The Cheesemaker's House (10 page)

It is beyond the grey of dawn and the first weak rays of sunlight slant across the window. Owen's breath is light and steady next to me, and I luxuriate in the moment of not waking alone. I turn my head towards him; in sleep he looks almost boyish, the worry lines gone and his hair sticking up in crazy spikes.

I lie on my back and close my eyes but I don't want to sleep; I am enjoying having him close to me, and thinking about the night before. That was a bit of a revelation, to be honest. After our uncertain start in the garden, after our first explosive quickie on the sofa in the snug, when we actually made it into bed Owen turned out to be the most generous lover I could possibly imagine. After years of Neil's wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am approach to lovemaking it was pure bliss.

I am so lost in my reverie I almost jump when Owen's fingers brush my face.

“Alice – you are so beautiful,” he murmurs.

I turn so that I can feel every inch of him against me; my cheek against his stubble, my breasts and the curve of my stomach touching the soft hairs on his body, his prick gloriously hard against my thigh. Already it is as though I have known the shape and feel of him for years.

When we wake again it is because the church bell is tolling. We look at each other guiltily.

“I hope you're not down to read the lesson,” I say.

He smiles, “Thankfully not. But it mightn't escape half the village's notice that neither of us is there.”

“Is that a problem?”

“You can't avoid it in a place like this anyway. I just feel...” He bites his lip.

“Go on.”

I hold his gaze and eventually he says, “Last night was wonderful, and I wouldn't change it for the world, but there are things I would have wanted you to understand first.”

“Such as?”

He shakes his head. “Things that need time to explain. And although missing church isn't the end of the world I do need to get up because it's lunch at Adam's mum's today.”

As he speaks he pushes me lightly away and swings his legs over the side of the bed. I sit up and tuck the duvet around me; it's not cold, but I suddenly feel naked and exposed. Owen retrieves his boxer shorts and pulls them on, then his chinos.

“I think your shirt's downstairs,” I say, trying not to sound sulky and failing miserably.

He sits back down on the bed. “Have I messed up already?” He's not joking, and I realise with a jolt just how fragile his confidence is.

“Of course you haven't, you idiot. I'm just feeling a bit empty after all that closeness. Give me a hug, tell me when I'll see you again, and I'll be fine.”

He is smiling and hugging me for all he is worth, and I promise I'll cook him supper on Tuesday. Tuesday – it seems nearly forever away. He kisses me and walks out of the room. I listen to his footsteps go along the landing and half way down the stairs, then stop and come back.

He pokes his head around the door. “You don't fancy taking the dogs for a quick walk this evening, do you?”

I nod, trying not to look as though he has just made my day.

I wake alone for the first time in days and immediately miss Owen's warmth next to me. I roll over and pick up my watch – ten past eight – only eleven hours until I see him again.

I burrow under the duvet and catch a hint of his deodorant. I am reluctant to get up; I want to wallow in it for as long as possible, but it quickly fades and below me in the garden room William starts to whine. Still lost in dreams of making love with Owen I pull on my dressing gown and stumble downstairs.

I let William out and turn on the radio in the kitchen. In America the anti-abortionists are at it again. As I start to run the tap an uncomfortable realisation worms its way up from the recesses of my mind – contraception – or rather the lack of it. As the water splashes into the sink I curse out loud. What a stupid risk to take.

I need to do something – and fast. I do a quick calculation – it's borderline as to whether the morning after pill will work after five days, but Owen was a pharmacist so he will certainly know.

As I push the café door open Owen looks up from putting some sandwiches into the refrigerated display case and his face breaks into an enormous smile.

“Alice,” he says, “what a lovely surprise.”

We meet behind the counter and he gives me a hug and the lightest of kisses on the lips. There are a few customers dotted around the place so it is a surprising demonstration of affection.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but we need to talk.”

He pulls away and there is anxiety in his eyes. I ruffle his hair.

“It's OK, you idiot, I only need your advice.”

“Wait in the office. I'll get Adam to mind the shop.”

The office is no more than a windowless cupboard off the passageway that runs along the back of the café. An old piece of kitchen unit has been fitted across the far end of it to form a desk, and on it is Owen's laptop, flanked by neat piles of paperwork. On top of one pile is a bank statement and I can't stop myself looking. I wish I hadn't; the business is overdrawn by a scarily large amount. Things obviously haven't improved that much, and what I am about to say will only add to Owen's worries. I curse my carelessness.

Owen slips into the office and closes the door behind him. “What's up?”

“Owen, you were a pharmacist – what do you know about the morning after pill?”

He only looks taken aback for about half a second, then he nods. “We have been a bit irresponsible, haven't we?”

“It's my fault, I...”

He grabs both my hands. “It's
our
responsibility, not just yours. Takes two, remember?”

