The Cheesemaker's House (18 page)

I am in two minds as to whether to have a large gin before Richard collects me, and in the end decide I can't face a room full of people I don't know without one. But there is another reason I need a drink. When I came home there was a note from Margaret and she's found out about some of the first inhabitants of New Cottage from the parish records. In 1729, not that long after the house was built, a cheesemaker called Alice Fulton married a Charles Allen of Ravenswood Farm. The next year they had a son, Joshua, before Charles died in 1742 and Alice in 1750.

So the cheesemaker was called Alice – just like Owen's imaginary friend. Just like me. No wonder I need a drink. Or two. But they do buoy me up and by the time I hear Richard's horn outside I am definitely in the mood for a party.

Richard's mum, Susan, is a striking woman with long dark hair and I can immediately see where Richard gets his looks from. She is wearing her birthday necklace which dangles over the generous bosom revealed by her low cut top. In complete contrast his father, John, is comfortable-looking rather than glamorous, probably a few years older than his wife and with plenty of laugh lines around his eyes.

It is much later in the evening when John seeks me out.

“Hello again,” I say, glad of an excuse to turn away from the two old biddies who've been giving me a blow by blow account of the last few episodes of Coronation Street.

He laughs. “Hello again? We haven't met.” I am totally confused and don't know what to say, but then he continues, “You think I'm John, don't you?”

“Aren't you?”

“I'm Cyril – his twin brother.”

“You are alike,” I say, like an idiot. They must have been hearing that for years. In an effort to sound at least a little more intelligent I continue, “Twins run in families, don't they – are there any more in yours?”

“Oh yes; my niece has a pair of girls and I've traced Wainwright twins back to 1862 at least.”

“You mean you've researched it?”

“Yes – one branch of the family goes all the way back to Durham in 1698.”

Now I am all ears. “How did you find that out?”

“Well, when we were little Granddad had a family bible and all the births, marriages and deaths were recorded in it, going back to 1862. It used to fascinate me and when I got older it became a bit of a hobby.”

“But how did you fill in the gaps?”

“Parish records, census information – the internet helps, you know, there's loads of stuff on genealogy and forums so you can get in touch with people researching the same name. I've found Wainwrights in Australia, Chile – Japan, even, would you believe.”

“I'm interested in the history of my house...” I start but he interrupts.

“What, when it was built and how it developed over time? There's a bloke at the Northallerton Historical Society could tell you all about that – he's an expert. Where do you live?”

“New Cottage in Great Fencote. But although it would be interesting to date the building – the barn especially – I'm more concerned about finding out about the people who lived there.”

“You're so right – people are far more fascinating than bricks and mortar – but try telling Richard that. He's...” He puts his head on one side, looking at me. “You're not the lass where Richard found the baby's body, are you?”

I nod. “That's why I'm interested in the date of the barn. The archaeologist said the baby was definitely buried after it was built, and although I'm assuming it was at the same time as the house, it would be good to actually know.”

“Well, I can certainly put you in touch with this bloke. But perhaps you'd be interested in joining the Historical Society? We're a bit short of young blood, to be honest.”

I take the plunge. “I would like to join, yes.”

He slaps me on the back. “Good girl. There's a meeting in a few weeks so I'll take you along.”

I know there is absolutely no chance of Richard seeing me home and I don't fancy walking, so I step outside into the lobby to call a taxi. But when I take my phone out of my pocket there's a text from Owen: ‘Let me know when you're leaving and I'll pick you up'. I bite my lip. I am still angry about Imogen but it is kind of him – perhaps an olive branch? Except he doesn't know I'm angry, and maybe he just texted to make sure I'm not going home with Richard.

I text back ‘Thanks, but I can get a cab.' Before I can call one there is a reply saying he's on his way. I don't want him turning up at the pub so I set off into the drizzle.

I have only just passed the village shop when his ancient Peugeot chugs into sight and pulls up next to me. He leans across to open the door.

