The Cheesemaker's House (22 page)

The bar of the Durham Ox is packed with office party revellers. Cyril and I squeeze through the chatter and clink of glasses to a small table which has been ignored – probably because it is half hidden by an enormous Christmas tree. A piece of tinsel gets caught in my handbag.

It is clear Cyril has been bursting to tell me something all evening and as soon as we sit down he delves into the plastic bag he's been clutching and pulls out a bundle of paper. As he unfolds it I realise that it is one huge sheet, sellotaped together in a higgledy-piggledy fashion; it is his family tree.

I am itching to know what all this is about and Cyril takes a long time getting to the point, clearly loving having an audience and insisting on starting with Richard and his sisters and working backwards. He is a sweet old man and I try very hard not to be impatient as his finger meanders up the chart, regularly fuelled by pit stops for long draughts of Guinness.

With agonising slowness it moves past his father and back to Sidney and Henry, born together in 1890, then back to their father Herbert, who was also one of twins.

“Was he the chap who had the family bible?” I ask.

“Yes, that's him, but it's this next lot you'll be interested in, because although Herbert's father was from the Durham line, his wife Sarah was born in Great Fencote. They settled in Kirkby Fleetham, mind, but their marriage was in the Great Fencote register, and her birth.”

It is her birth name that grabs my interest – Sarah Allen, born 18
^th
September 1837. Allen. My eyes move quickly up the paper to see that her father was Joshua, born in 1812, so not Charles Allen's son Joshua, but clearly a family name. And his father was Thomas Allen – and his father too. And this is where the direct connection is made: Thomas Allen, born in 1754, was Joshua senior's youngest son. Alice's grandson. Richard is clearly descended from Alice Fulton and Charles Allen and despite the crush of people around us I go cold – especially when I remember that I called Richard Charles all those months ago after the village fair.

I steady myself by asking an inane question. “So one of Richard's ancestors was actually born in New Cottage?”

Cyril beams. “Exactly. Funny co-incidence if you ask me, with him doing so much work on the house, and finding the baby, of course,” he adds.

But that thought is not where my mind scrambles off to. Is his relationship with the past the reason why Richard heard the crying and saw Thomas Winter? Is it perhaps Richard who holds the key to all this, after all? The thought has never occurred to me before. What if this is nothing to do with Owen?

It is almost quarter past eight on Wednesday night when Adam bursts into the leisure centre cafeteria. I came an hour or so ago for a swim and have just finished toying with the toasted sandwich that was meant to be my supper.

Adam apologises as he thumps into the chair next to me. “Owen had the car and he was late back.”

I raise my eyebrows. “More healing?”

“It's pretty relentless at the moment. He's running himself into the ground.”

“I know. I tried to talk to him about it but he said he had no choice.”

“It's what he tells me but it's all getting out of hand, Alice, and I just wondered if there was anything you could do.”

“I don't think so. He seems to be…I don't know…holding back from me?”

“Well he's not much of a talker when it comes to himself – never has been.”

“I didn't mean like that. I meant…well, to be honest Adam, I don't even know whether we're in a relationship or not.”

Adam leans forward. “But I thought you guys were back together.”

“It's like…like we're just friends again. But…then sometimes he's really affectionate, but only for a moment…I can't make it out.”

Adam sighs, “He's totally fucked up, Alice, if you want to know.”

“Like he was last summer?”

“Worse. He even talks to himself.”

I try to laugh. “Well, I do that sometimes.”

“Sometimes is fine – we all do it a bit. But all the time? Any time he's in a room on his own he's constantly muttering. But then it's not strictly constant – sometimes he asks questions and waits for a reply, then carries on. It's like he's having a conversation with someone – it scares the living daylights out of me.”

“What does he talk about?”

“I can't rightly hear the words. He's muttering, like I said, it's not clear...” he tails off.

I don't really know what to say. “It does sound odd.”

“Dean says it sounds psychotic.”

“What – talking to yourself?”

“No. Thinking someone's replying.”

“You can't know...”

“Alice – he asks questions, then waits a while before speaking again. What does that sound like to you?”

I have to concede it doesn't sound good. “Has he ever been like this before?” I venture. “Perhaps when his gran died?”

“No. He'd cry a bit – you know – when it was just me and him around – but then that was understandable. There was one night he went a bit strange and he kept telling me over and over that he couldn't see her any more. But that was only a few weeks after the funeral, so I thought it was maybe delayed shock and he seemed right as rain the next day.”

“He's never got over her though, has he? I mean…his bedroom...”

Adam's eyes widen in surprise. “You've seen it?”

