The Cheesemaker's House (17 page)

Richard's theory is so ridiculous I put it right out of my mind. The more I think about the other Owen, the more I wonder if he has been real somewhere along the line, and if that's the case then maybe there's a clue in Owen's gran's story. So I decide to broach the matter with Margaret.

We have been busy in the garden all morning; it's been growing like topsy while I've been working in the café and I find it hard to know where to start. So after Margaret has finished her chores in the greenhouse she takes me in hand and we both set to on the small patch in front of the house. It's soothing working with Margaret; letting her chat about the village wash over me while I chisel away at the dandelions in the lawn.

By lunchtime the whole place is looking much tidier. We wash our hands and make ham sandwiches and tea, which we take to the bench next to the pond. William follows us, looking excited about the sandwiches.

“So,” asks Margaret, “how's Owen?”

I stop chewing to think about phrasing my answer. “This is going to sound silly, but I don't actually know. Apart from the fact he's making every excuse under the sun not to go to church, he's trying so hard to make everything super-normal I can't see what's underneath.”

She nods. “That's the impression I get too.”

“When he was missing, Christopher said he'd have a hard time coming to terms with what he'd done so maybe this is his way of coping with it. I'm just not sure it's terribly healthy.”

“It isn't. But unfortunately it's Owen all over – he was just the same when his gran died. It's not that he didn't show any emotion at the time; he certainly did, except that before very long he was his bright and cheerful self, and his life seemed back to…well…normal.”

“Except that he never went back to his career.”

“No. I did think it odd at the time, but then I wondered if he'd only become a pharmacist because it's what his gran would have wanted so now he was free to do something else. He does seem to enjoy running the café.”

“So you think he'll just bury all this and not talk about it again?”

“Very likely.”

“But Margaret, I can't do that. I want to know what happened – and so does Richard. He says he knows what he saw by the river that morning and he needs to make sense of it.”

“I have to say I've been puzzling over it too. One part of me says it has to be linked to that old story of Owen's gran's but then I start wondering if I remembered it that way just to fit the facts. I hadn't thought of it for so long and anyway, just because it's local folklore doesn't mean it actually happened.”

“I wondered if that story was our link to the past as well. But it's so very hard; I don't even believe in ghosts.”

“Well I do,” says Margaret.

“You do?” I have to say I am surprised.

“If only because we can't know everything. Maybe ‘ghosts' is the wrong word – maybe paranormal is a better term – outside normality, if you like.”

It sounds sensible and I nod. A small bird drops down onto the edge of the pond and William barks, frightening it away. A car passes along the lane. I feel a deep flash of empathy for Owen wanting everything to be ordinary.

“I guess the first thing to do,” Margaret continues, “is to find out whether these people do have any historical basis.”

I feel much braver and less stupid knowing I'm not alone in my crazy ramblings. “But how on earth do we do that?”

Her answer only frustrates me. She taps the side of her nose. “I admit there isn't a lot to go on – but I've got a few ideas. You concentrate on looking after Owen and leave the past with me.”

I feel as though I am sitting on my hands. I don't even have Owen to look after as she suggests – he keeps saying he's busy – and I keep telling myself I don't need him around here all the time, do I? It's not like he's moved in or anything.

Even so I am delighted when he's free on Friday night. It is August Bank Holiday already and I am determined to make the most of the last knockings of summer so I decide we'll have a barbecue. William's nose goes into overdrive due to a couple of lamb chops and some sausages and Owen turns up in good time to light the charcoal and open the bottle of wine he's brought.

It only takes one glass before the question that has been at the back of my mind hurtles forwards and out of my mouth.

“So, how are you feeling, Owen?”

“Fine. Why do you ask?” He is making quite a show of looking puzzled, but something else crosses his face first and I don't quite catch what it is.

“Well, you know, you weren't great before you disappeared...”

He interrupts me. “My
holiday,
” and he emphasises the word, “did me the world of good.”

