The Cheesemaker's House Page 4

  “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.

  Chapter Eight

  I wake up in the night because I hear someone crying. Or at least, I half wake up, because if I’d woken up fully it might have made me more uneasy. It’s an odd noise, not a child’s wail, but something part way between sobbing and keening, and I can’t work out if it’s a woman or a man.

  I poke my head out of the open window to see if I can pinpoint where it’s coming from. The night is still with barely a rustle from the trees. One of the horses in the field behind the house coughs and I wonder if perhaps that is what I heard.

  I stumble back into bed but as my head hits the pillow the crying starts again, very softly now and further away. Maybe it’s coming from a nearby property; whoever it is sounds as though they are at the depths of despair but I just want to go back to sleep. I can’t exactly go knocking on doors to find them, can I?

  I put my head under the pillow to shut out the noise and it sort of works. My shoulders and back relax into the mattress and eventually I feel Owen’s arms around me and hear his sweet voice telling me not to worry, it will all be alright. I am safe and loved in a dream.

  Chapter Nine

  I completely forget my promise to help at the fete until Jane turns up on Thursday morning to finalise the rota.

  “I can be there all day,” I tell her. “I’ll just need to pop back to see to William, but otherwise I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

  “Oh bless you, Alice. There aren’t very many of us and some of the older ladies find it a bit much if it’s hot.” And she dashes off next door to collect the bottles Mr Webber has promised for the tombola. Jane is always dashing somewhere with a great deal of purpose and I feel a stab of envy.

  By nine o’clock on Saturday morning my blouse is already sticking to my back – I didn’t know the weather could be like this in Yorkshire. I make sure William has plenty to drink then set off up the dusty lane to Kirkby Fleetham, the hum of bees in the dog roses accompanying me on my way.

  Kirkby Fleetham village green is a spacious arc of parched grass on the road to Great Fencote. Normally populated by old men with dogs, this morning it is a hive of activity and I make my way between the cars unloading all manner of goodies and tat to the relative sanctuary of the marquee. It smells of musty canvas, cakes and potting compost, but away from the glare of the sunshine it exudes a sepulchral calm.

  My job is to help a wiry lady called Margaret with the book and plant stall. Despite her wrinkled face and salt and pepper hair Margaret pulsates with energy, her small dark eyes always on the lookout for something new. She has a pair of glasses on a gold chain around her neck, but I never once see her put them on although I do catch her peering myopically at the prices on some of the books. But as far as the plants are concerned, she knows everything and more.

  I, however, know nothing and Margaret turns out to be very good at explaining it all. Understandably, given she’s a retired teacher. Originally from Newcastle, she came to Northallerton as a new graduate, married, moved to Great Fencote, was widowed in her forties, and has lived in the village ever since. All of this I discover within about fifteen minutes.

  “I’m next door to your friend Owen,” she tells me.

  My friend? That’s news to me. “I expect he’s a good neighbour,” I offer by way of a suitably bland reply.

  “Oh yes, he’s always been a sweetie, right from when he was a little lad. His grandmother was so proud of him, but I used to say she only had herself to thank for bringing him up properly.”

  I am curious to find out more about Owen’s childhood but I don’t want to appear nosey, and anyway, we have a sudden influx of customers clamouring for some of Margaret’s dahlias. All the pots are neatly labelled but I still almost get myself into a muddle.

  “You’re not a country girl, are you?” Margaret laughs.

  I shake my head ruefully. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all that garden.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, if you don’t like gardening why did you buy a house in an acre of land?”

  “My husband was keen on it.” It’s no good – I have to bite the bullet at some point. “But he left me, so now I’m on my own. I couldn’t have carried on living in our marital home – I wanted a fresh start.”

  “Oh Alice, you must be feeling so let down. I felt a bit that way when Walter died, but at least he didn’t do it deliberately – or let’s say I don’t think he did.” There is a twinkle in her eyes and it leavens her sympathy. I like that a lot.

  I smile at her and open up just a little bit. “At first I wanted to string his unmentionables from the nearest lamp post, but I’m over that now; I’ll survive.”

  “Of course you will – human beings are very resilient.”

  Two small children are browsing the books and our conversation is once again interrupted while Margaret helps them to choose and I flounder my way through the sale of some more plants.

