Amy knocks and slowly pushes open the door. She would have picked the woman out in a crowd. The same neat side parting, though the hair was white now, and pale pursed lips. Mrs Morle wears a floral dress and a cardigan over orange-coloured nylons that ride the bumps of varicose veins.
She is staring out of the window. There is a bird table, the feeder empty of seed.
‘Hallo Mrs Morle. Do you remember me? I’m Amy Taylor. I used to live at Mr Stratton’s farmhouse a long time ago. Do you remember me?’
The woman raises her eyes to Amy’s face; it is like being clamped by pincers. ‘Who are you?’ she says in a not-unfriendly voice. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, that would be nice, thanks.’
Amy pulls up a chair next to Mrs Morle who fidgets with her cardigan buttons while gazing at the bird table. She glances around. A spoon-rest with the words, Best wishes from Minehead sits on a small table next to a glass bird. A tin of talc rests on a doily. A pink shawl is folded neatly on the pillow of a single bed.
‘I’ve brought you this.’ Amy presses a lavender bag into Mrs Morle’s hand. ‘I made it. A little thank you, Mrs Morle, for everything you did for me when I was at Wyld Farm. You were so kind.’
The woman’s fingers rub at the cotton bag. She nods at Amy. ‘Lavender,’ she says.
On the bedside table there is a framed photograph of a woman that Amy thinks must be Lynn. The hair has a few grey streaks in it but the green eyes are unmistakable. Lynn is smiling at the camera and holds a little girl on her lap.
‘That’s Lynn, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘My daughter,’ Mrs Morle nodded. ‘I’ll be fetching her from school soon. What’s the time?’ Her hand seethes around the handbag at her feet. ‘Must get myself tidy.’ She stands up and pulls a comb through her hair. ‘I best be off now.’
A click of the bag clasp suggests she is ready.
Amy says gently: ‘I don’t think Lynn is at school today.’
‘She always goes to school, never misses a day,’ Mrs Morle retorts.
The door opens and a woman in an overall bustles in with a cup of tea.
‘Tea time, Lily, here you are, and a biscuit. Sit down, Lily. Would you like a cup, dear?’
‘Mrs Morle is talking about Lynn being at school,’ Amy replies.
‘She always does that, dear, about this time of day. She gets confused. Lynn isn’t at school, Lily, she’s grown up now. She doesn’t live round here anymore, Lily, you know that, she’s been gone a long while.’
The woman’s voice is raised more loudly than Amy feels is necessary.
Mrs Morle shakes her head and repeats fiercely. ‘Time to go to school, must fetch Lynn, must …’
‘You can take her outside for a walk if you like. It helps to calm her down. I’ll bring the tea out.’
There isn’t much to see in the garden but it is pleasant to be out of the over-heated home. Through the window, Amy sees into the day room where residents, mostly women, sit around a blue rug like it is a pool of still water. Some are held in their chairs by tables pressed up against their stomachs. Others have been tipped so far back that the ceiling is the easiest thing for them to gaze at. A television chatters.
Amy gives Mrs Morle a biscuit. ‘The birds might like this,’ she says.
The woman begins to crumble the biscuit between stiff fingers. Both became mesmerised by the sweet dust as it drifts in the air.
‘Feed the birds,’ Amy croons and Mrs Morle sings too in a moment as light as a butterfly.
Back in her room, Mrs Morle washes her fingers at the sink. Above it hangs a framed photograph of a man in working clothes.
‘Who is that?’
‘My Harry,’ Mrs Morle waves her damp fingers. ‘He’s out on the farm, be back soon enough for his tea.’
She carefully folds the towel and sits back in her chair to wait.
When Aubrey arrives, Amy is standing on a chair and chopping the hedge.
‘Let me do that, Mrs Webster,’ he says taking the shears from her.
Within minutes the hawthorn is trimmed into a shape. Aubrey rakes up the cuttings and heaps them up.
‘Where do these go?’ he says, holding out the tools.
‘Thank you, Aubrey, that’s helpful. Prop them by the door. Shall we have a drink outside before dinner? It’s still nice out. I’ll just call my daughter. Ah, here she is. Chloe – this is Aubrey.’
Her daughter is standing at the back door. For a reluctant supper guest, Chloe has made an effort. Fitted white jeans and sparkly earrings, her hair is caught up in a casual twist. She looks fabulous even if the set of her mouth suggests petulance.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Aubrey says, wiping his hands on his trousers. He wishes he’d changed his shirt after his shift at the pub.
Amy says: ‘I’m glad you could come. It’s nice for us to get to know local people, isn’t it, Chloe? I’ll get some wine.’
‘Yeah,’ says the girl. She is horrified to see the man’s sandals and knitted tank top. Her annoying mother insists on being friendly with everyone and she has picked a loser here.
‘Your mother tells me that you’re revising for exams?’ the man says.
‘Yeah.’
‘How’s it going, the studying and everything?’
‘I’m a bit stressed, actually.’
‘Of course. I was relieved when mine were over.’
‘You went to university?’ Amy appears with glasses and a bottle of wine. She turns to her daughter. ‘Aubrey works in the local pub.’
‘I know, mother,
