Afterwards there were speeches made by the producer who thanked the people of Rushy for their cooperation in the making of the film, by the regional officer of the RSPB thanking the film crew and everyone who had paid to be there that night, and by Bernard Cranshaw who, in a long and tortuous way, said exactly the same as the previous speakers. At last he finished and the audience began to leave. There was the sound of motor bikes as the leather-clad young people rode away in search of some other diversion, and the sound of soft Norfolk voices in gossip.

Only the favoured few remained, those who had been invited to the Windmill for supper. Rob obtained the necessary invitation for Tina. The only thing that the guests had in common was their interest in birds and that Ella thought them worth inviting. Many she did not know personally—their names had been given by the organizations presenting the show—but she had made inquiries about them and was satisfied as to their birdwatching competence. There was an elderly wildlife artist whose paintings fetched huge prices in London galleries, a young biologist who presented a BBC wildlife programme, the television comedian who had introduced the show, national officers of the RSPB and their wives, and local committee members. Then there were Ella’s special friends, whom she had invited on her own account: George and Molly Palmer-Jones, Peter Littleton and Rob Earl with Tina. Sally had left before the speeches to help Sandra with last-minute preparations for the meal.

The Wildmill had been transformed for the occasion. There were stiff white cloths on the tables, bowls of flowers, the best silver and glass in the village begged and borrowed from its owners. Ella, magnificent in crimson silk, looking more Romany than ever, black curls swept back from her forehead and allowed to fall down her back, waited at the door to greet all her guests. The cars arrived in procession from the village hall. She stood like an opera singer preparing to sing. It was nearly dark—before the party finished there would be more rain—and the silhouette of the windmill could only just be seen against the sky. It looked, not untidy, but dramatic, and she was glad that it was still there, a suitable backdrop to the evening’s entertainment. She welcomed her guests with a theatrical dignity, so that attention was diverted from the prefabricated hut, the shabby little snack bar, and was concentrated instead on the sense of occasion, the sense of celebration. It was a real party. Already the bottles of wine were being opened, and heavy china plates, disguised by napkins and covered with food, were being carried from the kitchen.

Molly studied with interest the reaction of the guests to Ella. No one, not even the suburban RSPB wives, had found the performance ridiculous or embarrassing. Most men seemed spellbound by her physical magnificence. The elderly artist took her hand and kissed it. Bernard Cranshaw seemed not to notice that she was there, but walked straight past her, took a glass of wine from a tray, and drank it in loud, unpleasant gulps. Rob Earl caricatured her formality as he introduced her again to Tina, and Peter gave her a big kiss on both cheeks.