The Cheesemaker's House (12 page)

The tinny piece of non-descript music that is Owen's ringtone wakes me. He leaps out of the bed and fumbles in the pocket of his abandoned trousers for his phone.

“Shit – no alarm…give me five minutes and I'll be there.” He turns to me. “It's ten to eight – I've got to go,” and he starts flinging on his clothes as I struggle to come to. I fail miserably, and in just a few moments he's kissing me goodbye and promising to send me a text.

The banging of the front door disturbs William and he begins to whine so I haul on my dressing gown and wander downstairs to let him out. He races across the drive to the lawn and I follow him, my bare feet luxuriating in the dew covered grass. I watch as he sniffs along the edges of the flower beds but my mind is with Owen. Once again he has avoided talking about something important and I am beginning to think it's more than a habit.

I am just wondering whether or not I feel resentful when I hear a van pull up outside and the big gate push open. It can only be Richard – but I have no time to run inside the house without him seeing me before he reverses up the drive and jumps out of the cab.

He looks at me, laughing. “Not sure the bed-head look suits you, Princess.”

“It's none of your business,” I grumble.

“I like my clients well turned out,” he winks. “Babydoll nightie would have been fine; towelling dressing gown's a real no-no.”

“Fuck off and die.”

Richard starts unloading his tools. “No chance of a cup of tea, then?”

“You know where the kettle is. I'm going to have a shower.”

“If I bring you up some tea, can I watch?”

I have to laugh. And laughing makes me feel so much better.

Richard warned me that today would be noisy, but the sound of the pneumatic drill is getting me down. At some point someone put a thin skin of concrete on the barn floor and what's left of it needs to be broken up before Richard can start the digging. William follows me around the house whimpering occasionally, so I decide to take him for a long walk.

I put on my sunglasses and a long sleeved shirt then pack water for both of us in my little rucksack before we set off towards Kirkby Fleetham. William is happy to meander, sniffing the hedgerows in the hope that if he finds something interesting I'll let him off his lead to chase it. You'd think he'd know me better than that; I've never been able to shake off the feeling that he just might not come back if I give him his freedom.

On the other side of the village the footpath hits the river on a massive bend. Here the Swale cuts deep into the countryside and we scramble down the bank to the water but William can't quite reach it to take a drink. Instead I pour some out of my bottle into his plastic dish and he gulps it down. We wander along the river bank for a while, past the stone bridge, but he is starting to pant and his heart really isn't in it. He's not a young dog, after all, and he is wearing a very thick coat. I wonder idly if I should have him clipped.

We walk downstream past Owen's swimming spot and turn into the wood by the beck where it is cooler. As we come out the other end, to my astonishment I see Owen standing next to the stream a couple of hundred yards away, shoulders hunched and staring into the water. But it's lunchtime; how on earth could he have left the café? What the hell has gone wrong?

I am about to call him but something stops me. At that very moment my phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull it out there is a text from Owen asking me to supper tomorrow night. The figure on the bank hasn't moved; he certainly hasn't been texting. Then I realise what made me hesitate; this Owen is wearing a cream shirt.

I start to drag William along the path but the other Owen turns and walks purposefully across the field in the direction of New Cottage. I am determined to catch up with him and find out for once and for all what's going on – especially as he's heading towards the corner of the garden by the pond where there is no possible way through the fence. I quicken my pace, but William lets out a yelp; his lead is caught around his paw.

I bend down to free him but in doing so lose sight of the other Owen. I stand up so abruptly my head starts to spin; for a fleeting moment the hedge around the garden disappears and the scene seems to shift. I blink and look again; it's all back to normal. Except that there is no Owen. Nothing between me and the hedge except the low tussocks of grass.

Margaret and I are working in the garden. Well, Margaret is working; I am managing little more than a pretence of digging dandelions out of the lawn. I had another bad night, you see. Not only was I puzzling about seeing the other Owen disappear in the middle of a field but the crying came back again. And it was relentless. On and on until I had to plug my iPod firmly into my ears to drown it out. But of course then I couldn't sleep because of the music. As dawn broke I got out of bed and set about making an eight hour playlist of songs to snooze to.

