The Cheesemaker's House (16 page)

Adam drops me at the garden gate and I crunch up the path. William is jumping at the door before I even open it and leaps up at me in greeting, his paws scrabbling at my jeans. His ears slip silkily between my fingers then he barks and races off across the lawn. I watch, but I do not follow.

I have no way of dealing with this pain so I drink myself into a stupor. Inevitably I spend Wednesday morning struggling with a hangover. But I can smile and sell coffee with a hangover, so that's OK. It even takes the edge off customers asking about Owen once they've read the Yorkshire Post. A little bit, anyway.

I try the same tactic on Wednesday night and it is reasonably successful, but my befogged mind has trouble grappling with a call from the Archaeological Trust, saying they are sending someone to dig up the skeleton tomorrow. I agree before I've even thought about it. And then I panic. I rush into the kitchen and garble goodness knows what rubbish at Adam, who asks why on earth I don't call Margaret. Of course she is only too delighted to have the opportunity to babysit a real, live archaeologist.

On Friday I discover an additional strategy for coping. It's called mindfulness, according to Psychologies magazine, but really it's just living in the moment, and it almost works. I don't think about tomorrow, or next week, or next month without Owen, because quite frankly I can't bear to. I just think about what's happening in the here and now. Which is all very well, but it means I completely forget about the excavation until I see a strange car in my drive when Adam drops me home.

“The archaeologist hasn't left yet,” I tell him, “want to come and have a look?”

He shakes his head. “Not my thing, Alice. See you tomorrow.” So I walk up the drive alone.

Of course Margaret is still here. She is crouched by the hole – which is now somewhat larger – next to a slight woman with orangey-red hair.

“Oo – Alice – you're just in time – we're about to lift the skeleton.”

The archaeologist stands up and introduces herself as Lucy Miller. Next to her feet is a plastic storage box generously lined with bubblewrap. It looks like a macabre cradle.

“So, how have you got on today?” I ask in my friendliest café manner, trying to force the cradle image out of my mind.

“Pretty good, really,” Lucy tells me. “Margaret's been a great help. We extended the trench so that we could fully excavate the skeleton and with luck we'll be able to lift it whole. Nothing much in the way of other finds though – only this.” She holds out a plastic bag containing a small brass key.

I arrange my features into a polite frown. “How odd. I guess someone must have dropped it.”

“No – when we found it there were traces of fabric through the loop – something like ribbon. If you look very carefully,” she points down into the hole, “you'll see another small piece there – just at the nape of the baby's neck. It was quite deliberately put there and buried with the child. It's rather sweet, really.”

“But why bury a baby in a barn? Or at least, I'm assuming the barn was here when it was buried.”

She nods. “Oh yes, as far as I can see it must have been. The burial is quite close to the wall – so much so that building the foundations would have disturbed it. But from the state of decay I don't think it would have been very long after; we'd need a carbon date to be sure.”

“Can you do that from what you've found?”

“Well on the one hand bone's something we can date very easily, but on the other it probably isn't old enough for us to be particularly accurate.”

Bone. That's all it is – a bundle of bone. Yet someone had cared enough to put a key on a ribbon around the baby's neck.

It is as though Margaret can read my thoughts. “At first Lucy thought it was an attempt to hide evidence of infanticide, or a late abortion, but the key puts a rather different complexion on things.”

“Infanticide?”

“It was quite common in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries,” Lucy explains. “There were times of great hardship when people simply couldn't afford to raise another child. But this…I don't know…I can't be sure, of course, but my gut feel is that this baby was wanted but was stillborn – it's so small, even by the standards of the day, although why it wasn't buried in the churchyard I don't know.”

I think of Owen. “When you've finished the carbon dating and that, can we give it a proper burial? Your boss said it might be possible if it wasn't of any great historical significance and I don't suppose it is.”

“No, I don't think it is either. It's just one family's sad little story.”

Lucy's words come back to me later. I get up off the sofa and wander into the dining room to look out over the village green. It is dusk and I have come here because I am hoping to see Owen sitting under one of the trees but the only sign of life is a bat flitting between them. After a while I slip outside. My footsteps make tracks in the dew as I walk round and round the trees, still looking.

I start to walk; back up the village past the church, past his house and beyond. The night is quiet and still; a fox barks somewhere but not even a candle gutters in a cottage window. My bare feet scratch on the rough grasses that cover the track.

