The Cheesemaker's House (3 page)

My legs catch in the sheet that has somehow wound itself around me. I close my eyes but all I see is every last detail of the way the tractor lights picked out the paleness of Owen's face and hair and the baggy cream shirt he was wearing. I sit up in the darkness and plump my hot little pillow, but that doesn't work either.

There's something else, too. In that strange way your mind hops about when it refuses to sleep I remember the woman by the freshly filled grave in the churchyard. And Christopher telling me there have been no funerals in Great Fencote for over a year. The inconsistency looms over me at three in the morning and I am still awake when sky loses its blackness and the first red-grey streaks of dawn appear.

In the sunny light of day, however, it seems a relatively simple matter to clear up so I attach William to his lead and make my way up the village to the church. It is still early but there are signs of life from a few of the other houses; an open curtain here, the sound of the radio there. I find myself wondering if Owen lives in one of them.

William and I walk straight past the church porch and around the back of the building, but there I stop; there are a few old gravestones near the path, but by and large the area is an overgrown meadow, long grass dotted with buttercups and the occasional poppy.

I am standing exactly where I was when I came across the grieving woman but this morning it's brighter and my eyes aren't swimming with tears. I scan the churchyard for anything which could look different. Close to the far boundary is a lumpy patch of brambles even now deep in the shadow of a tall fir tree. Could I have mistaken it for someone kneeling? I narrow my eyes, squint at it, and decide it is entirely possible.

Having solved one mystery I return to the village green. It is a long, narrow triangle of grass with Ravenswood Farm at its apex and New Cottage (among other properties) at its base. About half way up a metalled track cuts across it, and between my house and the track is the tree where I thought I saw Owen.

My confidence in my detection skills is boosted by my trip to the churchyard but I still can't work out whether someone has been sitting under the tree recently or not. William sniffs around for a bit then cocks his leg. He isn't exactly helping.

“You're not much of a snoop dog,” I murmur, and he looks up at me, big brown eyes trusting and completely uncomprehending.

I make a circuit of the tree wondering how Owen could have seen me and jumped up to hide behind it before the second tractor came. But why would he have done that? Why would he have been there at all? It is the ‘why' that's been making me feel so uneasy for most of the night. Time and time again Matt's voice came back to me, calling Owen a weirdo and creepy. What if he is? What if he's some kind of stalker? Could I have got him so very, very wrong?

I convince myself, somewhat conveniently, that the only way to find out is to see more of Owen and to make up my own mind. A trip to Caffé Bianco is clearly in order but it takes me the rest of the morning to pluck up the courage.

By the time I arrive the café is half full but there is no-one to be seen at the counter. I ring the bell and a voice belts out from the kitchen

“Won't be a minute.”

After a few moments a pasty looking man with a shaved head appears, wiping enormous floury hands on a white tea towel. “What can I get you?”

“A skinny latte and whatever cake you recommend.”

“They're all good.”

“I'm sure they are, Adam – Owen's told me what a great cook you are.”

He grunts and turns away to start the coffee, then grabs a plate and shoves the nearest piece of cake onto it.

“Where's Owen today?” I ask.

“He's sodded off to London and left me on my own. God knows how I'm going to cope if it gets busy at lunchtime.”

Adam won't cope, I can see that. He'll get stroppy with indecisive little old ladies and have customers running from the place in droves, never to return.

“I'll help.”

He looks brighter for a moment but then he says “No, you can't. Owen says we've no money for extra help.”

But I'm already half way behind the counter. “Then you can make me a cake instead. Now find me an apron and bugger off back into the kitchen.”

His look is one of unqualified relief as he disappears. But I don't have time to think about it because the café door swings open and a bevy of office workers walks in. I have no time even to study the coffee machine; still, I've seen it done a hundred times before and it can't be that difficult.

Two hours later the place is deserted and I am on my knees. Adam would never have managed on his own and quite honestly it was irresponsible of Owen to leave him; surely he knows Adam isn't exactly a people person? He's alright with me though; in fact he's very sweet. As I dump the last of the dishes into the washer I feel his heavy hand on my shoulder.