I am finding it very hard to accept there are things happening around me that I don't understand. I am not a great believer in the paranormal, but a disappearing Owen and untraceable tears definitely come into that category – if only by definition. They are outside of normality; at least, I can't find a normal explanation for them.

It can't be all in my mind; no-one else has seen the other Owen – indeed, Adam said he didn't see him, but Richard has certainly heard the crying. Perhaps he's the person I should talk to about all this but as he's always clowning around it's hard to find the right moment.

As if on cue he appears at the bottom of the lawn and makes a beeline for Margaret and me.

“I hope you're coming to say you've put the kettle on,” I call.

He doesn't reply, and as he gets closer I notice he's looking very pale.

“Richard, are you alright?”

“Yes…” he is unusually hesitant, “but I've found something in the barn I think you should take a look at.”

“What is it, Richard?” Margaret asks.

“I…I'm not sure. At least…well…you see what you think.”

The school teacher in Margaret takes charge and Richard and I trail after her down the garden. In contrast to the bright day outside the electric bulb is bathing the barn in an unhealthy yellow glow.

“Where am I meant to be looking?” asks Margaret.

“Over there; just beyond the side door. Be careful – there's quite a step down to the part I've already dug.”

Margaret strides forwards but I hold back. Whatever it is, if it's made a big bloke like Richard go white I'm not sure I want to see it. From a safe distance I watch Margaret bend down and use her hands to scrape away some soil. She is between me and the whatever-it-is, and I am quite happy for it to stay that way.

After a few moments she looks up. “It's a tiny skull,” she exclaims.

“Do…do you think it's human?” Richard asks.

“Yes. And so do you, don't you?”

He nods. “I could have easily crushed it with my spade, but it looked so white against the dirt I stopped.”

“I wonder if it's just the skull, or whether there's anything else?” Margaret sounds genuinely curious and she starts to prise away more earth. After a few minutes she asks if I have a small trowel.

“It's in the greenhouse,” I tell her.

“I'll get it.” Richard disappears; glad to be out in the fresh air probably. I seem to be rooted to the spot, watching Margaret scrape at the bare earth with her stubby fingers.

When Richard comes back he hands Margaret the trowel then stands next to me. He touches my arm. “You alright?” he whispers, and I nod. We watch Margaret work. After a while she starts using her fingers again, and then points excitedly into the hole.

“Look – another bone.”

“Margaret, I think you'd better stop.” To my surprise, my voice sounds calm and assured.

Reluctantly, she stands up and brushes her trousers down. “I suspect you're right, Alice. I just got a bit carried away.”

“What do we do now?” Richard asks.

“I have no idea,” I tell him crisply, “Which is why I'm going to call the police and ask them.”

I don't feel very crisp by the time the police have come, and gone, and come back again with a forensic expert; I feel a bit like a wilted lettuce. But it is good news of sorts; they're not treating it as a crime, they think the skeleton is far too old for that and they're going to contact the county archaeologist to see what he makes of it.

Finally on my own I close the big barn doors to keep William out and approach the hole in the floor for the first time. The early evening sun slants through the window at the far end and the skull is almost luminous caught in its rays. What I can't get over is how very small it is; about the size of the Tiny Tears doll I had when I was a kid.

The question is; how did it get here? It is one I cannot even begin to answer. I contemplate the hole for a while longer then William starts to bark so I turn away and out into the sunlight.

Owen is standing at the back door. When he sees me he rushes across, anxiety all over his face.

“Are you alright, Alice? I bumped into Margaret and she told me what Richard found.”

I wriggle my way tighter into his arms and smile up at him. “It's been a bit hectic here this afternoon, but I'm fine, really. Come and take a look.”

I shut a very disgruntled William in the garden room and Owen follows me into the barn. I crouch down at the side of the hole.