“I didn't think you'd start walking – just as well I spotted you. Hop in.”

“I wanted some air.”

“Had a few drinks then?” he teases.

“Just the normal amount for a party.” But I know I sound huffy so I add, “Thanks for coming to collect me.”

“Well I knew Richard wouldn't be gentleman enough to see you home.”

I don't like his jibe – Richard has been very kind to me. “I wouldn't expect him to,” I flash back.

“Well he asked you to go with him.”

“He didn't ask me to ‘go with him' – he asked me if I'd like to go. Two entirely different things.”

“Not in my book.”

“Oh – is that the same book that means it's OK for you to spend most of your evenings in Scruton without a second thought about me?”

He starts to say something but instead he puts the car into gear and executes a neat three point turn before setting off back to Great Fencote. We are outside my house in a matter of minutes.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say as I start to get out.

“Alice?” Owen's voice is tentative.

“Yes?”

“You're angry with me, aren't you?”

I think about it, seriously, and then I nod.

“It would be foolish of me to ask why,” he continues, “because I know. I've done nothing but make you unhappy recently and I'm sorry. If you want us to call it day, you only have to tell me.”

It is a very cowardly way of dumping me and I'm not going to let him off the hook that easily. “Let me think about it,” I tell him. “I'll call you.” I plan to give him quite a taste of what it's like waiting for the phone.

I set out the four match pots of paint I have purchased on the windowsill. Warm colours – they have to be for this room. I paint two wide stripes of each one on each wall; the first is too dark, the third too orange, the others are OK – I will have to wait until they dry to make a final decision. I stand at the window counting the minutes between the passing cars.

Ravenswood Farm is clearly visible at the other end of the green. I can't look at it without thinking about Alice. Not me, of course, but Alice Fulton who had this house built and married the farmer. And Owen's imaginary friend Alice too. None of it fits – none of it – but then in a weird way it kind of does. I wrap my arms tightly around me and turn back into the room.

I share Margaret's new information with Richard when we go to the pub in Bedale to watch a local band. His lack of interest surprises me; he'd said he wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery but now he seems more concerned with downing a few beers and having a laugh while we listen to a couple of ageing rockers belt out Quo numbers.

“I thought you wanted to know too.” I shout at him across the thudding bass.

“Well you already know what I think – you just don't believe me.”

“But now we know that Alice actually lived.”

He smiles down at me. “Look – it's Friday night and I'm out on the town with a beautiful woman. Don't spoil it for me by having an argument, hey? Let's just enjoy ourselves.”

And if he won't talk about it, what else can I do?

So we listen to the band and his arm finds its way around my waist once or twice but when I move away he gets the message. We chat about nothing all the way home but as we leave the outskirts of Scruton Richard swears.

“Bugger it! Sorry, Alice – we shouldn't have come this way.”

“Why ever not?”

“Owen's car – outside Imogen's.”

I hadn't noticed and I shrug. “It's no big deal.”

When I get home William is surprised that instead of shooing him into the garden I slip his lead around his neck and set off up the village. It feels as though there might be an early frost and I wrap my fleece tighter around me as we walk briskly towards the church and Owen's house. I don't know why – to torture myself with the fact he's not there, I guess.

Or to find out that he is. At least, his car is; parked right at the far end of the lay-by, sixty yards or so beyond his gate. I look back but there are no lights on – he must have practically followed Richard and me home and then gone straight to bed. I let out a deep breath I didn't know I was holding; at least he isn't spending the night with her.

William starts whining – he must be cold too. I crouch down on the pavement and give him a hug. If there was a light on in Owen's house I'd knock on the door, but instead I fish out my phone to send Owen a text, quickly, before I change my mind. ‘Please don't think I'm playing games or messing you around – it's just I really don't know what to do for the best x'.

I wait until my knees are stiff, but there is no reply. Whether it is because his phone is turned off, or because he's just not replying again, I don't know. I put my hand on the front wing of his car to haul myself up and the metal is so cold I flinch and almost lose my balance, stumbling against it and soaking my fleece with icy condensation.