I pause a little distance from the cottage. It is hunkered down behind the reeds, seeming to float on the marshy pond, its thatch stretching low to meet the honeysuckle climbing up its walls. Here a welcoming candle does burn in a window but I cannot go on – I have no reason to and an unbearable wave of grief hits me, as though it is emanating from the house itself and rising to meet my own pain.

I sink to my knees and the damp seeps through the fabric of my long grey skirt. I hug myself, and find that I am weeping and saying “My baby, oh, my baby,” over and over again.

It is hard to describe the total and complete exhaustion I feel as I turn the sign on the café door to closed. Words like empty, drained and hollow don't even begin to cover it. All I want to do is sleep and I am so shattered that I probably will.

But first there are a few chores that Adam and I need to do; load the dishwasher, tidy the kitchen, cash up and open the bundle of post that has been neglected since the morning. Then we're going to treat ourselves to fish and chips. I think we've earned it.

I am just lifting the drawer out of the till when Adam cries out. “Alice! Come here!”

I ram it back in and race to the office where he's standing with a postcard in his hand. “It's from Owen!” he yells and I grab it to read.

‘Dear Adam and Alice,

I saw the Yorkshire Post and I'm sorry I worried you. I just needed to get away for a while. Like Alice told the paper, I went for a walk and just kept on walking. I hope you can both forgive me.

Owen.'

And I promptly burst into tears. All the uncried ones I haven't been able to shed come tumbling out and Adam envelopes me in a great big hug.

“He's OK, Alice – he's OK,” he whispers.

I manage to look up, sniffling. “I know. That's why I'm crying, I think.”

“You daft bint.” But he hugs me tighter and lets me cry for as long as I want to, which is quite a while. Then I count the cash, and he tidies up the kitchen, all the time singing loudly and out of tune. He is so happy that when he goes to put the money in the night safe he comes back with a bottle of Cava.

“It's only a cheap one – but it'll go with fish and chips and we need to celebrate.” I smile and play along with his happiness, but inside it doesn't feel right and I don't understand why.

It is only as I am getting ready for bed that the next wave of emotion hits me; a stranger, completely out of the blue. Now I know Owen is OK I can face looking at a picture of him, but when I flick to the photo library on my phone I am overcome by anger. There he is, on the beach at Skinningrove, looking exactly like Richard's angel with a halo of sunshine behind him, yet he has done the most hurtful thing possible to Adam and me, without even half a thought for our feelings.

“You selfish bastard,” I yell at the picture, “How could you do this when we love you so much?” Red hot tears sear down my cheeks and I fling myself onto the duvet and howl. Never in my life have I been so angry; but then I've never loved like this either and I am even more furious with Owen for making me feel that way.

I am sitting in the office making neat piles of coins from the day's takings when suddenly the crashing of dishes from the kitchen stops and I hear Adam cry out

“Owen – thank fuck you're back!”

Owen's voice is quiet. “Ads – I'm sorry as hell, really I am.”

“It doesn't matter – you're here now, and everything can get back to normal.”

“Does that mean you're going to stay?” Owen's voice sounds tentative, but that isn't the word that comes to the top of my mind as he continues. “I shouldn't have done a runner, but I couldn't see past anything, you know, not without you and me here in this café, it means so much...” The word that comes into my mind is manipulative. There seems to be something less than honest in his voice.

“Of course I'll stay. Me and Alice, we've done a pretty good job...”

Owen cuts across him. “Alice – is she here?”

As Adam answers I feel panic begin to rise.

“She's in the office – cashing up.”

Owen's footsteps are rapid in the narrow corridor and I only just have time to stand up and face the door before he is wrapping his arms around me and telling me how sorry he is, again and again.

His breath is warm on my hair and I nuzzle his neck, pulling myself closer into his hug. He smells different, somehow, but he feels the same; holding me solidly, rubbing his hands up and down my back, trying his best to make me feel secure. I am too scared of what I might say to speak.

“Alice,” he whispers, “say you can forgive me.”

“I'm just glad you're safe,” I manage eventually, but my voice sounds small and somehow unconvincing. He holds me even tighter and slowly the worst of my anger starts to melt away.

Now I can look up. He touches my cheek and gently pushes my hair away from my face.

“I've missed you so much,” he murmurs, “have you missed me?”

It is an unbelievably stupid question, but I nod. It is the truth – I have missed Owen more than I ever believed possible.