I want to shake him. “Owen,” I remind him, “You're talking to me, Alice, not some customer in the café you hardly know.”

The stunned expression on his face is completely false. “Well, what do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“It is the truth. I'm absolutely fine. Aren't you pleased?”

He's seriously defensive now and although I'm getting angry some instinct tells me not to corner him. I guess I'm scared that I might say or do something that would send him racing off across the fields again.

“Of course I'm pleased.” I make myself reach out to stroke his hand. After a few moments he turns his palm upwards and grips his fingers in mine, squeezing them together until one of his nails cuts into my flesh. I glance up at him, only to see an incredible amount of pain in his eyes. When I look back down I see blood oozing from my index finger and seeping under his nail.

I do not follow William into the garden but watch from the door as his fur darkens and starts to cling to him. He doesn't seem to mind the curtain of rain which restricts my view to the blurred outline of the trees by the beck. I lean on the doorjamb and spoon cereal into my mouth, chasing the final cornflake around the bowl. I have no idea why I am hurrying to finish my breakfast.

Even the house is getting me down. The new shower in the utility room has been plumbed in but the brickwork around the door is unfinished and grubby boxes of tiles invade my kitchen. Richard has been laying the new floor in the barn but I resolve to drag him straight back inside so I don't have to live with this mess a moment longer.

I dry William off in an old towel and give him a biscuit. His tail thuds damply against my legs. The sofa and a good book beckon but if Richard is going to be working inside then I can't skive off either. Anyway, it's time I started to turn the dining room into a hall.

I empty the dresser and Richard helps me to move it into the living room. Then I pile the chairs upside down on the table, take down the curtains and start washing the walls. I work my way from the kitchen door to the window. I scrub at the dinginess around the light switch, making my fingers raw.

Richard has put the radio on and sings along tunelessly. I am glad of the background noise but even the happiest songs do not lift me. I haven't seen Owen for almost a week and my mind wanders off down a familiar path.

He wants out and he's too kind to tell me – it isn't in him to be cruel. And maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. He's too screwed up for me to help him anyway. But on the other hand, perhaps we're both just suffering from the backlash of his disappearance. But how the hell can we move on when he won't tell me the truth about what happened? How can we get anywhere when he won't talk?

Harry Nilsson's ‘Without You' comes on the radio and Richard's screeching reaches a new crescendo. I am amazed William doesn't start to howl as well.

I yell through to the kitchen, “Turn that bloody racket off.”

The song continues but Richard's head appears around the door. “What's got into you?” he asks “Don't like my singing?”

“Piss off.”

“Oo – don't take it out on me if you've had an argument with your boyfriend.”

“If he's never here, how can I fall out with him?” I snap, and despite myself my lip starts to quiver.

“Hey, come on, stop that.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze.

I lean into him for a moment and he is warm and solid and smells vaguely of tile adhesive. “Sorry.” I take a deep breath and he squeezes my shoulder once more.

“Better?” he asks after a few moments.

I nod.

“OK. You go and wash your face and I'll put the kettle on.”

When I come back Richard is leaning against the work surface nursing a mug of tea. He picks up another one and hands it to me.

“Thanks, Richard,” I say, “I didn't mean to embarrass you.”

He shrugs. “I just don't like to see you upset, that's all. Owen's an idiot anyway, if he's got someone else.”

“I'm not sure it's that...” I start, but then I look at his face and it says it all.

“Purely circumstantial evidence,” Richard continues. “And I wouldn't have mentioned it if you hadn't said you had problems. It's just that I've seen his car parked outside the same house in Scruton a few times recently and I've kind of put two and two together. Making about sixteen too many, probably.”

“Do you know who lives there?” I ask.

“A local jeweller called Imogen Cutt. She works from home, sells her stuff from the house or on the internet.”

The name sounds familiar but I can't place the woman.

“What's she like?” I ask him.

“D'you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“OK then. It's my mum's birthday tomorrow and I need to get her a present. She likes Imogen's jewellery – want to help me choose?”