“He doesn't know I have. I took a wrong turn looking for the bathroom. It freaked me out, to be honest.”

“I thought he might change it, you know, when he started going with you. I thought things might get better. But instead it's just like he's losing it completely.”

“Have you tried to talk to him? About the talking to someone, I mean, not his bedroom.”

“I did sort of mention it once, but he said he didn't know what I meant.” Adam picks up the pepper pot and starts to fiddle with it. “To be honest, Alice, I've been pretty involved with Dean and I haven't been there for him as much as I should. But it's hard – I'm torn in two.”

“I'm sure Owen wants you to be happy – he's delighted about you and Dean, and that you had a holiday and everything.”

“I know, but after all he's done for me I feel like I'm letting him down. Dean's very understanding but it's important for us to spend time together as well. And when I'm up in Middlesborough I just worry about Owen alone in the house, and whether he's OK, and if there's any more I could be doing.”

“So that's where I come in, I take it?”

“I didn't think you'd mind. You see, I thought you and Owen were going out with each other again.”

“Well we're not.”

“I feel bad about that too. I should have knocked your heads together when you first fell out but I'd only just met Dean then and...”

“Adam – please – this isn't getting us anywhere.” I yank the pepper pot out of his hand and slam it on the table. I take a deep breath. “I appreciate you have a life and you need to live it, but wallowing in blame isn't going to help anyone. Look, Owen's probably just really tired and stressed out. Perhaps you could close the café for a week or two in January and then he'd get a proper break.”

“He'd never agree to that. Alice – I don't want to dump all this on you but won't you even talk to him?” There is a note of desperation in Adam's voice.

I sigh. “Adam – I'd move heaven and earth to help him – but what the hell am I supposed to say?”

He looks at me for a long time. “I don't know. But I'm so scared for him, Alice. I feel that by doing nothing we're letting him down.”

The tears in Adam's big grey eyes remind me of how he was when Owen disappeared – how we both were, in fact. I can't let that happen again so I put my hand over his enormous one. “OK, I'll ask him to supper on Saturday and take it from there.”

Quite what I'm going to say to Owen is another matter.

I glance at the clock on the cooker; Owen will be here in ten minutes. I drain my gin and tonic and open the oven. The comforting scent of oregano and roasting tomatoes greets me and I pull out the casserole to stir in the pasta. I look at the clock again – eight minutes to go.

Normally I would be looking forward to seeing Owen but this time I feel sick with misgiving. All afternoon I have been waiting for a text from him, but this time hoping he would cancel. My fingers play with the lid of the gin but I stop myself and open a bottle of red instead.

The little green numbers read 19.32 when I hear the scrunch of footsteps on the drive. Owen's face is pinched and pale, and his eyes have a feverish spark in them I haven't seen before. Our fingers brush as I reach to take his coat and he jerks his hand away, although he tries to make a joke of it.

Owen does try to get over his edginess, although he fails miserably. When the timer on the cooker goes off he jumps out of his skin and he gulps at his wine as though he is using it to force his dinner down. All the same he asks me dutifully about my day and I try to entertain him by showing him the pictures on my phone of the enormous Christmas tree we put up in the car showroom. It isn't exactly scintillating and he finds it hard to look that interested. I am at a loss for much else to say.

So is Owen – his social ease has completely left him. I ask if he is OK and he protests that he's fine, so I just smile and top up his wine. And tell him I bumped into Adam at the leisure centre and isn't it great he's so happy with Dean. I feel guilty through and through because I am wondering if perhaps the awkwardness is me being chary with Owen after what Adam said. It's all so complicated that I want to cry.

Eventually I send him packing into the snug while I put the kettle on. I stack the dishwasher and give William a biscuit (or two) before loading up a tray with tea and mince pies. I glance at my watch – it's not even nine o'clock – and I wonder just how soon I can feign tiredness and send Owen home. And then what? A night tossing and turning, feeling guilty about not trying harder to find out what's wrong. As I pick up the tray I resolve to have another go at getting to the bottom of it.

I never get the chance. Owen is standing in the middle of the snug holding the letter from the archaeology service in his shaking hand.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he bursts out.

I put the tray down. “I was just going to.”

“But the letter's dated well over a week ago.”

“It arrived on Monday – Christmas post I guess.”

“You came into the café on Tuesday. Why didn't you say?”

I look away from him. “I…I didn't think.”

“How could you not think? This is so important.”

He is getting angry but so am I.

“Well OK, I did think. But I didn't want you making the sort of scene you're making now in public, did I?”

“But if you'd told me straight away...” There is a pleading, manipulative note in his voice.

