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Sheila blinked at the licence for a few seconds, then said,
‘That’s all right. Come in, then,’ and moved aside for Robin to pass into the hall, which was carpeted in dark brown. The bungalow smelled slightly fusty.
‘You go in there,’ said Sheila, pointing Robin into the front room. ‘Want tea?’
‘Thank you – can I help?’ asked Robin, as she watched the fragile-looking Sheila shuffling away towards the kitchen. Sheila made no answer. Robin hoped the hearing aid was turned up.
The peeling wallpaper and the sparse, shabby furniture spoke of poverty. A green sofa sat at right angles to a faded tartan chair with a matching footstool. The television was old, and beneath it sat an equally antiquated video player, while a rickety bookcase held a mixture of large-print novels. The only photograph in the room stood on top of the bookcase, and showed a 1960s wedding. Sheila and her husband, Brian, whose name Robin knew from the census reports, were pictured standing outside a registry office. Sheila, who’d been very pretty in her youth, wore her dark hair in a beehive, her full-skirted wedding dress falling to just beneath her knees. The picture was made touching by the fact that the slightly goofy-looking Brian was beaming, as though he couldn’t believe his luck.
Something brushed Robin’s ankle: a grey cat had just entered the room and was now staring up at her with its clear green eyes. As Robin bent to tickle it behind the ears, a tinkling sound announced the reappearance of Sheila, who was holding an old tin tray on which were two mugs, a jug and a plate of what Robin recognised as Mr Kipling’s Bakewell slices.
‘Let me,’ said Robin, as some of the hot liquid had already spilled. Sheila let Robin lift the tray out of her hands and set it on the small coffee table. Sheila took her own mug, placed it on the arm of the tartan armchair, sat down, put her tiny feet on the stool, then said, peering at the tea tray,
‘I forgot the sugar. I’ll go—’
She began to struggle out of the chair again.
‘That’s fine, I don’t take it,’ said Robin hastily. ‘Unless you do?’
Sheila shook her head and relaxed back into her chair. When Robin sat down on the sofa, the cat leapt up beside her and rubbed itself against her, purring.
‘He’s not mine,’ said Sheila, watching the cat’s antics. ‘He’s next door’s, but he likes it here.’
‘Clearly,’ said Robin, smiling, as she ran her hand over the cat’s arched back. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Smoky,’ said Sheila, raising her mug to her mouth. ‘He likes it here,’ she repeated.
‘Would you mind if I take notes?’ asked Robin.
‘Write things down? That’s all right,’ said Sheila Kennett. While Robin took out her pen, Sheila made a kissing sound in the direction of Smoky the cat, but he ignored her, and continued to rub his head against Robin. ‘Ungrateful,’ said Sheila. ‘I gave him tinned salmon last night.’
Robin smiled again before opening her notebook.
‘So, Mrs Kennett—’
‘You can call me Sheila. Why’ve you done that to your hair?’
‘Oh – this?’ said Robin self-consciously, raising a hand to the blue edges of her bob. ‘I’m just trying it out.’
‘Punk rock, is it?’ said Sheila.
Deciding against telling Sheila she was approximately forty years out of date, Robin said,
‘A bit.’
‘You’re a pretty girl. You don’t want blue hair.’
‘I’m thinking of changing it back,’ said Robin. ‘So… could I ask when did you and your husband go to live at Chapman Farm?’
‘Wasn’t called Chapman Farm then,’ said the old lady. ‘It was Forgeman Farm. Brian and me were hippies,’ said Sheila, blinking at Robin through the thick lenses of her glasses. ‘You know what hippies are?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘Well, that’s what me and Brian was. Hippies,’ said Sheila. ‘Living on a commune. Hippies,’ she said yet again, as though she liked the sound of the word.
‘Can you remember when—?’
‘Sixty-nine we went there,’ said Sheila. ‘When it was all starting. We grew pot. Know what pot is?’