“Oh, God, Alice – I am just so sorry.” His face is a mask of anxiety and sorrow, but there is nothing I can read in his eyes. I comfort myself with the thought it will take a while for everything to get back to normal.

In fact, we have a very normal evening. Adam cooks supper while Owen tells us about his week walking on the Moors as if it had simply been a holiday. We crack open a bottle of wine but as we are considering a second Owen says, “We'd better be a bit careful – Adam and I have an early start at the café tomorrow.”

I look across the table and Adam's eyes meet mine. I am about to open my mouth, but instead he speaks for both of us.

“Alice and I have an early start. I think there's probably a few things you need to do before you come back to work; like see Margaret, for one – and Christopher. Not to mention squaring things with the police. Anyway, there's no rush for you to come back until you feel ready; we're a good team, Alice and me. And if you need longer…you know, to have a proper rest and get your head around stuff...”

Owen's eyes are pleading for my support.

“Adam's right,” I tell him. There is plenty more I want to say, but I don't. If I start the anger might spill out, just when I've got it under control. I scrape back my chair. “Time for me to go, anyway.”

Owen stands too. “I'll walk you home.” It isn't an offer; it's a statement of fact.

We don't speak until I open my back door. William is about to fly out, but when he sees Owen he stops short and growls.

“Some things don't change,” Owen says with a wistful smile.

This is an Owen I recognise. I put my arms around his waist and look up into his eyes. “Nothing has really; it's just a bit odd.”

He nods. “I know, and it's all my fault.”

“No – no blame.” I reach to kiss him – for the first time since he came back – and he responds so tenderly and with such feeling I could weep. But I don't; or at least not until after we make love and his body is finally still, on top of mine, when all of a sudden I am wracked with sobs and there is nothing Owen can say or do to stop them.

On the outside my life is returning to whatever passes for normal. I go into the café with Adam on Wednesday, and again on Thursday morning, because Owen has to attend a formal interview with the police. He refuses to let either Adam or I go with him and he is a little pale when he comes into the café afterwards. But he helps with the lunchtime rush and all the customers seem pleased to see him. In the afternoon I serve them on my own while he sits in the office catching up with the paperwork. But after that I am surplus to requirements.

I miss the bustle of the café and with my mind less than fully occupied it has time to drift to places I haven't been allowing it to go. I owe William a very long walk but I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, so instead I make a list of everything that wants doing to the house. The sooner I finish it the better; the last few weeks have made me realise that I need a job.

I wander from room to room with my piece of paper. Progress, of sorts, has been made. Upstairs I have two habitable bedrooms and a dressing room. The next job is undoubtedly the bathroom; it's small and dated and needs a total revamp. Top of my list then.

Walking into the chill of the dining room I wonder what on earth to do with it. I don't use a dining room so maybe the answer is to take the table out and just make it into a hall. All I ever do is hurry through it anyway.

I start to shiver as I gaze around the room but it's not that cold. It must be the shock of everything that's happened but I can't let it get to me. I shake myself and stride into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and call Richard about when he can resume his work on the barn. I've been too much alone this morning – I'm not used to it. But his phone is on voicemail so all I can do is leave a message.

Instead of returning my call Richard drops around in the middle of the afternoon. William and I both rush to greet him.

“Hello, Princess,” he beams. “Lady of leisure again, are you?”

I snort. “You must be joking – I'm way behind with the house – it'll never be finished at this rate.”

“Ah, if only you'd called me just for my company – but I knew you'd want me to do something.”

I consider telling him how pleased I am to see him but decide against it. Instead I ask him when work can restart on the floor.

“Back end of next week, I reckon. Let's see what sort of mess the archaeologists have made of it.”

I unlock the barn for the first time in a week and we step into the gloom. I am about to put the light on but Richard hauls both of the big doors wide open.

“Poo – it smells all fusty in here.”

He's right. To me it smells just a little of animals and straw, but I am surely imagining it. William has a very sensitive nose and he trots in quite happily.

Lucy has shovelled the earth back into her trench so the floor is fairly flat. When he found the baby's body Richard had dug about two thirds of the surface, so there's still work for him to do.

“Are you worried about finding anything else?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It hadn't occurred to me – lightning not striking twice and that. I just need to finish so Bob can get on with the damp proofing. It's holding everything else up.” I am grateful that Richard is such a practical man with little imagination.

But over a cup of tea in the kitchen I begin to wonder if I am right about the imagination bit when Richard changes the direction of the conversation.

