The Cheesemaker's House (9 page)

If I couldn't get my head around it last night I'm doing no better this morning. I take my coffee to the bench by the pond, determined to think this through logically. Who, or what, have I seen on the village green a total of three times now? The thought it might be a what occurred to me at about three in the morning, but in the bright light of day I remember that I don't believe in ghosts.

The obvious answer is that it is Owen, and he was playing some kind of trick on me, but I cannot begin to imagine what it might be. It's still in the back of my mind that Matt called him creepy, but it's so much at odds with the story Adam told me that I can't believe he's right.

So I decide I need to focus on what I do know: twice I have seen Owen when he is supposed to be in London, but I only have Adam's word he was actually there. However the other time it couldn't have been Owen; it might have been him sitting under the tree, but he couldn't have been walking towards Kirkby Fleetham when he was calling me from the opposite direction.

So I have the facts, but they don't make sense. Surely I can't be imagining Owen's there? Did just talking about him with Adam make me want to see him so much he materialised in my mind? Is my fondness for Owen bordering on obsession, even? Now that is a very worrying thought and I push it away, but all the same I am aware I'm thinking about Owen and hoping my phone will ring pretty much all day.

My phone does ring the next morning, but it's Adam telling me he's made another batch of pasties and asking if I can pop around to the house this evening to collect them. It is only after I hang up that I wonder why he doesn't just drop them off like he did before.

When I arrive Adam bundles me inside.

“You've got time for a quick drink, I hope?” he asks.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

As we pass the bottom of the staircase he yells, “Owen, Alice is here,” and without waiting for a reply he leads me into the garden.

It takes an age for Owen to appear and Adam is getting fidgety. The penny begins to drop he is setting us up, but before I can say anything Owen strolls through the kitchen door and with a nonchalant “Hi Alice” throws himself down on the chair next to Adam. I almost laugh because he is so obviously freshly washed and shaved. But I changed myself, and put on some lip gloss; we are both trying really hard – too hard, probably.

Once Adam disappears it is difficult to keep the conversation going. Looking around for inspiration I spy the herb bed.

“Margaret said your grandmother planted the herbs and that you look after them now.”

“Some of them pre-date Gran, even. See that rosemary – it was planted by her grandfather when they first came to the house.”

“Really? I didn't know it lived that long.”

“It's unusual, I admit.”

“Want to give me a guided tour?” It's something to say.

We wander along the herb bed and Owen tells me the names of the more unusual plants. The evening air is filled with their scent as he rubs his hands over them, stroking them almost, to release their perfume. I notice how gentle his touch is and my insides turn almost liquid. We crouch close, next to the camomile, but I'm not really listening to what he's saying because all I want is for him to make love to me.

I stand up. “Margaret said there wasn't much your gran didn't know about herbs. Was she a good cook?”

“Yes, she was.” He hesitates before carrying on, looking at me as though weighing me up. “But she used the herbs for other things.”

“Like what?”

“Medicines” he says, not taking his eyes off mine.

“Medicines? Did they work?” I am now genuinely interested.

His face takes on a stubborn mask, like it did when he was trying to stop me working at the café. “Of course they did.”

“So is that why you became a pharmacist?”

He gapes at me. “You spotted the connection. I don't think anyone else ever has – except Gran, of course.”

I shrug. “It seems logical.”

For a moment I think he is about to say something else, but he closes up and we walk back to the table in silence. The moment of intimacy has passed, but I can still smell the camomile. Even as he walks me and my bag of pasties home it fills my nostrils. There is no hug at my garden gate, but when he says goodnight there is a whole world of unsaid words in his eyes. Sadly, neither of us has the courage to speak.

Adam clearly isn't going to let things rest there. It is quite early next morning when I receive a text: ‘Owen didn't ask you then?'

‘Ask me what?'

‘I'm going to wring his fucking neck.'

I am still laughing to myself when my phone rings and Owen's number appears on the little screen.

