Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand (12 page)

She had not expected to feel as bereft at retirement as she had done. She had always been involved in so many activities outside work, perhaps too many activities so that the family life, her time with the children, had always seemed muddled and frenetic. She had thought that she would enjoy a time of quiet, enjoy having the time to do things well. But she had missed work desperately. It was not just that she missed feeling useful, although that was important. It was that she missed meeting people who were different, unusual, unconventional. The people she met at work usually had problems, and it was the problems which set them apart, but Molly’s focus had been not on the problem, but the person. It was this curiosity, this fascination with people which had remained with her after retirement, and which she found difficult to satisfy. Norton’s Cross gossip sustained her interest for a while, but its residents turned out to be tediously sane and unadventurous. Her introduction to the twitching world had brought her into contact with dozens of new people of different ages, from different backgrounds, most of whom were friendly, most of whom enjoyed talking about themselves, even if only in terms of the birds they had seen and the trips they planned. Many people recognized her, but did not know who she was. She did not talk a lot, but she listened. A trip to see a rarity was as much an adventure for her as it was for her husband.

So while George had been studying the bird in detail she had sought out old friends among the crowd, listening first to the anxieties of an undergraduate who was trying to combine the stresses of twitching with working for finals, and was being distracted from both by a girl in the first year at his university. Vera, mocked and teased by the men—more, Molly thought, because she frightened and attracted them than because they found her genuinely amusing—wanted to talk about her divorce and her affair with an American birder ten years her junior. Vera was very alive. Everything about her—her femininity, her clothes, her aggression—was overstated to the point of caricature. Despite her noise, Molly found her very restful. Vera always did all the talking. Molly had only met Pete Littleton once before, at Trekewick, but she had found him entertaining, and she was flattered when he recognized her and came to talk to her. He, of all the people with whom she had spoken that afternoon, seemed unequivocally happy.

“I know that I’ll get bored by the freedom very soon,” he said. “So I intend to enjoy every minute of it before I do.”

“Was it really so bad being married to Barbara and living on St. Agnes?”

“Oh, it wasn’t only Barbara,” he replied vaguely. “There were other worries. But they’re all cleared up now. So today I’ve seen a new bird, the sun’s shining, and I refuse to talk about anything unpleasant.”

And he had charmed her with his description of his return to Rushy, Ella’s reaction to him, the cottage he had rented there and his views of the teaching profession and his aim to reform it.

“Rushy is so special,” he said, “because most of the locals are happy to have birders around. They think we’re a bit mad, but they treat us like human beings. On Scilly the islanders barricade themselves in for the autumn. They hate the birdwatchers. I suppose there are so many birders on Scilly in October that there’s bound to be some damage. There is one bloke, though, in Rushy who doesn’t seem very friendly towards us. I was out on the marsh early one morning last week and someone started to fire an air gun at me. I don’t suppose it could have done me any real damage, but it was pretty frightening. He wasn’t a kid either. It was a middle-aged man.”

“Was it Bernard Cranshaw?”

“I don’t know. It’s so long since I’ve been in Rushy that I don’t know many of the locals by name. He was really wild, shouting at me and shaking his fist. I was just out on the reserve watching the avocet chicks.”

Pete shook his head, wondering at the odd behaviour of the man on the marsh, but not really worried by it. He looked at his watch, remarked that the pub would be open and walked away to find Rob.

The beach was nearly empty now and, with the people, the light was draining away from the flat. The sea was quite calm and the sand where Molly sat was still warm. Soon only two figures remained. They lay on the soft, dry sand, quite near to her, but oblivious of her. They were two young people, lying on their stomachs, close together but not touching. They were deep in conversation, running their fingers through the sand. She recognized them: Adam and Tina, long dark hair next to long fair hair. She watched them tenderly and with, she told herself, an old woman’s romantic spirit, she hoped that they were falling in love.

