absence was down to a sickness bug – not alcohol-induced after a raucous New Year’s Eve party, but one that had started with Neil, Tessa’s husband, and was making its way steadily through the family.
It had meant that Abby was instructed to stay away and had spent New Year’s Eve at home with Raffle, the aforementioned husky, and a night of disaster movies on Film4. Not the best way to spend the last day of the year, perhaps, but certainly not the worst.
‘Raffle’s fine,’ Abby said. ‘And yes, he’s the only male I’m close to.’ She put a hand to her cheek absentmindedly.
There was no way she was going to tell her mum about Jack Westcoat, who had moved into Peacock Cottage, the snug house that stood incongruously on the approach road to Meadowsweet, in September. Initially, he had been a problem to tick off Abby’s to-do list, complaining about visitors disturbing him when Abby’s main target was to increase the number of people who spent time at the reserve.
He was an irritation. He was snobbish and entitled and scowled most of the time, and yet … she rubbed her cheek, the spot where, a few weeks earlier, he had kissed her under the mistletoe. She was behaving like a teenager, but she couldn’t help it. There was something hidden behind his blue eyes and stern, handsome face that intrigued her. She shouldn’t allow herself to get close enough to him to tease it out, but his suggestion that they meet for coffee once the festivities were out of the way hadn’t been far from her thoughts over Christmas.
‘Have a cup of Assam,’ her mother said, pouring from the china teapot. She was doing that motherly thing of watching Abby while also not spilling any tea. Abby didn’t like the look she was giving her.
‘So, Tess said she was feeling a bit better.’ Abby sat up on her haunches and added milk from a jug that matched the rest of the crockery. It was unbelievable that her mother should be using a proper tea set. Abby could remember, all too well, a time when not only did the crockery not match, but it quite often ended up being hurled against a wall of their terrace in Bury St Edmunds. Could she really have changed so much?
‘Don’t alter the subject,’ Caroline said. ‘Are you telling me the truth, Abigail Elizabeth Field?’
‘About what?’
‘About the no man business. I know a faraway look when I see one, and just now you were somewhere else altogether.’
‘I was thinking about work, Mum. I need to pull out all the stops. January and February are the hardest months to attract visitors, and if the numbers start to decline now, I don’t know whether I’ll be able to pull them up again. I need to come up with something big, something that will increase our membership numbers and improve things for good. What would make you come to a nature reserve in the depths of winter, when the ground is crunchy and breathing makes your nose hurt?’
Her mum raised a single eyebrow. ‘When you put it like that, absolutely nothing. You need to market it better.’
Abby sighed. ‘I’m being realistic. That’s what it will be like. But we have some incredible wildlife at this time of year. Marsh harriers, peregrine falcons, deer, a huge flock of starlings that roost in the trees – they can be a spectacular sight before they come into land.’
‘So, talk about those things.’ Caroline waved an airy hand. ‘You’ll be fine.’
Her disinterest was maddening, and Abby clenched her hand into a fist at her side. ‘Fine won’t be good enough. With Wild Wonders sending all the attention to Reston Marsh around the corner, we’re becoming the forgotten nature reserve. And I’m sure there’s more to it than that, and that Meadowsweet – Penelope’s estate – is in more financial difficulty than she’s letting on. She’s even rented out Peacock Cottage.’
Her mother started. ‘That grand mansion that overlooks your village? I thought it was falling down.’
‘That’s Swallowtail House, Mum. That’s still empty. No, this is smaller; it must once have been the groundsman’s cottage or something. It’s still in perfect condition, at least outside. I’m sure it is inside too, considering who’s living in it now.’ She chewed her lip.
‘Oh? Who’s that then?’ Caroline sat forward, her hands clasped around her cup.
‘He’s a writer, from London. He’s … a bit challenging. He thinks that everything should be done for him, that whatever he wants, he should get. I’m sure he wouldn’t stay in the cottage if it wasn’t up to scratch, or at the very least he’d ask Penelope to give it a deep clean.’
‘And from what you’ve told me about her, she wouldn’t like being given instructions.’
‘No,’ Abby agreed. ‘She wouldn’t.’
Penelope Hardinge owned the Meadowsweet estate and had run the nature reserve singlehandedly ever since her husband, Al, had died seventeen years before. Now she was trying to keep it afloat, along with her full-time staff – Abby, Rosa in the gift shop, Stephan who ran the café, and a team of wardens – as well as several part-time staff and volunteers. But with Reston Marsh close by, run by a national charity and now with the added bonus of a popular wildlife television show hosting from there, Penelope and Meadowsweet were up against it.
Abby was an integral part of the recovery plan, and she was starting to feel the pressure. Not to mention that Jack Westcoat, the writer from London, was beginning to distract her in a way she found unforgivable. They had only met a few times, and not all of those had been particularly friendly, but she wasn’t doing him justice when she said he was challenging. Or maybe that part was true, but it didn’t give the whole picture. She was looking forward to going back to the reserve tomorrow, to walking close to the cottage and seeing if his Range Rover was outside, to firming up the coffee he’d suggested when they’d parted for Christmas. She hated herself for being so excited.
Silence settled over the room and Abby glanced at Caroline, who was staring at the fireplace, fingers pressed to her lips. For all her confidence, her cushy job as a PA for an executive in Ipswich and her full social calendar, Abby could see the cracks where old wounds hadn’t fully healed.
‘Are you happy, Mum?’ she asked, surprising herself.
‘What, darling?’
Abby hugged her knees to her chest. ‘You’re happy, right? With your life? After … Dad?’
Caroline’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s been a long time, Abigail – over half your lifetime. And I’m very happy. I have two beautiful, blossoming daughters, two grandchildren I adore – even if there’s no sign of more on the way. My weekends are booked up until early March. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s you I’m concerned about.’
‘You just said I was blossoming.’
‘And you are, I can see that. Your house, your job, your dog …’
Abby rolled her eyes. ‘How can you imply that my life is lacking because I don’t have a boyfriend, when you’re stubbornly single? Pots and kettles.’
‘Yes, but Abigail,’ her mother slipped down to join her on the carpet, ‘I’m not at the beginning of my life. I’ve been there, done it all – and not very well, as I think we’d both agree.’
Abby could only hold her gaze for a moment, before looking at the floor.
‘I’m