“You go and have a sit down, pet. I've got some cheese scones freshly baked – we'll have those and a cup of tea.”

A few minutes later he eases his bulk onto the chair next to mine. It's not that he's fat – just what you'd call a big lad; tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, ever so slightly going to flab. He is in total contrast to Owen's pristine neatness.

“I gotta thank you,” he mutters, not looking me in the eye, “but I don't even know who you are. Let alone why you did it – but I'm right glad you did.”

“I guess I owed Owen a favour – he was very kind to me in church last Sunday.”

Adam nods. “Then you must be Alice.”

“Yes, yes I am.”

There is silence while we munch our scones; tangy cheese and mustard tingle together on my tongue. More for something to say than anything I ask:

“So will you need me tomorrow?”

“No. Owen should be back by then. I put him on the train after we closed yesterday and he promised me faithfully he'd be home tonight. I'll bloody kill him if he isn't.”

I smile. “It's always as well to have Plan B.” I scribble my number on a paper napkin. “If he doesn't show up, then call me.”

I am more than half way back to my car before I realise that Owen wasn't even in Great Fencote last night.

Wednesday morning comes and goes and I receive no call. I am a bit sorry, to be honest; I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the café – it made me realise how much I miss regular contact with people. Before my divorce I worked in sales – used cars, to be precise – in a big, busy showroom just off the A4.

I miss my job and I miss my friends but there's no point in dwelling on it. I came up here quite deliberately to make a fresh start. While I wait for the kettle to boil I gaze out of the kitchen window, watching a blue tit swing to and fro on the empty birdfeeder. Its disappointment makes me disproportionately sad; it probably has a family to feed somewhere. I scribble ‘birdseed' on the bottom of my shopping list.

I wrap my mug of tea in both hands and drift from room to room, trying to work out where to start. The paintwork in the utility is grubby and chipped and there's a loose floorboard in the dining room which squeaks every time I step on it. I shiver – the room is north facing and it's never warm. I decide to go upstairs and empty some of the boxes littering the spare bedrooms.

I achieve order of sorts but by early evening my back is aching and William is sulking because he hasn't had a walk. When I pull on my jacket and show him his lead he leaps around so much it is hard to fasten it to his collar.

Eventually we set off down the lane towards Little Fencote. As we round the corner opposite the church William spots a man some yards ahead of us walking a golden retriever. He can't help himself but bark, and when the man turns around I am pleasantly surprised to see that it is Owen.

He waits for us to catch them up. “Well hello, Alice,” he says, “I didn't know you had a dog,” and again I am struck by the smoothness of his voice.

“William, this is Owen.” I introduce them rather formally then look down at the retriever. “And this is?”

“She's called Kylie.”

“Kylie!” I don't want to snigger when he looks so embarrassed. “Well I suppose...”

“She's Adam's dog,” he cuts across me. “I'm just the mug who has to walk her while he cooks the tea.” He laughs, but he looks a bit cross, and I wonder if Adam did have a go at him about being left on his own in the café.

We walk in silence down the lane. I had planned to turn right at the end, but wonder if I should go whichever way Owen doesn't and leave him to his mood. When we reach the T junction he pauses.

“Fancy a walk around the trout pond?”

I hesitate. “Isn't it private property?”

“Not when you went to school with the owner's son.”

“Did you go to school with everyone around here?”

For the first time this evening he smiles. “Oh, probably.”

As we walk up the track to the pond I am struggling for something to say.

“So, how was your trip to London?”

“Adam said you helped out in the café.”

“I'll do anything for some of his cake,” I laugh, but it sounds a little false. “Now don't let him forget he promised me one.”

“I think he's already on the case. Adam may not be the ideal waiter, but he's a man of his word – take it from me.”

There is a pontoon across the pond which leads to a small, overgrown island. We walk across, the dogs' claws clinking on the wooden planks. At the far end Owen stops.