The pub was crowded with celebrating birdwatchers. The path to the bar was an obstacle race of tripods and telescopes, cross-legged teenagers and pints of beer. In a cramped corner a darts match was being played between the Scarsea team and the best of the twitchers. An ancient jukebox played muffled Rolling Stones.

George and Molly sat in the window seat, separated from the rest of the room by the noise and the smoke. They could not have been overheard.

“So Bernard Cranshaw has been taking pot shots at Pete Littleton?”

“I suppose it was him. The description sounds right.”

“I’ve still not worked out how Bernard knew that Tom had a conviction for a drug offence. Tom seems to have made every effort to keep it quiet. I wouldn’t have thought that Bernard would have been friendly with the types at the White Lodge. I should have mentioned his name to Dennis.”

Molly looked out at the crowded room, picking up odd phrases of shouted conversation. Involved as she was in her discussion with George she was still interested in what was going on around her.

George was talking again, and she had to concentrate to hear what he was saying.

“So you talked to Rob Earl about the Bristol job.” She repeated his words to confirm that she had heard him correctly.

George was impatient. “ Yes, I did. He said that the only reason he didn’t mention it was that his pride was hurt.”

“That certainly sounds like Rob.”

“I suppose so. But it was pretty silly not to tell me before.”

They sat in silence, drinking. George seemed deep in thought and Molly’s attention was once more drawn to the birdwatchers. A group of teenagers sat in a tight circle on the floor. From the scraps of conversation she knew that they were talking about birds.

“But how did you know that it was bimaculated lark, Adam?” asked a dark-haired boy with a painfully thin moustache. “Did it hit you straight away?”

Molly closely studied the boy who replied. On the beach she had been aware of him, but she had not looked at him. This was Anderson’s boy, whose distress at Tom’s death had caused the investigation to take place. George had said that he was lonely, loveless. Tina would be good for him. She would bully him into happiness. Certainly he seemed animated enough as he answered.

“It was obvious really. It either had to be bimaculated or calandra, and once I got a good view of it …” and there followed a list of intricate plumage details. Molly lost interest and turned her attention elsewhere, thinking fleetingly that at least birdwatching compensated a little for any problems at home.

George was wishing that he could relax as he usually did on an occasion such as this. It had always been like this when he was working. There had always been the irritation, the tension and the constructive bad temper, but even in the middle of an investigation he had been able to relax by birdwatching. Now he was denied even that. With a sudden childish anger at his discomfort, because he was not experiencing his usual high after a tick, he wondered whether he should give it all up: not only the investigation into Tom’s death, but birdwatching, twitching. It was an obsession. The depth of his feeling as they had driven to Scardrift had upset him. He was too mature to lose control in that way. He was vainly trying to contemplate a life in which birdwatching had no place when he saw Adam Anderson diffidently pushing through the crowd towards him. He had been to the bar and was carrying a drink each for Molly and George. He blushed as he set the drinks on the table for them, obviously uncertain whether his gesture of generosity would be regarded as impertinence.

Molly was immediately and suitably appreciative. The boy relaxed.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but at Trekewick you said that you’d like to see my notes on the bimaculated lark. If you’re free one night next week, perhaps I could bring them round to show you,” he mumbled shyly.

George felt touched and guilty. At Trekewick he had made a vague, off-hand invitation. Adam had been looking forward to the visit, had been waiting for a definite invitation which had never arrived.

“I do want to see those notes very much,” he said with some sincerity. “ Come tomorrow evening for supper, at about seven. That’s convenient for you, Molly, isn’t it?”

Molly nodded. She found Adam an interesting young man, and she was curious to see if he would mention Tina.

An enthusiastic discussion between George and Adam followed about the diagnostic features of penduline tit. By the end of the evening George was playing darts for the twitchers’ B team, and all thought of retirement was forgotten.

