However, that day, the day of Adam’s disappearance, the dilapidated silhouette irritated her. It represented her laziness, her lack of care for the place. She should have seen to it. It was a scarecrow of a thing, a monstrosity. She focused her anger on Jack—he should have seen to it. It was his responsibility too. It would give the wrong impression. She could transform the restaurant with flowers and decorations but how could she hide that pile of scrap metal? She considered stringing it with fairy lights, then wondered for a crazy moment if she could have it removed in a day. She was, for a while, distracted by this possibility, but when she had concluded that too many problems were involved, the irritation had passed. Nothing held Ella’s attention for very long and she had too much energy to sulk. She had other, more important, more pleasant things to consider.

She was having a party and it would be the most magnificent party ever given in Rushy. It was to be a celebration of Rushy and the marsh. The spring before, the village had been the base for an RSPB film crew, who had made a documentary film about the natural history of the area. For a while the village had pretended to ignore the film crew’s presence, but in private the strangers had been the subject of great interest and speculation. There had been real excitement when a television personality, who was to act as narrator, stayed at the White Lodge and drank in the pub. Ella, immediately, had made it her business to become indispensable to the cameramen. She made sandwiches for them, and flasks of tea. The film appealed to her theatrical nature. Through her the village learnt all about the details of filming, and Rushy became quite possessive about their film.

It was already very successful. It had won awards and was soon to appear on television. There had been a premiere in London and members of the royal family had attended. The second public showing was to be in Rushy, as a tribute to the village. Ella, whose party would follow the show, felt that somehow, through association, the influence of royalty should be felt. She had taken over the small buffet supper planned by the local RSPB group and transformed it into something more suitable. She had been planning the party, brooding about it, dreaming about it for months. It was to be a spectacle. The Windmill was closed for the day so that she and Sandra could lay out the tables, prepare the food. The freezer was already filled with pies and flans, other committee members were making the sweets, providing the wine. She wanted everything to be perfect and very grand. As she ran over the details of the meal in her mind, her anxiety eased. She was wonderfully confident that everything would go smoothly, and she prepared to enjoy the power of organization.

That morning Pete Littleton woke early. On Scilly he had resented the early morning, the busy grey dawns, the earnest discussions at six in the morning about bulb prices and disease. If he had been able to contribute any skill or opinion to the operation, perhaps he would have enjoyed it more. But it had been made clear to him that he was only there to learn, that he served no useful purpose. Now, to get up early was a choice which he exercised more and more frequently, even if he did not intend to go out. After years of being attached to an extended family, even as an outsider, he found the privacy of the cottage intoxicating. The means of obtaining the privacy had been distasteful, but he knew that the unpleasantness had been worth while.