“We can let them off their leads here. They can't go anywhere except back past us – or into the water. Does William swim?”

“Not from choice.”

“Well that's alright then.”

There is another awkward silence while the dogs nose around the undergrowth so I ask, “How was your lunch on Sunday?”

Owen looks surprised, but all the same sounds pleased I remembered. “It was OK, actually. Thanks for asking.”

I can't help but sneak a surreptitious glance at his trim body. He is wearing a pair of faded jeans with a cheesecloth shirt out over the top of them. One of the buttons has come undone and I catch a glimpse of his flat stomach. It makes me want to reach out and stroke the tiny golden hairs so before I start to blush I blurt out:

“Have you ever swum here?”

It is a stupid, stupid question given how shallow the water is and from Owen's point of view it's come from nowhere. Damn.

“Not swum, but I've paddled. My grandmother used to come here to collect herbs when I was little and it was a great place to play.”

“It must have been lovely growing up in the country.”

“It was pretty much perfect, yes.” His head drops and he leans on the railing of the pontoon, looking into the water. I follow his gaze. Two fish swim below us, flickers of silver just under the surface.

Before I even think what I'm doing I'm touching his shoulder. “Owen, are you alright?”

He nods. “Fine, yeah. No, really, Alice – I am. Just a bit tired – sorry not to be great company.” He straightens and my tentative hand falls away. “Now come on, I must try harder to entertain the lady.” He slaps the back of his knuckles in mock playfulness. “Did you know? This pond holds over three hundred trout – isn't that amazing? The farmer grows potatoes, too – the fish and chip man I always call him.”

“Owen – you don't have to try to entertain me, you're fine just as you are.”

He looks sideways at me, his face half hidden by his hair. I try to read his expression, but then his phone rings.

“No – OK – on my way back now. I bumped into Alice – wanted to show her the island…ten minutes, no more.”

He turns to face me. “My tea's nearly ready – I'd better go.”

Before I can even call William, Owen whistles so loudly beside me it nearly bursts my eardrum. Kylie appears, panting, with William a few paces behind her.

Owen looks at me, an impish smile on his face. “Sorry. But you didn't think I was going to stand here yelling her name, did you?”

I start to laugh and he gives me the briefest of hugs before putting Kylie on her lead and we set off down the pontoon.

Increasingly, Owen is taking up my thoughts. I feel a bit uncomfortable about that business on the village green, but the more I see of him the more I like him. But does he like me? I can't be sure. Did something happen on the pontoon, or am I building up a little friendly hug to be more than it was just because I want it to be? And why do I want it to be? It's much too soon to be thinking about a new man – much.

Anyway, by Saturday night I have plenty else to think about. Richard calls saying that if I want he can start on Monday – someone else has let him down over a job at the last minute. I am half way through agreeing before I stop short.

“What's wrong, Alice?” he asks me.

“It's just there's so much crap in the barn the previous owners left,” I wail.

“I'll give you a hand to clear it tomorrow if you like. We can take it down the dump in my van.”

“Oh Richard – could you? I'd pay you extra, of course.”

“How about you cook us a roast dinner instead? I never make one for myself – there doesn't seem much point.” He pauses. “I take it you can cook?”

“Yes…not sure about the standard of my Yorkshire puddings though.”

“Don't worry about that. Aunt Bessie's will do – as long as there's plenty of them.”

So that's me told.

Sunday morning is spent clearing out the barn. There's nothing we can do about the old freezer – the council will have to take that away – but otherwise numerous cardboard boxes, a chest of drawers eaten rotten by worm, a rusty lawnmower and various other broken tools are piled into Richard's van and taken to the municipal tip.

It is almost three o'clock by the time we come back.

“I'm beginning to get hungry, love,” he tells me. “Why don't you go and get cleaned up then you can start on dinner. I'll finish off out here.”

