The Cheesemaker's House (5 page)

Not one single fibre in my body wants to move. I roll over slowly and my stomach lurches, but I can hear William whining and I can't let him down again, poor dog. My feet find the floor and that makes my head thud even more. With a superhuman effort I finally stand up.

At the bottom of the stairs I spy my spare keys on the mat. Owen must have locked the back door and put them through the letterbox. I leave them where they are. My own keys are nestling on top of my handbag which I'd slung on the garden room shelf. I grope for them as William capers around and finally I'm able to let him out into the sunshine.

I lean on the door frame and watch him sniff his way up the border, praying he doesn't find any decomposing wildlife to roll in. Last night is pretty hazy but I can't fathom Richard's behaviour – I wouldn't have thought he had an aggressive streak in a million years. And then there's Owen – kindness itself, but why was he sneaking around my barn in the middle of the night? Perhaps neither of them are quite what they seem; or maybe I'm just a really bad judge of character.

William might be enjoying the sunshine but every ray is finding its way behind my eyes and sending needles into my skull. I know the only way to clear the poison from my body is to drink loads of water but it's too hard to face. I shut William back into the garden room and fall asleep on the sofa.

I feel a tiny bit more human when I wake again but it's early afternoon before I manage to stir myself properly, eat some toast, wash and dress. My priority has to be to thank Owen for his kindness – and try to find out what he was doing creeping around my barn. But that's a tough one because in the sober light of day I can't be completely sure I didn't imagine it.

I know where Owen lives from the evening we took the dogs to the pond; one of a terrace of Victorian red brick villas next to the church. There's every chance he won't be in but I'm still strangely nervous as I walk up the short path to the door. Partly because I'm no longer certain I have the right house; the front window is swathed in a frilly lace curtain and there is a flock of Lladro geese on the windowsill.

But it is Owen who opens the door and when he sees me his smile reaches right to his eyes.

“Alice! How are you feeling?”

“A lot better than I did this morning thanks – still a bit like I've been poisoned though.” I laugh a bit louder than I mean to.

“I expect you do.”

“I don't want to disturb your Sunday; I just wanted to thank you for being so kind last night.”

“It's no problem, really.” He hesitates for a moment. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely if it's not too much trouble.”

“Of course it's not. Ads has fallen asleep listening to the cricket on the radio and it would be nice to have some company. You make yourself comfy in the front room and I'll pop the kettle on.”

He holds open the door to the living room then disappears. The lace curtains and china geese were only the start of it – there are ornaments everywhere; dogs, cats, birds – on the mantelpiece and on the shelves in the alcove next to the fireplace. There is even a china cabinet against the back wall, with a rose-bud patterned tea service as its centre piece, the cups and plates surrounded by miniature animals.

The overcrowded feel of the room isn't helped by the sofa and easy chair being covered in an old fashioned tapestry-like fabric. And linen antimacassars – and those silly little bits that cover the arms so they don't get dirty either. The whole place is like stepping into a 1950's time warp.

I perch on the edge of the sofa just as Owen breezes in and pulls a table out of the nest just behind the door.

“Now would you like anything to eat? Has your tummy settled OK?”

“I had some toast earlier thanks, but I'm not sure I could face anything right now.”

“Just the tea then. Sugar?”

I shake my head, thinking how very sweet he is and how much I am beginning to like him.

It isn't long before he comes back with two mugs of tea and sits down at the other end of the sofa. I am suddenly aware of the gentle murmuring of Adam's radio in an upstairs room.

It is Owen who breaks the silence. “Margaret said you were a great help to her yesterday.”

“Hindrance, more like – I know nothing about plants. But she's a lovely lady, isn't she?”

“Yes. She's lived next door for as long as I can remember – I'm lucky to have such a good neighbour.”

I pick up my mug and nurse it in my hands. “You've always lived in the village then?”

“Pretty much.” He pauses. “What about you, Alice, where are you from?”