My palms are sticky as we pull up outside a pair of neat Georgian cottages fronting the road at the edge of Scruton. In the window of the left hand one is a sign that reads ‘Hand crafted jewellery by Imogen Cutt'. I stand behind Richard and trail my hand over the wet tips of a lavender bush as he rings the bell.

I can't immediately see the woman who opens the door. It is not until Richard steps aside to introduce me that I get the full impact of her waif-like frame and blonde, ephemeral beauty; she is like a little elf and my heart sinks because I know that she is exactly Owen's type. I feel clumsy and awkward next to her.

“This is Alice,” says Richard. “I'm doing some work for her at the moment and she's very kindly offered to help me choose something for Mum's birthday.”

Imogen laughs. “I thought you had a new girlfriend for a moment.”

Richard shakes his head. “Chance would be a fine thing. Alice was snapped up by Owen the moment she moved into the village.”

“Owen Maltby?” Imogen looks sufficiently puzzled for me to feel decidedly suspicious.

“Well, he's the only Owen around here as far as I know.” Richard looks at me fondly. “Smitten with her, he is, too. Hardly surprising though.” And I so want the floor to swallow me up.

But Imogen saves me. “Oh shut up, Richard, you're embarrassing Alice now. And I've got just the thing for your mum – a necklace that will go with the earrings you bought her last year.”

Mercifully our visit is a short one. The necklace is lovely – silver thread and amber beads – and once it is gift wrapped we take our leave.

“I didn't embarrass you, did I?” asks Richard as we climb into his van.

“Yes, you did as a matter of fact. Why did you say those things?”

“Because they're true. And because if she's got designs on Owen she ought to know he already has a girlfriend.”

I sigh. He is only trying to help so I can't be cross. “She's very pretty,” I venture.

“Can't hold a candle to you. Listen Alice, your problem is that you're sitting around waiting for Owen with nothing much else in your life. Why don't you come to Mum's party tomorrow night? It's just a bit of a bash up at The Black Horse, but you might meet a few people, take you out of yourself a bit.”

“I can't gatecrash your mum's birthday.”

“Of course you can. She won't mind. More the merrier, she always says.”

I can't go to the party without at least buying Richard's mother a card. So I take myself off to Northallerton while Richard gets on with tiling the shower room.

It is only once I park my car and start to walk away from it that I realise I'm going to have to pass the café to get to the shops. It's a tough one; Owen hasn't called, but still I don't feel I can actually walk past without dropping in. But if I do, it might seem over keen – especially without a reason to visit. I hate feeling this way; all tangled up inside when everything should be straight forward – Owen's my boyfriend, goddamit. At the moment, anyway.

So I decide I'll just stick my nose around the door to ask if he or Adam need anything in town. Maybe he'll be too busy to chat. But there is nobody waiting at the counter, only Owen wiping down the coffee machine.

He turns when he hears the bell and his face splits into an enormous and genuine grin. “Alice,” he says as he comes forward to hug me. “What a lovely surprise.” All of a sudden I am smiling up into those deep blue eyes and feeling totally happy.

“I just dropped by to see if you or Adam want anything in town.”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “That is so sweet of you. I don't need anything but I'll just ask Ads.”

As he disappears into the kitchen I catch sight of a neat pile of leaflets on the counter. They look vaguely familiar and in a sickening moment I see that they are Imogen's. Perhaps Richard is right after all, but I don't have time to think about it because Owen comes back.

“No – Adam's fine. Fancy a coffee before you go?”

“No thanks. Hectic day today – I'm off to Richard's mum's party at The Black Horse tonight and I've got loads of stuff to do first. See you.” I throw my reply over my shoulder as I walk towards the door and I want to really make an exit, but as luck would have it two women with pushchairs are just coming in. I hold the door open for them and as they are thanking me I hear Owen call cheerily:

“Good morning, ladies. Two skinny cappuccinos, is it?”

For some reason I feel even angrier.