“Richard said he was lucky not to smash the skull. It would have been a shame; it's so tiny and so perfect. Look – you can even see the shoulder bone poking out – Margaret had a bit of a dig around with a trowel. But what really puzzles me is how it got here. I guess maybe if the archaeologists can date it then we might have an idea. They're going to try to send someone tomorrow. But it's all very strange, isn't it?”

I wait for a few moments for Owen to reply and when he doesn't I look up, surprised to find he isn't even there. I go back outside and am even more astonished to find him gripping the drainpipe that runs next to the barn door and throwing up.

“Owen, whatever's wrong?” I wrap an arm around his shoulder. His body is damp with sweat and when he raises his face it is almost grey, with beads of perspiration dotted across his forehead. There is no time for me to read his expression before he retches again. His knuckles are white as he grips the drainpipe.

After a while he straightens and leans away from me onto the barn wall, his eyes closed, trembling ever so slightly.

I squeeze his shoulder. “Let's go inside.”

We make our way across the drive, through the garden room and into the snug, where I make him lie on the sofa. The trembling has become shivering and I pull the throw off the easy chair and wrap it around him like a rug. I don't know what to do next, so I sit on the floor and stroke his hair.

After a while he murmurs, “I'm sorry, Alice.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for.” I kiss his forehead, finding it damp and clammy. “Is there anything I can do? Get you a drink of water, maybe?” He is silent. Then inspiration strikes. “Some peppermint tea to settle your stomach?”

He smiles unconvincingly. “Can you make it half and half with camomile?”

I ruffle his hair as I stand up. “Of course I can.”

When I come back with the tea he is sitting on the edge of the sofa.

“Alice, you are so kind and so lovely. I don't deserve you.”

I am about to make a joke when I realise he is deadly serious.

“That's crap,” I tell him.

He doesn't reply, but stares down into his mug.

I try again. “What made you say that?”

“I'm such a fucking waste of space. I come here to make sure you're alright and look what happens? One look at the…the...” He is biting his lip hard and I put my hand on his knee. “I bet Richard didn't throw up,” he finishes bitterly.

“Actually, Richard was pretty upset,” I tell him. “But this isn't anything to do with Richard; we're talking about you. And you have no reason to beat yourself up over this.”

“But Alice, you don't understand; I'm no help to you and all I do is hurt you.”

“Owen – you've never hurt me.” As I say it I know that it's a lie, but only a little white one. Anyway, not being that great at texting or calling back isn't a huge fault in the great scheme of things.

“No – but I will, I...”

He sounds panicky and it unnerves me. I cut across him, “What on earth makes you say that?”

“It's just inevitable, it's...” There is something close to fear in his eyes and it is a look I've seen before.

“No, it can't be inevitable.” I am trying to stay calm. “But do you think you can explain?”

“Oh, Alice – I'd so like to…but I can't…I'm so...”

He puts his hand over his mouth and rushes past me in the direction of the downstairs toilet.

It takes a while for Owen's stomach to settle and even longer for me to persuade him to stay, but eventually he agrees. Which is why, when I wake in the middle of the night on my own, I feel a bit disorientated. As I come to I can't remember whether Owen went home or not, but then I hear the crying and I am filled with foreboding.

I pad onto the landing. It is clear the sound isn't up here, although it does seem to be coming from inside somewhere. Without turning on the light I grope down the stairs to the dining room. When my bare toes touch the floorboards they feel cold as stone.

I pause. The crying seems further away and Owen is nowhere to be seen. I cock my head to one side, listening. After a few moments I hear the soft click of the kitchen door opening and closing, and Owen's footsteps across the tiles. The sound carries the memory of the night after the fete when I thought I saw him come out of my barn.

Owen appears in the dining room and jumps out of his skin when he sees me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Looking for you.”

“I…I just wanted some fresh air.”

I am about to ask him if he can hear the crying when I realise the house is silent. Except for William snoring in the garden room. Owen looks pale and his eyes are sunk back into his head.

“Are you OK?”

He nods. “Just really tired. Come on Alice, let's go back to bed.”