Birdwatching became a secret passion, shared only with other birdwatchers. He could never have admitted at school, especially at his grammar school, what he did at weekends. As it was, he never quite belonged there. It was a relief to find other people who were as interested, as fanatically interested as he was, and he spent more and more time watching birds or travelling to see rarities. His only close friends were birdwatchers.

Then he had found Rushy. He had come there first, of course, to see the birds, hitching most weekends from London in the spring and autumn, sleeping in the hut near the putting green or in the ladies’ toilets. But he liked the place too. He felt that it was his place. It was small enough to know well. He made trips to Shetland and the Scilly Isles, but there he always felt a tourist. He always came back to Rushy. It had always been known as a good place to see big numbers of common migrants, but Tom found rarities, occasionally he found spectacular rarities, and the reputation of the village grew and spread. Rushy became the property of every bird club and Young Ornithologist group. The dudes and the RSPB members, the wealthy amateurs of the bird watching world, who stayed in the hotel where he worked, did so because they hoped to see golden oriole and woodchat shrike, the rarities for which he had made the place famous. He felt that it was a responsibility and he missed the old freedom.

Now, ironically, he only ever saw other people’s birds. It was true that when the last guest had finished lunch and only Terry was left in the kitchen, and he walked into the Blue Anchor, just on closing time, all the twitchers knew him; gathered round him to ask his advice, to tell him what had been seen. Very rarely did he miss anything good—someone would leave a message for him at the hotel if there was a bird in the area which was known to be new for him. Very rarely did he have to buy his own drinks. But at every rarity there would be a gaggle of birders with tripods, telescopes and cameras; he was always one of a crowd. He missed the excitement and the glory of being the first to see a rarity.

Now it was May and the wind had been blowing from the south-east all week. A wind from the south-east in spring brings migrants from Europe and Africa and Siberia, and it brings vagrants, birds with no reason to be in this country, arriving only by accident and because of the wind. Even on the bad days, when he worried about Sally and money, and worked overtime in the afternoon, making tea for the children, Tom knew which way the wind was blowing. On the Friday night, listening to the shipping forecast on his cheap transistor in his small and dirty bedroom, as he heard the bland, objective voice report the possibility of mist and fog patches at dawn, he knew that the next day would be special. It mattered more to him that night than anything else that he find a rare bird, more than caring for Sally and Barnaby, more than finding work that he enjoyed.