I take a sip of my tea but it tastes a bit odd; like the china's tainted by something. More likely it's my taste buds. “Reading. Very suburban, me; it's taking some getting used to living in the country. But I like it,” I add hurriedly, “I'm just not sure about the beer.”

“That fete beer's lethal – it's about eight percent alcohol.”

“Eight percent? No wonder I felt ropey after a couple of pints.”

“Pints – you're brave.”

“Well, Richard bought them for me and I didn't know how strong they were.”

Owen raises an eyebrow. “They're impossible, those lads. They like a joke, which is fine, but they don't always think through the consequences.”

“You looked after me though.”

I wish I hadn't said it because Owen looks away.

“Paying me back for helping Adam out in the café, was it?”

He smiles and nods eagerly. “You could say that, yes.”

We chat for a little longer but I can't find a way of asking him why he was in my barn. By the time I leave I feel very much better, but even so Owen gives me his phone number in case there is anything I need. I use it when I get home to text him another thank you, but even though I wait for quite a while there is no reply.

The next morning I'm surprised to hear a tentative tap on the garden room door. I'm not expecting anyone; thankfully the builders have disappeared off somewhere else for a few weeks so at least I'm spared having to look Richard in the eye.

I open the door to see Margaret gazing out over the lawn.

“Good morning,” I chirp.

“Good morning, Alice,” she replies. “I hope you don't mind me popping around, but Owen said you weren't too well yesterday and I thought I'd just make sure you're alright today.”

“I'm fine now thanks.” I hesitate. “As you're here, would you like a look around the garden?”

Her face lights up with a maze of suntanned wrinkles. “That would be marvellous.”

At the word garden, William stands and stretches. “Come on then,” I tell him, “but no showing me up by digging in the flowerbeds.”

Margaret bends down and scratches his ears. “So this is William,” she says. “He is rather handsome.” The dog looks up at her adoringly.

As we make our way around the property Margaret positively bubbles with advice, most of which flies straight over my head. It is beginning to dawn on me that gardening is something I'm supposed to do now that I live in a village and as I've never been much interested before it's going to be another rather steep learning curve.

As we progress along the borders Margaret is amazed at the variety of plants. Most of them are becoming choked by weeds but I have to admit they're still very pretty; blues, pinks and whites in all shapes and sizes, fighting their way out from a tangle of green.

“Help yourself to whatever you'd like,” I tell her. “It looks as though there's far too much here.”

“I have the opposite problem to you,” she laughs, “you've got too much space and I've not got enough of it. I've even encroached on Owen's garden to grow the cut flowers for church.”

“Isn't Owen much of a gardener?”

She shakes her head. “He doesn't have time, dear. That young man works so hard – he has no time for a life of his own at all.”

I nod. After all, the café is open six days a week. I suppose the rest of his time is spent walking Kylie for Adam and being nice to waifs and strays like me.

At the very end of the plot, half overgrown, we come across some raspberry canes. Margaret is ecstatic.

“These are late ones, Alice, and it looks like you'll have a terrific crop – as long as you put nets over to keep the birds off.”

I look at them dubiously. “And do something about those nettles.”

“That won't take you long, dear, as long as you've got a good pair of gloves,” and I know I have another job to add to my ever growing list.

It is as she's waxing lyrical about the greenhouse that it occurs to me. “Margaret,” I say, stopping her in midstream, “If you wanted it for your plants I'd be more than happy. I'll get someone to fix the glass and it'll be fine.”

Her face lights up. “Alice – really? I've never had space for a greenhouse myself.”

“Of course.” I indicate the rest of the area with my arm, “and if there's any other part of this wilderness you could use...”

“You wouldn't mind me trekking through your garden unannounced?”

“Not at all,” I reply. “You could even check up on how badly I'm doing with the raspberries.”

Her look of unrestrained delight fills me with genuine pleasure. “You are an absolute sweetheart,” she tells me. I don't think I've ever been called that before.

