they thought it was hurt because it wasn't flying.'
'There must be some interesting birds round here,' says Ed, sounding less than interested himself. He starts bobbing up and down again, looking for someone else to talk to.
But David is transformed. 'Wonderful,' he says, his eyes shining. 'The mudflats are like heaven for them. So nutritious.
You see whole flocks stopping by on their migration routes, just to feed here.'
'Like a motorway service station,' says Ruth.
David laughs. 'Exactly! In the winter, the Saltmarsh can be covered with birds, all trying to find something to eat on the mudflats. Sometimes there are as many as two thousand pink-footed geese, for example, coming from Iceland and Greenland and there are lots of native waterfowl too: golden eye, gadwell, goosander, shoveller, pintail. I've even seen a red-backed shrike.'
Ruth feels slightly dazed by all these names but she likes the sound of them, and she likes being with another expert, someone else whose job is their enthusiasm. Ed, meanwhile, has drifted quietly away.
'I recognise snipe,' she offers. 'And I think I've heard a bittern. They've got such a sinister call.'
'Yes, we've a nesting pair on the marsh,' says David.
'Must have been the male you heard. They call in the morning, first thing. It's a kind of hollow boom; echoes for miles.'
They are silent for a moment but Ruth is surprised how comfortable she feels with the silence. She doesn't feel compelled to fill it with a cute anecdote about the cats.
Instead, she takes a sip of wine and says, 'About those wooden posts on the marsh…'
David looks surprised and is about to say something but, just at that moment Sammy bustles up and tells them that there is food in the kitchen.
'Then we've got to get you two mingling. Can't have you sitting here in silence all evening, can we?'
They both get up obediently and follow her to the kitchen.
Nelson too is at a party. His is rather more glamorous than Ruth's, and certainly noisier. It is being held in rooms above a wine bar and sparkling wine is flowing like water.
Discordant music blasts from the speakers and evil little canapes are circulating. Nelson, who arrived straight from work, has eaten about twenty and now feels slightly sick.
His last selection, a prawn in puff pastry, is floating forlornly in a nearby ice sculpture. He is dying for a cigarette.
'Alright?'
His wife Michelle drifts by, elegant in a metallic gold dress.
'No. When can we go home?'
She laughs, pretending this is a joke. 'It's a New Year's Eve party so it's kind of the idea to stay until midnight.'
'I've got a better idea. Let's go home and get a takeaway.'
'I'm
enjoying myself.' She smiles widely to prove this and flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She does look fantastic, he has to admit.
'And besides' – her face hardens – 'how would it look to Tony and Juan?' Tony and Juan are Michelle's bosses, joint owners of the hairdressing salon she manages. They are gay, which is fine by Nelson as long as he doesn't have to go to their parties. He considers this attitude quite enlightened and is hurt when Michelle says he is prejudiced.
'They won't notice. The place is packed.'
'They will notice, and anyway I don't want to leave.
Come on Harry.' She puts a hand on his arm, running a manicured nail up his sleeve. 'Relax. Let your hair down.'
He is softening. 'I haven't got much hair. I'm the only person here without highlights.'
'I like your hair,' she says. 'It's very George Clooney.'
'Grey, you mean?'
'Distinguished. Come on, let's get you another drink.'
'Have they got any beer?' Nelson asks plaintively. But he allows himself to be led away.
Ruth and David are at the conservatory window, watching Ed and Derek trying to light fireworks. The conservatory, another new addition to the house, faces towards King's Lynn and they can already see other small explosions in the sky as people greet the New Year. Ed, though, is having difficulty. It is drizzling and his safety lighter won't work.
Sammy keeps shouting helpful hints from the window and people are getting restive. It is ten minutes to midnight.
'Interesting tradition,' says David, 'lighting fireworks at the start of the new year.'
'Isn't it meant to symbolise lighting the way for the new year,' says Ruth.
'Or setting fire to the old?' suggests Sue, Derek's wife.
'What about a tall, dark man crossing the threshold at midnight,' says Sammy. 'We must have that.'
'Have we got any tall dark men?' asks Sue with a laugh.
'Well, Ed's dark…' giggles Sammy disloyally.
'What about you?' Sue turns to David who is visibly trying to disappear into the shiny pine floor.
'I'm going a bit thin on top, I'm afraid,' he says.
'Nonsense. You'll do.'
'Isn't he meant to be carrying a lump of coal?' says Nicole, who hasn't yet spoken. She is petite and French and makes Ruth feel like an elephant.
'I'm afraid we're all oil-fired here,' says Sammy. 'But he could carry a pot of Marmite.'
'Marmite!' Nicole shudders extravagantly. 'What a terrible English taste.'
'Well it's black, that's all that matters,' says Sammy.
Ruth thinks suddenly of the will o'the wisps, and the doomed blacksmith wandering the underworld with his lump of coal from the devil's furnace. Outside, a firework finally leaps into life. The sky is filled with green and yellow stars. Everyone cheers. In the background, on the television, excitable crowds of C-list celebrities count down alongside Big Ben.
'Ten, nine, eight…'
In the garden, Ed's capering figure looks suddenly demonic, outlined against the red glow of the fireworks.
'Seven, six, five…'
Sammy thrusts a Marmite pot into David's hand. He looks at it helplessly. As he turns to Ruth, he too is lit by technicolour flares. Red, gold, green.
'Four, three, two, one…'
'Happy New Year,' says David.
'Happy New Year,' echoes Ruth.
And, as Big Ben tolls mournfully in the background, the old year dies.
Nelson has sloped out to smoke a cigarette and text his daughters. Tony and Juan, too cool for Big Ben and the C-list celebs, have organised their own countdown with the help of Juan's Rolex. Unfortunately Juan's Rolex is five minutes slow so they have, technically, already missed the New Year. Laura, Nelson's eighteen-year-old, is out with her boyfriend. Rebecca, sixteen, is at a party.
He thinks grimly of young lads like he had once been, using the chimes of New Year as a chance for a snog. Or worse. A text message from their old dad might be just the thing to break the mood.
Happy New Year luv, he texts twice, with scrupulous fairness. Then, glancing down the menu, he sees the name after Rebecca's. Ruth Galloway.
He wonders what Ruth is doing tonight. He imagines her at a dinner party with some other lecturers, all being very clever and intellectual, word games over the brandy, that type of thing. Does she have a boyfriend? A partner, she'd probably call it. She never mentions anyone but he thinks Ruth is the sort of person to guard her privacy.
Like him. Maybe she has a girlfriend? But she doesn't look like his idea of a lesbian (which veers between shaven head and dungarees and the lipsticked porn-film version). Anyway, she might not dress for men but he doesn't think she dresses for women either. She looks, he searches for the word, self-sufficient, as if she doesn't
