The Cheesemaker's House (11 page)

An hour or more after Owen has gone to work I still can't bring myself to get out of bed. I suppose we were both a bit subdued last night but apart from that he was back to his warm, loving self. No sign of the stranger who gave me the herbs to take, anyway. And no sign of him talking to a woman in a room that wasn't there.

Lying on my back watching the motes of dust rise and fall in the morning sunlight I begin to wonder if the herbs were in any way linked to what I saw. After all, when I took the sleeping tablets I imagined cattle in my barn; maybe Owen's weird herbal concoction had a similar effect on my brain?

Eventually I stir myself and spend a few hours pottering around the shady parts of the garden but achieving very little. Though I've still done enough to feel decidedly sweaty and grubby by the time I spy Richard's van pulling into the drive.

“Shall I put the kettle on?” I call out.

“That would be grand, Princess. Silly bitch where I'm working's too posh to make us a cuppa – I'm absolutely parched.”

“So you knocked off early to serve her right.”

“I knocked off early to come and see my favourite client – and to say that Bob can start the damp proofing a week Monday so I need to get going on that floor.”

“What do you have to do?” I ask as we walk towards the barn.

“Break up that concrete and then dig down about eight inches.”

Richard hauls the double doors open then turns on me in disgust. “Alice – what have you been doing in here?”

“What do you mean?” I ask in pretended innocence.

“We've cleared all this once.”

“Well it's not too bad...” I start. But it is. I needed to move so many boxes and bits of furniture when I was decorating upstairs and they all seemed to end up in here. “It's pretty superficial,” I finish lamely.

Richard's hands are on his hips. “Superficial, my arse.”

“No, really – it's just boxes from the spare room and it won't take me a minute to carry them upstairs again.”

“And that bookcase?”

“I got it down here,” I mutter. But then I remember that I didn't – Owen moved it for me – and some of the heavier boxes too.

Richard sighs. “Come on then – let's shift it all back. Then I'm going to padlock those double doors so you can't mess it up again.”

So we start picking up boxes and carrying them in through the garden room, up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. Last of all Richard manhandles the bookcase out of the barn and I am about to follow him when something resting on the skirting behind it and covered in thick dust catches my eye.

I pick it up and discover it is a narrow glass tube about six inches long. Rather gingerly I wipe it with the bottom of my T-shirt and am surprised to see it appears to be filled with tiny seeds.

I show Richard when he comes back.

He takes it carefully in his hand. “Where did you find it?”

“I spotted it when you moved the bookcase.”

“Funny we didn't see it when we cleared the barn before.”

“No, not really. It would have been behind the freezer and the council didn't come for that until later.”

He crouches down next to me. “You don't know what it is?”

“No.”

“It's a charm wand.”

“A charm wand? What's that?”

“That's a question Owen's rather better qualified to answer than I am.”

“Owen? Why?”

Richard stands up and stretches. “Because he's a charmer, Alice – not a plain and simple builder like me.”

I follow him into the kitchen, where he starts washing the glass tube under the tap.

“A charmer? What do you mean?”

“Alice, do you realise that everything you've said to me over the last five minutes has been a question?”

“You start answering and I'll stop asking,” I tell him as I flick the kettle on.

He finishes his task in silence then hands me the glass tube. “A charm wand is used to ward off evil spirits – and witches. Folks around here used to hang them over their doors – some still do. It's said that the witch will stop to count the seeds so won't enter the house.”

“So why would Owen know about that? And why did you call him a charmer?”

“Because that's what he is – the local charmer. Or witch, if you prefer.”

I have never heard such a load of rubbish in my life. “Well either that's complete crap or the wand doesn't work, because Owen's had no problems going in and out of the barn.”

Richard raises his eyebrows and I kick myself. It isn't exactly public knowledge that Owen and I are an item, and I am not prepared to elaborate.

“A charmer is a white witch,” he explains. “Spooky, I grant you, but not evil by any means.”

“But aren't witches pagans? Owen goes to church.” I am railing against this – I don't want to believe it, I really don't – but on the other hand, why would Richard be making it up?

“I don't know about that, but Owen is definitely, definitely, the village charmer. Ask anyone around here – they'll tell you.”

I sit down with a bump. “So what does it mean?”

“These days, not as much as it did. But people still go to him for cures – for warts and the like, and some for more serious stuff – especially the old folks. There's a lot of them swear he's better than any doctor, just like his gran was. But it's not just that – charmers have second sight – and other skills – like making love potions. Just think, Alice, right now Owen could be putting a hex on you. Then what chance would I have?” He winks at me.

“Owen just helps people with herbs. I know that,” I bluff. “And he told me about his gran doing the same.”

Richard shakes his head. “There's more to it than that, I can tell you. But maybe you're already under his spell?”

I've had quite enough of this nonsense so I tell Richard not to be so stupid and divert him by asking if he wants to stay to supper.

I feel vaguely uneasy about Owen all evening. Once we've finished our meal Richard seems reluctant to leave. We sit in the kitchen and chat over a couple of beers until it is almost dusk.