All the magazines say that soft furnishings are the most exciting part of doing up a house, but I can't say I'm that that interested so I end up mooching inconclusively around Northallerton for more than half a morning. Probably out of desperation, the woman in the haberdashery suggests I take away a book of swatches to think about over a cup of coffee. She makes me realise that I've been avoiding Caffé Bianco, but at the same time it just isn't in me to go anywhere else.

The door is propped open to let in the breeze – or maybe let out the heady mix of coffee and baking. It's certainly drawn a few people in; a handful of young mothers have pushed two tables together in the corner and barricaded themselves in with pushchairs. An elderly couple gaze out of the window, not talking.

Adam appears when I press the bell on the counter.

“On your own again?” I ask him, wondering how on earth Owen could have possibly seen me come in and hidden himself away.

“Owen had to go to Leeds. He won't be back for hours.”

“So d'you need a hand?”

He looks down at the counter. “I do really. But Owen said I mustn't ask you again.”

“Why ever not? Did I do something horribly wrong last time?”

“Not a bit of it. But he says if we can't afford to pay you...” a smile twitches on his lips, “and he said there must be a limit to the number of cakes a skinny little tyke like you can eat.”

But I am already behind the counter and stowing my handbag on the shelf under the till. “Well, if Owen whinges, tell him I owed him a favour. If you need me again, you can always pay me in pasties – when the builders come back I'll need hundreds of those.”

Later that evening I text Owen: ‘Hope you didn't mind me helping out but I felt I owed you one after the weekend'. There is no reply; clearly his old fashioned politeness doesn't extend as far as the digital age.

But on Sunday, when I arrive in church, Owen smiles and slides along his pew to make room for me. I was planning to sit with Margaret but it would be rude to refuse his invitation.

“Sorry I didn't reply to your text,” he whispers “I've been so busy…but it was nice to hear from you.”

I am about to ask how you can be too busy to send just one text but then I notice the dark circles under his eyes.

“Owen, are you OK?”

He pushes his hair back from his face and looks at me but he doesn't say anything, even so I have the weirdest sensation that the dark centres of his devastating blue eyes are speaking to me, and they are saying ‘no Alice, I'm not – but there's just no way I can tell you'. In the privacy of the pew I give his hand a little squeeze, and to my surprise and delight he gives mine a little squeeze back.

By the time we are drinking our coffee in the vicarage I am wondering if I imagined the look. We help Jane to pass around the biscuits and cups, with me still a little shy and Owen being generally delightful to everyone. He is a charming man and I can see that his fellow parishioners adore him. It strikes me that perhaps he is still trying to be the little boy his grandmother was so proud of and I can't decide if that makes his niceness all the more genuine or just a little bit plastic.

I am cross with myself too, because I am increasingly drawn to Owen and I don't want to be. I quite deliberately spend a long time talking to Jane about her children and then make a quick exit through the back door. Not quick enough – I am only half way down the path when I hear Owen call me.

“Alice?”

I turn around.

“I was going to ask you – d'you fancy taking the dogs for a walk later?”

I feel myself starting to smile and Owen is grinning back.

“Yes, I'd like that.”

“Me too. Meet you outside the church at about six?”

“Perfect.”

And I look forward to our walk all afternoon.

Given that we arranged to meet by the church, when I look out of the window I am a little surprised to see Owen sitting under the tree on the village green. I glance at my watch – it's ten to six; maybe he's decided on a different route and is waiting for me there instead. I hurriedly swap my dirty T-shirt for a soft v-neck sweater, slap on some lip gloss and race downstairs to attach William to his lead.

I swear it only takes me a few minutes, but by the time I walk down the drive Owen has gone. I pause at the gate, puzzled, but then I see him walking towards Kirkby Fleetham, with no dog. I am about to call his name but something stops me. Instead I make an attempt to pull William to heel and we start to follow.

Only then Owen calls
my
name; from somewhere down the road behind me. “Alice – where are you going?”