“Good morning, Owen,” I say. “How are you today?”

He sounds distracted. “Fine…fine…Alice – would you like to come out to supper with me on Saturday night?”

“I'd love to, really I would.” There is a silence at the other end of the phone. “Owen?” I venture “Is Adam by any chance standing next to you with a gun at your head?”

“No – a kitchen knife in my kidneys actually – and don't think I'm joking.” Suddenly we're both laughing and I can hear Adam's cackle in the background. I think it's going to be alright.

On Saturday afternoon I am like a teenager getting ready for a first date. I change my mind several times about my outfit but in the end decide on the same skirt I wore to church when Owen said I scrubbed up well. I also choose quite a tight embroidered T-shirt and my very best underwear; at least that way I feel sexy underneath even if I'm a bag of nerves everywhere else.

When Owen arrives he is smartly dressed in navy chinos and a shirt striped in the exact blue of his eyes. They are such a deep blue, almost purple in fact, and are by far his most striking feature. He's not conventionally good looking, I don't suppose, but seeing his generous lips break into a smile or those devastating eyes appear as he pushes his hair away certainly puts butterflies into my stomach.

He takes me to a pub high up on the Moors. It seems to be in the middle of nowhere but the tables outside are packed with people admiring the stunning views. We make our way through the chatter to the quiet calm of a low beamed bar, where Owen knows the manager.

“Friend of Adam's,” he tells me. “He'll look after us.”

All the way in the car Owen has chatted constantly, pointing out local landmarks, and now we are busy choosing our food and ordering drinks, but I know there will be a moment when an uneasy silence falls. It does, and as I don't want to talk shop, or about myself, or appear too nosey about him, I ask what his grandmother was like.

He puts his head on one side. “It's a long time since anyone's asked me that,” he replies. “You see, everyone I know knew her too; we've always lived here...” he trails off, gathers himself then continues with a false brightness. “I think the last person to ask me was Adam, and that must have been about ten years ago. He was quite anxious about meeting her for the first time.”

“I expect he was.”

Owen looks a little surprised at my comment.

“Adam told me how you met. The full, unexpurgated version with no punches pulled.”

“Wow – he must trust you.”

“I hope he does, but I think he had an ulterior motive. He wanted to make sure I knew what a great guy you are.” If anyone is going to push the conversation in this direction I know it has to be me.

“Adam's horribly biased,” Owen laughs. “I hope you didn't fall for his pack of lies.”

Hidden beneath his joking I half sense a hollow ring of truth. But I'm not going to be put off.

“Hook, line and sinker,” I reply, trying to hold his gaze. “After all, it was you who told me that he's a man of his word.”

Owen looks away and fiddles with his knife. “I thought…I thought you were seeing Richard and...”

“I was never ‘seeing Richard' in the way he made you think. I overheard what he said to you that Sunday when you came to see how I was. I was so mad at him; I was cooking him supper and I spoiled it quite deliberately I was so cross. I haven't a clue why he said it.”

“Well I have and she's called Maria. It was a long time ago but I guess it still rankles.” He sighs and runs his hand over the top of his head before carrying quickly on. “Basically I'd been out of college a year or two and I'd just come back here to live. I worked for Boots and they moved me to the Bedale branch. I met Maria on the bus; she lived in Leeming Bar and worked in Bedale too, and we'd have a chat every day – she was really friendly.

“In the end I plucked up the courage to ask her out. I've never been much good at that sort of thing, as you might have noticed, but I made myself do it. She told me she had a boyfriend and had to finish with him first. I didn't have a clue that boyfriend was Richard until about a month later when we walked into The Black Horse and there he was. It was awful – a real scene – I'd never been in a fight before and I didn't come off too well. But I thought it was worth it because I was madly in love with Maria. As was Richard.

