But then, as the penduline tit came into clear view, he knew that again he was deluding himself and that his only reason for coming to Scardrift was to see the bird. It was hanging on to a thin branch of stubby sycamore. The sun caught the warm red of the colour on its back and throat. Despite its size—it was smaller, George realized, than a blue tit—all the details of its plumage were bright and clear. He was about to turn to see if anyone else was looking at the bird, waiting to share his pleasure in it, when it flew. He was thrilled to get a good view of it in flight and he even heard it call, a soft, plaintive call, like a robin. Then it was gone. It flew high, into the sun, so that he could not follow it. It was never seen again.

With the bird went his elation. Usually he enjoyed this time in a twitching trip, when the bird had been seen, and when it had gone or there was no light left to look at it. People could talk, drink, play darts, with a clear conscience. Then you began to know the birdwatchers as real people, who could talk not only about birds, but about politics, work, families, women. He enjoyed the gossip, was stimulated by contact with young men whose opinions he might have dismissed had they not been such good birders. It made him feel tolerant, broadminded to sit in a pub with a group of scruffily dressed youths, and to be accepted by them, although he never would have admitted that to himself. Today he knew that he had to talk to Rob Earl and he resented the intrusion of awkwardness when he should have been celebrating.

Now that the bird had gone, people were drifting away to the pub in Scarsea, Norfolk, home. There was a queue of cars on the sandy track, with the drivers waiting good-naturedly. Rob was asleep, lying against a sand dune, his binoculars still around his neck. The hands which were folded across them were strong. Even in sleep, there was an arrogance in his expression—he slept because he chose to, not because he needed to.

George spoke his name, and he woke. He rolled lazily on to one side, so that he was propped up on an elbow, and he grinned his satisfied grin.

“That was one of the best birds I’ve seen in Britain.”

George agreed, then asked: “ What are you doing tonight?”

“Pete Littleton is renting a place in Rushy. I’m staying with him, and going back to Southampton tomorrow night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that both you and Tom French had applied for the same job in Bristol?”

“I don’t know. I knew that I ought to tell you. But I couldn’t admit that he had won. I was shattered when I found out that they’d offered him the job. It really hurt my pride. Even after he died.”