I step forward with a verbal olive branch. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

He turns away and his shoulders heave. “I'm not upset,” he says, but his voice is harsh, rather than shaky, and I can see that his fists are clenched. All the warning signs are there – but I choose to ignore them.

“Anyway,” I carry on as brightly as I can, “there's no need for you to worry because I've brought the remains back so we can arrange for a proper burial if you still want to.”

He spins around. “You've brought him back? The baby's here?”

“It's not a ‘he',” I reply. “The letter said they couldn't tell its gender.”

Owen stalks across the rug and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Alice – where is the baby?” There is ice in his voice and his eyes are small and dark. I begin to feel just a little bit scared.

“It's alright. It's safe in the barn, close to where Richard found it.” I badly need a justification for stuffing the box into an unused kitchen cupboard.

His grip relaxes a little. “Shall we take a look?” He asks as though he is suggesting a walk in the garden or a picnic.

If it will keep this strange, mercurial Owen even vaguely rational I will agree to anything. I smile at him as bravely as I can. “Yes, let's.”

I pick up the key to the barn on our way through the garden room. I don't bother with a coat – this shouldn't take very long. But I shiver as we walk along the edge of the lawn; the frost is already beginning to form on the grass.

It is no warmer inside the barn and I lift the box carefully from the cupboard and place it on the work surface.

“Show me,” Owen commands, and I take off the lid and pull away the top layer of packing, exposing the bones in their nest of bubblewrap. To my surprise he reaches into the box and strokes the little skull; then he begins to say Christopher's prayer.

When he has finished I interrupt before he can start the recitation again. “Shall we take it into the house?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “To the church, Alice, not the house.”

“The church?”

“Yes.” Owen's voice is quiet and firm. “He needs to rest somewhere sacred, not be stuffed into some kitchen cupboard.” He almost spits the last words out.

“OK,” I reason, “we can ask Christopher tomorrow.”

“No, Alice – now. We'll take the baby to the church now.”

“But won't it be locked?”

“I know where Christopher keeps the key.”

“But shouldn't we...”

“Alice – for the love of God – just do as I ask.”

Something in his voice makes me frightened not to. Owen replaces the packing reverently on top of the skeleton, closes the box, and tucks it awkwardly under one arm. I wonder why he doesn't use both hands but then he grabs my wrist. “Come on,” he says. He won't even let me stop to lock up or fetch my coat, and all but drags me down the drive. I can hear William barking.

I may be frightened, but I convince myself it is for Owen, not for myself. He is on the thinnest of knife edges and there is no knowing which way he will fall. That he will fall is now certain, and a detached part of my mind is simply amazed that I didn't see the inevitability before. My teeth chatter as he pulls me up the village but I don't try to run away. I let him down before when he was right on the edge and I'm not going to do it again.

The church is in total darkness. Owen lets go of my hand and puts the box on the bench in the porch before reaching into a recess high in the wall. The key glistens in the frosty moonlight as he pulls it out and fits it into the door. It creaks as he pushes it open and it is such a familiar sound I feel as though I can breathe again.

Owen tries to grab my wrist once more but I dodge past him into the church. “You don't need to do that,” I tell him, and busy myself turning on all the lights.

Although the Christmas tree has been put up ready for the children's crib service on Sunday, the church won't be fully decorated until Christmas Eve. The crib itself is tucked away in the vestry; I know because I helped Jane wash all the little wooden animals yesterday morning. Thinking about such a mundane task re-roots me in reality and I feel calmer as I follow Owen up the aisle. Perhaps, once the box is stowed to his satisfaction, I can persuade him to let me fetch Christopher to say some prayers.

“Where are you going to put the baby?” I ask. He doesn't answer me, but keeps walking, slowly, reverently, as though he is part of a funeral procession. At the altar rail he stops to lift the centre section, then moves into the sanctuary and places the box in front of the altar. He bows his head for a moment then backs away from it, like a man in a trance.

But if it is a trance it is broken by the sight of me as he turns at the rail. His face is full of hatred as he yells, “Kneel, Alice! Kneel and pray!”

I turn to run but he grabs the top of my arm to pull me back. I start to struggle but he wheels me around shouting, “Pray for the child, you she-wolf, pray for the child you would have cast away and for your own treacherous soul.”

Once again I try to tug myself free but this time he pushes me to the floor, my shoulder catching on the altar rail and making me cry out.

“Pray!” he screams, “Pray for your life you filthy whore, because how you dare to live after all the suffering you caused I do not know” and he hauls me up and forces me against the rail until it is digging agonisingly into the bottom of my rib cage.