Terry could not settle to work after talking to Molly. He felt restless and uncomfortable. She was a nice lady and he had upset her. She would have been his friend. Now she would not like him. He brushed his hair back from his face and rubbed his eyes with the back of a red, wet hand. In the sink the water was cold and the pan was still dirty. Then he remembered the cigarettes and immediately all thoughts of Molly disappeared. But he was not allowed to smoke in the kitchen. It was better to leave work early than to smoke in the kitchen. He filled the pan with clean water and started to scrape the remnants of burnt food from the sides, but the thought of the cigarettes distracted him. He left the pan in the sink, wiped his hands on a greasy tea towel, and went out of the hotel quietly, by his own secret way, so that no one would see him.

He did not go home. Blackie would be cross because he had left work early, and she did not like him to smoke. It was very hot, very sunny, and he walked through the village feeling brave because he ought to be at work.

Then he decided to run away. Dennis did not make him decide. Dennis shouted a lot, but he was used to Dennis. He was walking past the bookshop, staring in at the window at the posters and shiny covers on the books. Inside there was a birdwatcher, elderly and innocent, browsing, binoculars around his neck. Terry had never seen him before. But it was then that he decided to run away, because there were always birdwatchers in Rushy. The binoculars reminded him of the person he had seen on the marsh track with Tom. Sooner or later that person would come to Rushy again, and would see Terry and would kill him too.

Terry had run away before. Not from Blackie. He liked her and would be sad to leave her. He had run away from children’s homes when he was a boy, and once from the hospital. He had been good at it and it always took them a long time to catch him.

He was excited about running away, and wished that he could tell someone, but it was Sunday and everywhere was quiet. Only the tourist shops were open and they were mostly empty. As he walked past the village hall a group of children spilled out of their Sunday school class and began racing and fighting. They hardly noticed him, and when a few, through habit, called after him: “Batty Terry, Batty Terry,” there was no malice in it. He waved to them and watched them chase away home to their Sunday lunches.

With the disappearance of the children the village seemed to grow even hotter, more sleepy. He walked aimlessly, not making any plans. He had forgotten why he was going, but a memory of his fear, though vague, kept him moving through the village towards the shore. Through open windows came the smell of cooking and lunchtime sounds and the voices of babies. He smoked one of his cigarettes, enjoying it thoroughly, and turned into Anchor Lane.

The door of the Anchor was open and he was nearly distracted. He had been paid the day before and had some money left after paying Blackie for his keep. Inside the pub two men stood at the bar. It looked cool and brown in there and he had enough money to buy them a drink. They would talk to him then. Then he saw a young couple sitting in the shadow, in a corner. The girl looked up. When she saw him standing there, hesitating, she smiled at him. Around her neck she wore binoculars, and on the wooden table between her and the boy there was an open book, with pictures of birds. The fear came back and with a sudden awkward movement he turned and ran away, leaving the girl bewildered.

He ran on down the road, his strange, flat-footed gait carrying him quickly past the villas. Where the road turned into a grassy footpath at the edge of the marsh, he slowed down. Cows grazed there and he was frightened of cows. He had to walk slowly so they would not notice him. He could not run on the shingle. There, he stopped and took off the raincoat which he had been wearing despite the sunshine. He dropped it where he was, then went back for it, realizing that he might need it later. He took off his shoes and socks and carried them, walking painfully across the shingle bank to the sea edge, where there was a little sand. His feet made soft, wet imprints on the sand, and he laughed with delight when the waves reached his feet. He walked east along the edge of the shore towards Skeffingham, along the straight, endless beach interrupted only by wet wooden breakwaters and scattered families, the people small and unreal in the distance. He knew now where he was going.

Adam lay on the bed. It was late afternoon, but he had drawn the curtains and it was nearly dark. On the bed beside him lay an old copy of
British Birds
magazine—the edition of the previous November, which listed the year’s rarities and the people who had found them. He liked to see his name in print. He had not found any of the birds listed, but on two occasions had been the second observer. Because of his initials, his name came first. Next year the bimaculated lark would be there, and his first place would be justified.