Through use a track had been worn from south to north over Gillibry and the island rose steeply away from the shore. The observatory was at the far north end, at the point of the tear-drop, like the figurehead of an old carved boat. It looked down over the rest of the island. In contrast Charlie’s house was hidden in a fold in the ground, surrounded by the only trees which would grow on Gillibry. It was just more than halfway along the track, in a natural bowl, so that the cliffs to the east and the west of it were high and rocky, but the house was sheltered. In the summer flowers grew in the garden. The house itself was a prefabricated wooden chalet which Charlie had imported specially from Sweden. It was incongruous with bright paint and shutters and could have been taken from one of the illustrations of his books. The house was known on the island as the Wendy House. No one could remember who had named it. John stopped in the dip in the road and waited patiently as Charlie collected together the plastic carrier bags and brown-paper parcels which made up his luggage.

“You’ll be up to eat with us as usual?” John asked.

“Certainly. Oh, certainly. It will be a very important meeting, you know. There’s something that I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I know that you’ll be most interested to hear all about it.”

He was still talking as he disappeared through the stunted, wind-shaped sycamores to his home.

At that point the island was separated by a drystone wall, part of which formed the southern boundary of Charlie’s garden. The public was not allowed beyond it, and this northern half of Gillibry formed the trapping area of the observatory. The traps stood over any cover which might attract birds, over small clumps of bushes, over a stream, in Charlie’s garden. On the windswept moor to the north of the Wendy House they were the only break to the skyline, but for the white walls of the observatory. The observatory was formed from a complex of lightkeepers’ cottages. The lighthouse had long since fallen into disrepair and been demolished, but the cottages were still strong. They were as smart as if still owned by Trinity House, freshly whitewashed and painted. They and the outhouses had been built around a cobbled courtyard, and inside had been transformed into dormitories, single rooms, a laboratory and common room. There were a well-equipped kitchen and dining room, and on the first floor a staff flat. From the outside they looked unchanged. As he drove through the white wooden gates into the yard John heard the rhythmic pounding of the generator. There was no mains electricity on Gillibry. He wished that Elizabeth had waited for him to start it. It was an awkward and cumbersome machine and sometimes had to be cranked with a handle. He knew that she was frightened of the machine, had been even before she was pregnant, but she would never ask him to help her.