Never before in my life have I known pure terror, and my first instinct is indeed to pray. “Our Father...” I start, but then, miraculously, I hear Christopher's voice, loud and clear, asking what in heaven's name is going on.

The weight of Owen's body behind me vanishes and he runs up the aisle. Christopher blocks his way but Owen dodges into a pew to avoid him.

“Stop him!” I yell “Don't let him go – he'll hurt himself,” but as Owen jumps over the seatback he stumbles and barrels into Christopher who holds him firmly with both arms. There is a moment of silence then Owen begins to sob.

I sink onto the communion step, trying to catch my breath. Owen's head is buried in Christopher's shoulder and he is crying fit to break his heart. And mine. And probably Christopher's too.

“Oh, God, Chris – what have I done?” he moans. “Alice – she's my world, my whole world…and look what I've done.”

After a little while I stand up shakily and walk towards them. I want to touch Owen, to tell him it's alright, but I am so stunned that I come to a grinding halt.

Christopher looks up. “Are you OK?” he whispers over Owen's sobs.

I nod.

“Go to the vicarage,” he continues. “Let Jane know what's happened. I'll bring Owen over when he's feeling calmer.”

I stand and stare at him. I don't want to leave but I am beginning to shiver again.

“Go on,” Christopher hisses, and I escape into the night.

I hurry across the road and up the vicarage path. I hesitate to ring the doorbell at this time of night, knowing the children will be in bed, so instead I push on the door and it opens.

“Chris – is that you?” Jane's voice floats down the hall.

“No, it's me – Alice.”

She appears from the kitchen. “Oh, I thought it might be Christopher. He saw the lights on in the church and went over to investigate.”

“He's over there now, with Owen. He told me to come and tell you.”

“With Owen? That's alright then. I was worried it was vandals or something.”

“It's…it's not alright, Jane. Owen's in an awful state. He's really lost it this time.”

She takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. I huddle next to the Aga while she makes tea and I tell her exactly what has just happened. All the time my mind is tumbling and racing, trying to make sense of it – but I can't.

Jane is pouring the water into the teapot when the front door opens again and we hear footsteps in the hall. I fall silent as they pass and the study door opens, and after a few moments, closes. Then Christopher appears in the kitchen.

“Is there enough in the pot for Owen and me?”

Jane nods and pulls another two mugs out of the cupboard.

“How is he?” I ask Christopher.

“Not much better really.”

Suddenly my mind is made up. I can't go on with this endless uncertainty any more – I need to take action. There are things that need to be said and everything is so bad right now I cannot possibly make them any worse.

“Can I take him his tea?” I venture.

Christopher nods. “I think he'd like that.” And I hear an echo of Owen's voice sobbing, saying to Christopher that I was his world.

“Give us five minutes,” I tell him.

Balancing the mugs in one hand I push the study door open. Owen is curled as tightly as he can be into one corner of the sofa, his face hidden in a cushion on its squashy arm.

I put the tea down on the desk and touch his shoulder. “Owen? I want to talk to you.”

He doesn't move but he mumbles “I'm sorry, Alice. I'm so sorry.”

“I know you are. Listen, Owen, this is important, will you look at me?”

He rubs his face into the cushion, which I take as a shake of his head.

“Well OK, but you have to listen very carefully.” There is no response so I blunder blindly on. “It's something I should have told you months ago – back in the summer even – but it never seemed the right moment. I don't know…it's lousy timing now and it shouldn't be like this but anyway...” I need a deep breath. This is hard, so very hard. Once the words are out there will be no turning back, not ever. But in the middle of his shifting world it is vital that he knows just exactly where he stands with me at least.

“Owen – I love you.”

“No, Alice, you can't – you don't.” His voice is muffled by the cushion.

“Well I do.”

He does raise his head now, his eyes full of panic. “But you mustn't – I'm not who you think I am; I'm…I'm...”

“Shhh. You're ill, and you need help, that's all. I still love you. I won't let you down.”

“But Alice – I'm beyond help. I'll always be this way – you can't love me – you must be strong and...”

“I have no choice in the matter, Owen. I do love you. OK, it's a nightmare at the moment, but we'll get through this together.” I falter, suddenly feeling a bit unsure. “If you want me with you, that is.”

His voice is almost steady as he begins to reply. “I want you more than you could ever know. But it's not right, it's not even real...” and once again, he dissolves into tears and buries his face in the cushion.

I sit down next to him and put my arm over his heaving back. “Cry it all out,” I whisper. “Cry it all out, then get some rest, and then on Monday we'll get you some proper help.”