I swivel around to see Owen and Kylie approaching from the direction of the church. I turn back towards Kirkby Fleetham, but the man I thought was Owen has disappeared around the bend. The beads of perspiration on the back of my neck trickle under my jumper.

“Owen,” I ask him, “do you have a double?”

He laughs. “Not as far as I know. Why?”

“Are you sure? It's just that I saw someone very like you sitting under the trees over there, and then he started to walk that way.”

“I think I'd know if I did have one, I've lived around here most of my life, remember.”

“He was so like you I started to follow him – that's where I was going. But it wasn't you because you're here, and anyway, he was wearing a cream shirt.” I grind to a halt, looking at Owen's navy fisherman's sweater.

“Well that settles it,” he replies. “I don't even have a cream shirt. Plenty of the white ones I wear for work, but no cream.”

We walk back through the village and I try to put the man under the tree out of my mind. There must have just been a passing resemblance: he was probably only a walker taking a rest in the shade. I refuse to remember the time I thought I saw Owen under that tree before. I'm not exactly going to be sparkling company if I start dwelling on that.

But Owen himself seems a bit pre-occupied. We chat as we walk through the village, but after a while fall into silence and I can't work out whether it's a companionable one or not. When we reach the fork in the road he asks me if I'd prefer to go to Scruton or back to the trout pond. I choose the pond because I can let William off his lead.

This time I sit with my legs dangling over the edge of the pontoon, pretending to look for fish. The evening sun warms my back and the shadows cast by the bushes on the island shimmer and lengthen over the water. I half close my eyes and they merge together, looking almost like the outline of a low building. A faint smell of honeysuckle wafts by on the breeze.

After a while Owen sits down next to me, his knees tucked under his chin.

“Thanks for helping Adam on Wednesday, but you didn't have to.”

I look sideways at him. “Is that ‘didn't have to' as in ‘I don't want you to do it again'?”

He shakes his head. “It's not that simple.”

“Then what is it?”

He doesn't answer so eventually I continue, “Adam said something about not being able to pay me, but truly I...”

“We're struggling, Alice, that's the honest truth. But I didn't want anyone to know.”

“It's not Adam's fault; I think it was out before he realised.”

“Well I think he was being manipulative, just so he didn't have to serve any customers.”

“He's not good at it, Owen. Surely you realise...”

“Of course I know – I'm not blind to his faults, or stupid.”

His glare is enough to silence any thought of replying. After a little while I stand up; I am bitterly disappointed – I thought Owen wanted to enjoy my company, not tear me off a strip and push me away. I walk out onto the island and call William, praying it's not one of his moments of selective deafness. Luckily he emerges quite quickly from behind a shrub looking bedraggled and happy.

“Come on, it's supper time,” I tell him, and he wags his tail as I bend down to put his lead back on.

Owen is still sitting on the pontoon, hugging his knees, and is the very picture of desolation. Looking like I feel, in fact. It makes me stop behind him.

“You've been so kind to me, Owen. I really, really want to help. But I just feel like I'm intruding.”

He shakes his head without looking up. “I'd like you to help as well, but we can't pay you so there's no point in even talking about it.” The man is stubborn as a mule. Inside I am pleading with him to let me help at the café; I'm so lonely on my own in the house all day. But all I say is goodnight, and I start to walk down the pontoon.

“Alice,” he falters, “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to end up talking about work and spoiling the evening.”

I shrug my shoulders. “You've nothing to be sorry for. It's your business, after all. If things aren't great it's bound to play on your mind.”

“I shouldn't be putting it all on you though – it's not fair if I ask you to come for a walk then all I do is whinge.”

I crouch next to him again. “Owen – I don't want you to put on an act with me. It's OK to share how you feel, be who you are.”

“Now you're being much too kind, if not a little foolish.” He punches my arm playfully and scrambles to his feet. “Come on, let's go home – you promised William his supper a full five minutes ago and I swear I can hear his tummy rumbling.”