“You're a mess, Alice,” I whisper. Then William and I trudge home.

Owen does reply to my text – even though I have to wait until half past ten the next morning for him to do so. ‘Fancy going for a walk tomorrow?' he asks.

Without hesitation I reply ‘That would be really nice'

‘About 4? Lunch at Adam's Mum's'

‘Fine'

‘See you then'.

When Owen turns up on Sunday afternoon he has Kylie with him.

“I thought we could take the dogs to the trout pond,” he explains.

Once William realises where we are going he starts to pull on his lead and I swap it to my other hand. It isn't many moments later I feel Owen's fingers searching for mine. I give them a squeeze and look sideways to see that he is smiling right to his eyes.

“That's better,” he murmurs, and it is.

Once we are on the island we let the dogs off the lead and wander around picking blackberries, which Owen wraps in his handkerchief. We end up with a good handful, but that's all.

“Not enough for jam,” says Owen. “What can we do with them?”

“I could make a blackberry and apple tart for supper – d'you fancy that?”

“It would be lovely – but could we make it one night in the week? I have to be somewhere else by 7.30.”

Something inside me explodes, but it is a contained explosion. I pull William's lead out of my pocket and call him, and thankfully he comes straight away. Owen says nothing and as I stalk across the bridge he doesn't try to stop me.

I glance over my shoulder and give him a filthy look. “I suppose I should be grateful you've fitted me into your hectic schedule at all.”

He catches up just as I reach the main road. “Alice – Alice – I'm sorry. It's not like that at all. I know you're angry but...”

“Of course I'm angry but I'm not going to have an argument walking down the street.”

“No…No…of course not,” he mutters, and falls into step just behind me.

We say nothing more until we reach the garden room and he closes the door deliberately behind him.

“I'm sorry, Owen,” I tell him, “but I just can't live at the bottom of your priority list anymore.”

“Alice,” he pleads, “you, more than anyone, know how it is. With the café and that...”

It is like he's pushed the wrong button. I was determined to keep cool, but his words shove me right over the edge. “Of course I know what it's bloody like at the café. And I also know you make it worse for yourself and Adam because you won't ask for help. There are a million little things I could do to give you guys a break, but do you let me? No. Because you're so bloody stubborn you won't even accept a hand of kindness when it's offered – let alone ask.”

“That's not true – it's...”

But I haven't finished. “It's your business – I can live with that – however stupid you're being about it. But you can't expect me to hang around waiting for when you have a spare half hour or so because you're too busy in the evenings as well.”

“Alice, please, you are my priority. If only you knew...”

I fold my arms. “Well alright, tell me. If I'm your priority, what's so important that you have to disappear off somewhere tonight?”

He looks at his feet. “It's the healing.”

“Healing? The charming, you mean.”

His tone becomes icy. “I am not a charmer.”

I think of his car parked outside Imogen's house. “Whatever you call yourself, it's pretty cloak and dagger, isn't it?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“The way you don't tell me anything – you just say you're too busy. If you told me, I...”

“I have told you.”

“No you haven't – I want specifics. I want to know where you are.”

“I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It's just the way it is, that's all...”

“You don't trust me; you can't talk to me about what's important to you – what sort of relationship is that?”

“Please, Alice – don't cry. I do trust you – probably more than I've ever trusted anyone, but...”

“Balls, Owen – total balls! You're making excuses not to see me and you're avoiding telling me the truth. Just like you comprehensively avoided telling me about when you ran away. Because that's what you did – you know it and I know it. I saw what happened – I was there, remember – but will you talk about it? Will you even start to help yourself get over it? No! You're just running away from it all over again – and now you're running away from me too.”

Owen doesn't reply. His face is paler than pale. He stands motionless for a moment then shakes his head. Then he turns very slowly towards the door, pulls on Kylie's lead, and he is gone.