High Island Blues by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B

case. No wife or steady girlfriend. And all his real friends had been made twenty years before. But he wasn’t so desperate, he thought, that he was going to brood about Oliver Adamson during the most brilliant fall in history. He looked about him to make sure none of his group was around, then took an overgrown path through water oak, willow oak and hackberry trees. Bird watching needed concentration and he preferred to be alone. In the distance he heard American voices calling to each other, but the trail he followed was narrow and empty.
    The rain stopped and almost immediately afterwards the sun came out, slanting through the canopy on to the track ahead of him, the sudden heat making steam rise from the sodden undergrowth. In the sunshine the colours of the warblers were dazzlingly bright, the outlines sharp against the green of the spring leaves. It was like walking into the tropical house of a zoo. Or the Garden of Eden, he thought. All I need is Eve. And he wondered again where Mick and Laurie were and if they had been avoiding him.
    He found a bench by the trail and he sat there while the sun dried his clothes, thinking how good it would be if Laurie came up the path so they could spend some time together, talk about the time they’d spent together. Then he thought again that he was turning into a sad old man.
    He was aware of a shadow in the underbrush. Only a shadow, no colour. No bright yellow or scarlet. This was something brown and understated, more like a British bird than a neotropical warbler. He waited. All thoughts of Laurie were forgotten. There was another movement nearby but the bird disappeared too quickly for him to note any detail. He went through the possibilities. It was too big for a worm eating warbler, too drab for a yellow. And it was certainly behaving like a Swainson’s, skulking at the bottom of the thorn bush. For five minutes nothing happened. Then Rob heard a rustling sound which might have been made by a small mammal rather than a bird.
    Rob looked up the trail both ways. He was supposed to be a responsible tour leader and if he was going to break the rules of the sanctuary he didn’t want anyone to see him. The trail was empty but he stayed where he was and made a ‘pshhing’ sound. Again he caught a brief glimpse of the warbler but it was an untickable view. It flew further away from the trail and into the underbrush.
    ‘Sod it,’ he muttered and he went in, off the trail, stepping over the rope strung between metal stakes which marked the boundary. He kicked at the bushes to flush the bird into the open, looking around him again to make sure that no one could see him.
    The bird flew on to a low branch and sat there for five seconds. Rob was on to it immediately. He had to step back so he could focus his binoculars on it. Then he saw everything he needed – the cream eye stripe, the dagger-like bill, before it dropped down again into the tangle of thorn bushes.
    ‘Got you!’ he shouted out loud, punching the air with his fist ‘Swainson’s warbler. On my list!’
    Then he heard voices approaching. Immediately he tried to scramble back on to the trail. He wanted to claim the glory for finding the bird but he didn’t want to be caught out of bounds. The ground was swampy and as he turned back towards the path his boot caught in some twisted roots. He tripped and was so anxious to prevent damage to his binoculars and telescope that he fell flat on his face. Swearing furiously in a whisper, he decided it would be better to wait there until the walkers passed by than face the indignity of having to explain what he was doing away from the trail. He was afraid that the approaching walkers might be sanctuary volunteers. These were usually formidable southern ladies who terrified him.
    As they came closer he could tell that the voices were female but not American. It was the Lovegrove sisters and they were still arguing.
    ‘I’m sure that bird was a chestnut-sided warbler,’ Joan