual.’
‘Of course it is,’ Abby said, their false enthusiasm spurring each other on. ‘Give it a few more days and we’ll be heaving.’
‘I truly hope so.’ The voice came from behind Abby. It was smooth and calm, but with a steel to it that made her heart beat a little faster. ‘How is the treasure hunt coming along?’
‘I’ve placed everything along the trails,’ Abby said, turning to face Penelope. ‘I just need to finish the paperwork that goes with it.’
‘Good.’ Penelope raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘When is our first school coming in?’
‘Next week. The first week back was too soon for most of the teachers I spoke to, but they’re also keen to come while the weather’s still good. I think the possibility of forty children going home to their parents with muddy trousers was too much to bear.’
‘And how’s Gavin getting on with clearing the area around the heron hide?’
Abby’s mouth opened but nothing came out, because she had no idea.
Penelope stood with her arms folded across her slender chest, her long grey hair, streaked with white like a heron’s wing feathers, pulled back into a bun, waiting for the answer. She had used her usual tactic, lulling Abby into a false sense of security by asking her questions she could answer with confidence, then sneaking in the killer blow once she’d become complacent.
‘He’s been working since seven,’ Rosa said, rescuing her. ‘He told me he was making good progress when I saw him half an hour ago.’
‘I wonder, though,’ Penelope said, ‘whether his version of good progress would be the same as mine?’
Neither Abby nor Rosa dared to answer that one, and Penelope pursed her lips and glanced in the direction of the café, from where the smell of cheese scones, as well as a rather ropey a cappella version of ‘Bat out of Hell’, was coming.
‘I want you in my office in five minutes.’ She spun on her heels and walked away, closing her office door firmly behind her.
Rosa leaned her elbows on the desk. ‘Why do we put up with it?’
‘Penelope’s not that bad,’ Abby said. ‘She has the potential to be friendly – it’s just that she’s been on her own for so long, she’s forgotten how.’
‘She’s not on her own though, is she? Her life is the reserve, and we’re all here. You, me and Stephan, Gavin and Marek, the volunteers, the regular visitors. She probably sees more people on a daily basis than most other 66-year-olds. My parents don’t have as large a social circle as she does, and they’re eternally happy.’
‘Your mum and dad don’t understand the meaning of the word miserable.’
Abby had met Rosa’s parents several times since she’d started working at Meadowsweet, and they were the most cheerful people she’d ever encountered, living in a cosy bungalow in the Suffolk town of Stowmarket. Rosa’s Jamaican mother was always laughing about something, and her dad had welcomed Abby with open arms, and was easy to talk to. Abby couldn’t help feeling a pang of longing and envy that Rosa had such a loving family close by. Not that Abby didn’t have Tessa, her sister, but it wasn’t the same as doting parents.
‘My mum and dad don’t take anything for granted,’ Rosa said, ‘which is the best way to live your life. Penelope has this whole estate, she has the houses – Peacock Cottage and that gorgeous, deteriorating pile that could be so wonderful, yet it’s lying in tatters. And she still walks around as if she’s sucking a rotten plum.’
‘Yes,’ Abby said, leaning over the reception desk and lowering her voice. ‘But the reserve is in trouble, isn’t it? We both know what this meeting’s about.’
Rosa sighed in exasperation. Her dark eyes were sharp, inquisitive. She had spent several years in London, buying products for a department store, and had moved back to Suffolk when her mum had had a stroke – one which, thankfully, she was almost completely recovered from. A nature reserve gift shop was undoubtedly a backwards step, but Rosa had told Abby she liked being able to put her personal stamp on it, and the products she had sourced since being at Meadowsweet were good quality and highly desirable.
‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’re reading too much into it.’
Abby shrugged, hoping her friend was right but not believing it for a moment.
Ten minutes later, with Deborah, one of the volunteers, covering reception, Abby, Rosa, Stephan and head warden Gavin were seated in Penelope’s office, in chairs crammed into the space between the door and her desk while she sat serenely behind it, her grey eyes unflinching.
‘I think you know why I’ve called this meeting,’ she said, without preamble.
‘Wild Wonders,’ Stephan replied quickly, and Rosa shot him a look.
‘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.’