“Of course, eventually she went back to him and they married. It didn't last – I think they both had roving eyes, to be honest. Richard and I rub along OK nowadays, he even invited me to the wedding but at the time I was too cut up to go. So I suppose Richard thought he'd be getting one over on me if he said he was going out with you.”

“Wow – he's got some memory – that's one long-time grudge to hold.”

“Oh, I don't think it's a grudge, exactly.” Owen looks a bit uncomfortable for a moment but then our food arrives and he skilfully changes the topic to safer, more general ground.

Although I'm nervous I am determined not to drink too much and disgrace myself again. However I've still had enough to make me feel just a little bit brave by the time Owen drops me home.

“Why don't you go and park the car and then come back for a nightcap?” I ask him. When he agrees I tell him he'll find me by the pond.

It is late dusk, so as well as the brandy bottle and a couple of glasses I carry out an old glass oil lamp I bought on some forgotten holiday to Spain and rest it on the edge of the decking. It is hard to light with William capering around my legs, but I manage it by the time Owen crosses the lawn. William, rather rudely, stiffens and growls.

“Cut it out, you stupid dog,” I murmur, ruffling his ears. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Owen laughs, “I don't think he's ever going to forgive me, you know.”

“Give him time.” I pick up the bottle, “Is brandy OK?”

“Lovely – a real treat.”

I pour us both a generous measure. “Tonight was a real treat for me too; thank you so much for dinner, Owen.”

“My pleasure.” He wanders over to the edge of the decking and looks out towards the Moors, a distant wall of bleakness fading into the last of the dusk. “They look even more dramatic in this light.”

“I was saying to Margaret that I'd like to explore them.”

“If you like, I'll take you. There are some wonderful walks – so good that William might even call a truce.”

We are standing very close, so close I can feel his warmth, and I look up at him. I can see that he is weighing up whether or not to kiss me and I so want him to. The light has faded fast and the oil lamp is so dim that I can barely see his features, yet I know what is in his eyes; and they are saying that it is all too complicated.

“Why is it too complicated, Owen?”

He jumps out of his skin and stares at me in amazement. His voice is hoarse. “How did you know what I was thinking? Did I say it out loud?”

I shake my head. “I…I can't explain. I just knew. It's not the first time…sometimes I feel I can see what's written in your eyes.” I turn away from him. “Oh my God, that sounds so naff.”

He touches my shoulder very gently. “What would you say if I told you that ever since I was a small boy every time I've walked past this house I felt it would be important to me, and that right from the first time I saw you, I felt like I've known you forever? And if that doesn't sound naff, I don't know what does.”

I fiddle with my brandy glass. “It's funny you should say that about the house. The first time I walked up the drive – when Neil and I were just looking, really – it was like I was coming home. Maybe that's why it was a good place to lick my wounds.”

“Are you still licking them?”

“Is that why you think it's too complicated? I've got too much baggage?”

Owen shakes his head. “Not you, Alice. I don't know – it feels so right, but all the same it's…I don't know...”

He tails off and I seize the advantage, wrapping my arms around his waist and stretching up to kiss him, but to my amazement he twists his face away. I am amazed not only because of his words, but because I can feel the beginnings of an erection filling against me.

“Owen?”

“But it is too complicated. There's so much I haven't told you, so much...”

I have never seduced a man before but then I have never wanted one the way I want Owen. It is uncharted territory, my mouth is dry and my hands are trembling, but all of a sudden it is as though a previously undiscovered part of me is guiding me home. Very gently I stroke his cheek.

“Then you can tell me now – we've got all night.”

My fingers move down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. He is motionless, holding his breath. I trace the line of buttons slowly towards his navel, lingering on the softness of his skin between each one.

“Oh, God, Alice – don't make it any harder...” he whispers, but I smother his protest with another attempt at a kiss, and this time he does respond, his lips cool and firm on mine, his tongue sliding along the edges of my teeth. My hands slip under his shirt and his back is smooth and warm beneath them. He kisses me again, with more purpose. He's not resisting any more.