  Once the rush dies down Margaret continues, “Of course, you have just the right house for a female survivor.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It was built by a woman. Not in the physical sense, of course, but she owned the land and had the property put up to her specification.”

  “Wow – that must have been unusual back then.”

  “Almost unheard of. She was a businesswoman too, the village cheesemaker.”

  “So that would explain the barn – she must have needed somewhere to keep her cattle. Fancy that, a single woman making her way in the world three hundred years ago.”

  “She didn’t stay single – she married a farmer called Charles later in life and they had a son, but I don’t know what happened to her after that because a family called Stainthorpe lived in the house for generations – right up until the 1960s.”

 
“How on earth do you know about the lady cheesemaker? It was so long ago.”

  “From Owen’s grandmother – she had so many stories. I wish I’d written down what she told me; the tradition of oral history in our villages is almost dying out.”

  “She sounds like an interesting lady.”

  “She was. She died only last year and she’s left a real gap in the community; she was very knowledgeable.”

  “What, about local history?”

  Margaret shakes her head. “More than that – she was a wise woman all around. What she didn’t know about herbs…and people, for that matter…we do all miss her, Owen especially.”

  “He’s a nice man, isn’t he?” I venture, and Margaret nods.

  Towards the end of the afternoon the atmosphere at the fete changes. The mostly empty stalls are cleared away and our marquee is commandeered as a beer tent. Christopher, our vicar, and the landlord of The Black Horse roll in the barrels and set them up on a trestle while Liz polishes the glasses.

  I am hot, tired and dusty and longing to sink into the bath, but as I help Margaret to pack up what’s left of the books I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Hello, Princess. Not leaving, are you?” It’s Richard.

  “Well yes, I am.”

  “But you will be coming back? Go on; make an old man happy...”

  He smiles and I smile. A party is a party and the bath can wait. “Give me an hour to finish off here and walk William...”

  “And another hour to make yourself look beautiful.”

  “Cheeky bugger,” I toss my curls theatrically. “That will take about five minutes.”

  As I make my way back onto the field later, one of the first people I see is Owen. He is helping out on the coconut shy. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and he looks relaxed, but I have the impression that the moment he sees me he crouches low to a small child in a pink dress and starts to explain to her in some detail what she should do.

  The locals from The Black Horse have formed a group part way between the marquee and the barbecue. Richard breaks off his conversation and comes to meet me, wrapping a proprietary arm around my shoulder and leading me towards the bar.

  “No G&T tonight, love – will you drink beer instead?”

  “Yes, go on. It’ll make a nice change – it’s so hot.” Secretly I am rather relieved; if I’d spent all night drinking gin I would probably have got very drunk.

  Famous last words. The beer tastes innocuous enough, but maybe it’s the heat, or the fact I only have a couple of sausages to eat, but by the time dusk falls I’m feeling distinctly worse for wear. I know I’m pretty pissed because the jokes Richard and his mates are making are getting funnier and funnier, and I can hear myself laughing louder and louder. Gross.

  Doubly gross when Richard starts pawing my bottom through my skirt. I don’t want to tear him off a strip in front of his friends so instead I decide it’s time to go home.

  “I’ll walk you back,” offers Richard. I’m a bit surprised but I reason he must feel guilty about leaving me to fend for myself last time. I can do with an arm to lean on anyway; let’s say the edges of my world are feeling a little blurred.

  We are not far down the lane when he stops in a farm gateway and takes me in his arms. There is still enough light for me to see that his eyes are dark with passion. He is incredibly good looking and I am momentarily flattered – he sees it in my face and it spurs him on.

  “Oh, Alice.” He is breathing beery fumes all over me as he makes a slobbering attempt to kiss my lips. I turn away and try to wriggle free. “You know you want to,” he continues, his arms wrapping more tightly around me. His hold feels just on the wrong side of affectionate. Too late, it puts me on my guard.

  “Richard – cut that out,” I manage to slur.

  He ignores me and spins me roughly around so that my back is against the gate. I am feeling cornered and it’s hard to breathe so I react violently when his hand makes its way under my skirt.

