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.