I look down at my grimy jeans and dust-covered T-shirt – he's right – I'm certainly not in any fit state to cook a meal.

After a quick shower I feel more human. I run a wide-toothed comb through my curls and pull on some clean trousers and a strappy top. Automatically I take my lip gloss out of my make-up bag; I usually wear it because shiny lips detract attention from my less than perfect eyes, but should I be dolling myself up now? Richard has been flirting with me all day and I don't want the awkwardness of having to turn him down.

I am half way down the stairs when I hear voices in the driveway. It's Owen and I instantly regret the lack of lippy.

“I just popped round to make sure Alice is OK,” he says. “We missed her in church.”

“Too much to do here, mate. I'm starting work tomorrow and she wasn't anywhere near ready.”

“Is she around?”

“Upstairs somewhere I think. Listen, Owen…not sure how to put this tactfully, but three's a crowd, if you get my meaning.”

I quite literally feel my jaw drop. There is a pause in the conversation before Owen continues, “I didn't realise you and Alice…”

“That's OK, mate, you weren't to know. Thanks for the introduction by the way – see you around.” Two sets of feet crunch along the gravel in different directions.

How dare Richard send Owen away like that? How dare he lie to him about our relationship? I am about to race through the front door and after Owen, but I stop. I actually need Richard; or rather, a builder – one who will do a decent job. I clench my fists hard, what's left of my nails after this morning digging into the palms of my hands. Calm down, Alice, don't be too hasty. You can always square it with Owen later.

So I retrace my steps and swap my top for a clean, but drab, old sweatshirt. In the kitchen I put my mind to making possibly the most disappointing roast dinner Richard has ever eaten. It seems a waste of good beef to overcook it, but everything I put in front of him is in the style – and quantity – of nouvelle cuisine. With no seconds. And positively, positively, nothing for afters.

I am still wondering how to put the record straight with Owen when Adam calls next morning to tell me my cake is ready. Richard and his carpenter are already hard at work in the barn, measuring up for new windows and having animated discussions about load bearing joists. Richard has taken his disappointment with his Sunday dinner very well, all things considered, and is his bright, breezy and cheeky self.

“I'm going into town,” I call to them. “Do you need anything?”

“Can you pick us up some pasties for lunch?” he yells back. “I daren't ask you to make us sandwiches – you'd probably cut the crusts off or summat.”

I am still smiling as I walk down the alleyway to Caffé Bianco; Richard has hide as thick as a rhinoceros – an admirable and enviable trait. I glance through the café window and notice Owen cleaning tables. He is side-on so he doesn't see me, his fair hair flopping down and forming a curtain between us. He stops for a moment, gripping a table edge, head bent, and then he is on the move again, carrying a tray back towards the kitchen.

I wait until he disappears before I go into the café.

“Anyone home?” I call.

“Won't be a tick, Alice. On my way.” To my surprise and disappointment it is Adam who shouts back; and Adam who appears moments later, carrying an oblong cake box.

He sets it down on the counter and grins. “There you go.”

“What is it?”

“It's a cake, you dumb ha'pporth.”

“I meant, what sort?”

“Open it up and see.”

I ease the lid off the box. Inside is a cake in the shape of Superwoman, only with a letter A emblazoned across her chest instead of an S.

“Oh, Adam,” I gulp.

He looks at me in panic. “For chrissakes don't blub, woman.”

“Sorry.” I sniff and look at him purposefully. “Right – I don't suppose you do pasties, do you?”

“Don't normally, but I can do. When d'you want them for?”

I grimace. “Today. I've got the builders in and they've asked for some for lunch.”

“Can you give me an hour or so? I can knock a few up.”

“You don't mind?”

“I like doing summat different. Come back about half eleven.”

Owen doesn't even come out of the kitchen to say hello. Surely he isn't avoiding me because of what Richard said yesterday? There must be another reason – maybe the phone rang or something. But my fears are confirmed when he isn't in the café when I collect the pasties, and it makes me feel indescribably, if inexplicably, sad.