As I open the back door to let him out he stops.

“What's that noise?” he asks.

I stand still and listen intently – he is right – there is a faint sound of crying and my heart begins to sink.

“It's the crying,” I tell him.

“I thought that's what it sounded like, but I wasn't sure if it was an animal.”

“No, I wasn't the first time I heard it, either.”

“The first time?”

“I've heard it a few times, to be honest,” I admit. “Someone around here must have some serious problems but I don't know who it is. Once they cried all night – it was awful.”

“But you must be able to tell where it's coming from,” he says as he steps onto the gravel in front of the barn.

“I never can.”

We stand together in the dusk, listening. To me, the faint sound seems to be eddying around and bouncing off the buildings like it was before. I can't pinpoint it at all. Richard looks puzzled too. After a while he tells me he can see what I mean.

“At first I thought it was coming from inside the house, but it can't be. And anyway, now it doesn't seem that way at all.” He furrows his brow in thought. “Process of elimination then; either it's coming from the paddock behind the barn or from Mr Webber's next door, because no-one else lives close enough.”

“Well I think Mr Webber's on holiday – Margaret said something about watering his plants.”

“That narrows it down then.” Richard grabs my hand and I suppress a shudder as I remember the night of the fete. “Come on, we'll look in the field.”

Behind the barn there is a gap in the hedge that Richard knows about and we squeeze through, William following silently at our heels. I am glad of his shadowy presence, although he seems very subdued. In the field the noise is fainter and the only form of life we can find is a neighbour's pony chewing placidly on some grass.

Richard lets go of my hand. “I give up. There's probably nothing we can do about it anyway.” I agree and we walk back to the drive. “See you next week,” he calls as he jumps into his van. “And don't mess up that bloody barn again.”

Back in the house I close all the windows and go into the kitchen to tidy up. The charm wand is where Richard left it next to the sink. I am about to throw it away then wonder if Margaret would be interested in seeing it so instead I stuff it into my handbag. I am glad that by the time I go to bed the crying has stopped.

Margaret's conservatory is probably the homeliest place in the world. I edge between a lemon tree and a yukka plant which looks as though it has seen better days and perch on a battered cane chair. It is more comfortable than it looks and I sink back into its cushions. Margaret sweeps a seed catalogue and a gardening magazine off the coffee table to make space for the tray she is carrying.

A teapot under a cosy shaped like a cat, two large mugs, a carton of milk and a packet of gingernuts. My mother would have thrown a fit but I love the easiness of it all and I smile at Margaret fondly.

“I haven't had gingernuts for years.”

“You do like them, don't you?”

“Oh yes, but Neil started watching his weight so I stopped buying biscuits.”

Margaret looks shocked. “Really, Alice – you could still have had them yourself.” She picks up the packet and shoves it under my nose. “Go on – take a couple and make up for lost time.”

I nibble the edge of one as she pours the tea and I am overtaken by a wave of nostalgia; a friend's house, after school – gingernuts and orange squash – but that's all I can remember. I balance the biscuit on the edge of the tray and delve into my handbag.

“I've got something here you might be interested in, but I'm not sure.”

“Alice,” she laughs, “I'm interested in everything. It's what keeps me going in my old age.”

“You're not old, Margaret,” I counter.

“Well, only in years, and they don't matter so very much. Come on – what have you got?”

“I think it's called a charm wand.” And I explain what little Richard told me about it – omitting the rubbish about Owen, of course.

Margaret holds it up to the light. “They look like wheat seeds to me. And it's very old glass – it's a wonder they haven't gone mouldy. With respect, Alice, I don't think of your barn as the driest of places.”

“The damp proofing man said it was, because of the amount of air coming through it.”

“Yorkshire air can be very wet – as you'll no doubt find out once you've spent a winter here. But perhaps the seeds are too tightly packed in to rot. It's quite a special thing, isn't it? What are you going to do with it?”

“I thought I'd give it to you. If you'd like it that is, and if you can find a home for it.” I look at the clutter around me.

Margaret laughs. “Oh, I can always find space for another curio. I might even take it to the next antiques fair at Ripon – someone might know something about it. Folk history's fascinating.”

“I remember you saying you were interested when you told me about Owen's gran.”

Margaret fidgets with the wand. “Talking of Owen,” she starts, and then looks at me full square. “You can't keep this relationship of yours quiet forever, you know. Best to go public with it soon if I were you, because people are beginning to talk.”

“Talk? What about?”

“Oh don't look so horrified – it's nothing bad. In fact everyone's delighted you two have got together because you seem so well suited. Most of the old biddies around here have been scratching their heads about who to match Owen up with and you are the answer to their prayers.”

I hang my head. “But we've been so careful. We've…we've not really talked about it, but I guess we wanted to be sure of each other before we told anyone else.”

“That's an admirable sentiment, but it won't work in Great Fencote. You can't have many secrets around here. It's not that people gossip exactly, there's just not much to talk about in the normal run of things.”