“So Owen's back, then?”

“Yes.”

“He OK?”

I nod. “Seems to be. He's treating it like he just went on holiday.”

“I know – that's what the police told me. They dragged me back in yesterday, to ask if I wanted to change my statement.”

“And did you?”

“I told them that if it wasn't Owen I saw then it must have been a ghost.”

“What did they say?”

Richard turns his mug in his hands. “Something snide about breathalysers. But they did mention Owen told them he'd walked across the old bridge that morning and maybe that's what I saw. But I didn't; Alice, the more I think about it, the more sure I am – I saw someone jump – no question.”

“It must have been the other Owen.”

“But who is he? The ghost of the man Margaret told us about?”

“I…I don't know. I don't even know if I believe in ghosts. Anyway, aren't ghosts meant to be wispy things that float around moaning? This…other Owen…he always seems so…so…real.”

“I know – it's driving me bonkers – I'll end up as nutty as Owen if I'm not careful,” he laughs.

So that's what he thinks – that I'm hooked up with the village loony. There is a little voice in the back of my head telling me he's probably right.

“But what is there to know?” I ask him. “If they're not real, how on earth do we find out about them? And if they are real…or were real…where on earth would we start looking?”

Richard looks puzzled. “They?”

“Well, it's not just the other Owen – I saw him talking to a woman in grey once, and...” No – it seems too fanciful to say out loud.

Richard leans back and folds his arms. “Go on, Princess, spit it out.”

I sigh. “Well, the crying we heard…I can't help thinking it's all tied up with the baby.” I look down at my tea. “Richard – this is such a weird conversation to be having.”

“I hate to say it – but there's always been weirdness around Owen.”

“Look, I know you think he's a charmer, not just a herbalist...”

“Well he is. The weird stuff proves it.”

“But it mightn't be him – it might be me that's causing it. Or you even – you've seen and heard the same things as I have.”

“But has anything like this ever happened to you before?”

I shake my head. “No. After my father died I was desperate to see his ghost, but I never did. How about you?”

“Yes. And that was to do with Owen, too. But it was a long time ago, I have to say.”

“How long?”

“Well, we were just kids – probably even before we started school – or maybe just after. Owen and I were very good mates when we were nippers – my mum and Owen's mum had been friends, you see.”

“So were Owen's parents around then?”

“No. It was a shotgun wedding and his dad scarpered when he was just a baby – very embarrassing for his gran, but worse for his mum. She lost the plot completely apparently – I can't even remember her – she topped herself before Owen was out of nappies.”

Richard's telling of the story is matter of fact but it grips me – just how abandoned must Owen have felt when he was old enough to know what happened? But I don't want to be sidetracked so I point Richard back in the direction of his original story.

“We were playing on the village green one afternoon and it was very hot. It was just Owen and me, and a little girl called Alice. After a while Owen's gran came out with a couple of homemade lollipops and when she gave them to us I asked if there was one for Alice too. She looked shocked for a moment, then gave me a hug and told me I was a special little boy.

“After she'd gone I asked Owen what all that was about and he just said it was probably because he was normally the only one who could see Alice. It was then I realised Alice wasn't there, but Owen said she'd gone home to Ravenswood Farm. Later I asked Mum if there was a girl called Alice living there and she said not. But I'd been playing with her for half the afternoon. I couldn't understand it.”

“Did you ever see her again?”

“Only once – in the distance. I was in the car with my dad and she and Owen were walking along the road by the church.”

“So you saw someone that only Owen could see?”

“Not just saw – I played with her, spoke to her – but she wasn't even real. She was a figment of Owen's imagination and he was so completely persuasive I bought into it too.”

“So is that what you think we're seeing and hearing? Figments of Owen's imagination? That's just not possible.”

“Of course it's possible – he's a charmer – he's got special powers. What on earth is it going to take for you to believe me?”

“That's absolute rubbish – no-one has the power to make other people see what isn't there.”

“But Alice – charmers cure people by the laying on of hands. If they can convince them they're well just by doing that and stuffing a few harmless herbs down their necks, think how persuasive they can be in other ways.”

I fold my arms. “You're only saying this because you don't like Owen, and that's all there is to it.”

“I only wish it was that. Still, if you're so besotted you're not going to see reason then I'm clearly wasting my breath.” Richard stands up and gathers his keys. “I'll finish the floor on Monday, OK?”

He is gone before I can say another word.