  “Get off!” I yelp and struggle to free myself, but his whole body pushes me harder against the gate. The more I thrash about the more firmly he holds me and all of a sudden I realise I am completely trapped – he is just too strong. The bars of the gate are cutting into my back and I find myself screaming, “For the love of God, Charles – no!”

  Richard pulls away slightly. “Who’s Charles?”

  I grab my chance and use the space between us to knee him firmly in the groin before taking myself off down the road as fast as my wedges will carry me.

  I don’t get very far. I am too drunk to run and soon my chest is bursting with every step. I sit on the parapet of the little bridge over the beck to take stock. I’m alright really; OK, my ribs feel a bit tender but I tell myself there’s no real harm done.

  I hear footsteps coming down the road. My first instinct is to run, but what if the footsteps started running too? It has to be Richard – the tread is definitely male, and I can feel my teeth chattering. Perhaps if I duck down by the stream he’ll walk on past and I can hide until he’s gone. But what if he’s waiting for me when I get home?

  I decide my only option is to face him off. Fuelled by Dutch courage I call out “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Owen.”

  I am so relieved I almost wet myself. Literally.

  “What the hell are you doing creeping around after me?”

  He has now come close enough for me to see him. “I’m not creeping around,” he says, with some exasperation “I’m just making sure you get home alright, because Richard’s obviously not gentleman enough to do it.”

  My anger with Richard, Owen, and men in general bursts out. “Why should you care, when you’ve been avoiding me all week?”

  “Avoiding you? I don’t know what you mean.”

  He sounds so sanctimonious I could scream. And I do (almost). “Of course you do – you hid in the kitchen when I came to collect my cake, for a start.”

  “I did not. I had a meeting.”

  “You didn’t. You were clearing tables just moments before I came in.”

  “Then I went straight into the office, put on my jacket, and went out of the back door.”

  “To avoid me.”

  “To go and see the bank manager, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Like it’s none of your business how I get home.”

  He draws a sharp breath. “No, I don’t suppose it is. However, as we are both walking in the same direction, are we going to stand here arguing all night or are we going to get a move on?”

  Stubborn as I feel, I can’t stand here for much longer – I need to go to the toilet for one thing, and my head’s swimming for another. Besides, I won’t really feel safe until I’m in my own house with the door firmly locked behind me. Without another word I start walking and Owen falls into step beside me. I say beside me, but that’s not so easy for him because I’m swaying all over the place. A little way further on my foot catches on something and I almost trip up, but his hand is there to steady my elbow.

  “Woops-a-daisy,” he says.

  “Woops-a-daisy? No-one in the real world says woops-a-daisy anymore.”

  “Now you’re misquoting one of my favourite films.”

  “Notting Hill?”

  “That’s right...” and somehow we chat about it all the way to my back door.

  Inside, William is scratching and whining. “Somebody’s missed you,” Owen comments.

  “He’s been on his own too much today,” I say, fishing in my bag for my key.

  Once the door is open William leaps up to welcome me. I am surprised he doesn’t race straight to his favourite drainpipe but when I flick on the light I can see why; he’s messed all over the floor.

  I turn to Owen. “Poor dog – he never asked for any of this, he never asked to come here.” A maudlin tear runs down my cheek.

  Owen places a warm hand on each of my shoulders. “Alice, I’ll clean up. You go to bed and sleep off that beer. No argumen
t. OK?”

  I don’t even thank Owen. I rush upstairs to have a pee but never get back down again because I start to feel sick. And to be sick. And finally to fall asleep (I prefer that to the thought I pass out) on the bathroom floor, cuddling a towel.

  I have no idea how long I am there but it is still dark when I wake. I haul myself up against the chill of the radiator. Am I going to throw up again? I don’t think so, but I feel lousy and I want my bed. I manage to stand and stumble back to my bedroom. The beam from a full moon slices my pillows and I make my way across the room to shut the curtains.

  A movement in the garden catches my eye and I try to focus better to peer out. To my absolute amazement, Owen is coming out of the small door at the side of the barn. He closes it behind him and then he hesitates, his head bent. He passes his hand over his face and looks briefly to the heavens, the wetness of his tears glistening in the moonlight. Then, very slowly, he trudges away.

  Chapter Ten

  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.