“Yes, and everyone seems so very fond of Owen. I hope I can measure up to their expectations.”

“Well I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to him,” says Margaret firmly. “Except that you're a bit too thin.”

“You can talk.”

She brandishes the gingernuts again. “Well then, we'd both better have another one,” and she dunks hers into her tea with relish.

I mention my conversation with Margaret to Owen when we are getting ready for church.

He looks up from buffing his shoe with one of my dusters. “Well we haven't been hiding it exactly, have we? I mean, I'm not sneaking in and out under cover of darkness or anything.”

“No, but we haven't mentioned it to anyone either – except Adam of course. And we don't hold hands when we walk the dogs. Stuff like that makes it look as though it's a secret.”

“Well it's not as far as I'm concerned. What do you want to do – ask Christopher to make a parish announcement?”

“Now you're being silly.”

“Then what?”

“I don't know. I don't want to force you if you don't feel comfortable with it.”

He puts the duster down and takes me in his arms. “Alice – I can't imagine what you see in me, but as long as you do then I want the whole world to know. I'm just not the sort to make a song and dance about anything, that's all.”

And we walk up the village hand in hand.

If I have much of a Christian faith it is what was instilled into me by my father. He used to sometimes take me to church as a child and up until I was about nine or ten he knelt by my bed with me while I said my prayers. I think the last time I really prayed was at his hospital bedside, desperate for him to regain consciousness after his coronary. But he never did.

It somehow feels right to be in church with Owen; I have an inkling his faith is very strong, and kneeling next to him or listening to his beautiful smooth voice tell the congregation about the words of the prophets seems to strengthen my own belief. We sing ‘Love Devine All Loves Excelling' and I catch him glancing at me between verses. I feel content and complete.

All the same it seems a little odd that our relationship is suddenly public; Christopher beams at us as we chat in the porch and I am peculiarly conscious of Owen's long fingers entwined with mine. I am glad we are not going for coffee at the vicarage today.

As we walk onto the road together Owen laughs, “Our ears will be burning for at least the next hour – we've just become Great Fencote's front page news.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “I'll just get changed then I'll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

I have been longing to see North Yorkshire's famous coast. Our trip is not to Staithes or Whitby; Owen says it's best to see them in the autumn when the summer crowds have gone, so instead he takes me to the beach just north of the Moors where he used to go as a child.

Skinningrove is not pretty or twee; it's an ordinary village that used to be a fishing port and just happens to have a beach. Tourists don't often find their way here but a good smattering of locals do, although even on a sunny Sunday you could hardly call the large stretch of sand crowded. Almost as soon as we set down our bags and rug Owen starts to strip off.

“Let's swim before lunch,” he says, his head half in and half out of his T-shirt.

I look at him as though he is quite mad. Yes, the sun is shining, but there is a devilish breeze whipping across the North Sea. I don't even want to take my sweatshirt off, let alone the rest of my clothes.

“It'll be lovely once we're in,” he urges, but I remain unconvinced.

“You've been brought up to it” I tell him. “Last time I swam in the sea was in Spain and it was a good deal warmer than this.”

“It's alright for them that can afford fancy holidays,” he says in his best Yorkshire accent.

“It wasn't a fancy holiday – my mother lives over there.”

He stops undressing for a moment and looks at me. “You never said.”

I shrug my shoulders. “William and I will come for a paddle while you have your swim.”

As I watch him plough through the waves the sun disappears behind a rogue cloud. Owen's comment about not telling him my mother lives in Spain is starting to smart. There's plenty he hasn't told me. Not only the things he said he wanted me to know before we became lovers but has never mentioned since, but also the herbalism stuff – I refuse to call it charming. Perhaps they are one and the same.

But those herbs must have worked because I have my period – another reason I don't want to swim and I probably should have told Owen. He seemed very confident about the treatment but I guess deep down he's worried about an unwanted pregnancy too.

Initially I can't fathom out how to broach the subject but I stumble upon a way that evening as we are kissing and cuddling on the sofa in the snug. Reluctantly I pull away.

“I should have said,” I mumble, “I've got my period. I don't know if it makes any difference to you...”

“There's more than one way of making love to you, Alice,” he whispers and my insides turn into a lovely sticky goo.

“At least it means we don't have to worry about a baby anymore,” I plough on, but as soon as I say it I know I should have kept my big mouth shut because for a split second Owen freezes.

“What's wrong?” I ask him

“Nothing.” His voice is calm, but when I look in his eyes I catch a fleeting glimpse of something surprising – fear. But it can't be, surely.

“Look, I sensed you weren't happy giving me those herbs – I gave you the option to back out – we…we could have chanced it...”

“No, Alice, no we couldn't. We did the right thing for us.” He emphasises the last word in a peculiar manner.

“I mean, I probably wasn't pregnant anyway...” I want to prolong this conversation, get to the bottom of it. But Owen clearly doesn't, because he starts kissing me again, and in a way that demands my complete and undivided attention.