He winks at me and I blush.

“Well there won't be much point in the morning after pill I'm afraid. Not at this late stage of the game.” He pauses. “But if you'll trust me, then I can sort this out.”

“Trust you? Of course I trust you.”

“OK then, just promise me you won't spend all day worrying, and come around to see me at about half eight tonight.”

“Thank you.” I give him a lingering kiss and wander off to the chemist to buy about a gross of condoms.

Before I leave for Owen's I take William for a long walk around the garden then slip my toothbrush, some of the condoms and my moisturiser into my handbag. The thought of spending the night with Owen is taking my mind off puzzling over what his plans could be to deal with my potential unwanted pregnancy. Maybe he has access to some very early warning testing kit or something.

When I reach the house Owen answers the door almost before I knock and ushers me into the dining room.

“It's OK, we won't be disturbed – Adam's gone out.”

“Tactful absence?”

“No. He's gone to Middlesborough. You know he always does on a Thursday.” Before I can even sit down Owen ploughs on. “I can understand that an unwanted pregnancy isn't on your agenda and even though it's too late for a conventional morning after pill to work, there are alternatives.” Despite garbling the words his voice sounds formal and stiff.

“What sort of alternatives?” I ask, smiling in what I hope is an encouraging manner.

“Herbs.”

“Herbs? Like the ones in your garden?”

“Including some of the ones in my garden.” He sounds terse. “Is that a problem?”

“No...” I find myself stammering, “It's just something I've never thought about before.”

“You don't think they'll work?”

I remember him taking umbrage when he thought I was doubting his grandmother's skills so I am quick to pour oil on troubled waters. “Not at all – you asked me to trust you and I do.” But somehow this isn't my boyfriend I'm talking to; it is a complete and utter stranger.

“Good. But the herbs I'm thinking about are pretty powerful, so before deciding whether it's safe to use them I need to find out about your general health.”

His face is strained and his fingers are wrapped tightly around each other, flexing in and out. I try to break the atmosphere. “So do you want me to take off all my clothes and lie down on your couch, Dr Owen?”

He does at least try to smile. “Nothing like that, no. But please, do sit down.”

On the table is a large wooden box, lovingly polished but wearing the chips and scars of prolonged use. I expect Owen to open it, but instead he reaches into a rucksack on the chair next to him and pulls out a notepad and a state of the art blood pressure monitor. He is very serious about all this and as he asks me questions, looks at my tongue and at my eyes, I begin to understand that this is something he is very accustomed to doing.

Eventually he opens the box. It is lined with green velvet and inside are dozens of brown glass bottles, all neatly labelled. To the left is a section for empty vials. He pulls one out and turns to me.

“I'm going to mix three tinctures; they're all uterine stimulants and they're all completely natural so they work with your body.”

“So basically they irritate the hell out of my womb so that a baby can't grow.”

He looks away. “It's not so different to the way the morning after pill works. It's what you want to happen, after all.” He sounds decidedly huffy and I regret being so blunt.

“I'm sorry, Owen,” I say, “I didn't mean it in a bad way – I was just trying to understand.”

He nods. “No, no, that's fine,” but his hand is shaking as he measures the liquids, so much so that he spills a great deal of the last one on the table.

“Owen, are you sure...”

“That it'll work? Of course it'll work.”

“That wasn't what I was going to say. I was going to say – are you sure you want to do this?”

His eyes are momentarily wide with astonishment, but then he turns away, stoppers the vial firmly and hands it to me. “You take it in three equal doses, four hours apart. It won't taste great, so my gran would have said to disguise it in a glass of gin.”

“What would you say?”

“Hold your nose and get it down you.” He pauses, biting his lip. “Alice – these herbs are strong and they could give you some nasty stomach cramps. I...I'd rather be with you if they do. Would you mind waiting until tomorrow lunchtime to take the first dose, then if I could come around after work...” he trails off. He looks really miserable and I reach my hand across the table to touch his fingers.

“I'd like you there. It's a little scary, to be honest.”

“No – you mustn't be scared.” He is trying to sound reassuring but his voice is shaking again. He takes a deep breath. “Come on,” he says, “I'll walk you home. Kylie can come too and stretch her legs.” So he isn't planning to stay the night. Although that doesn't surprise me after the way he's been, it does make me feel completely and utterly alone.

It is just before four o'clock in the afternoon and I am sitting at my kitchen table with the glass vial in my hand. It is time to take the second dose, but the first one was so disgusting – bitter and gloopy all at the same time – that I am hesitant. I am also not quite at ease with what these herbs are doing but it is far too early in the relationship to even countenance a baby. The reality is that I know Owen hardly at all – as last night illustrated perfectly.

But all the same the fact that there could be a child growing inside me is preying on my mind. The thought that I didn't have to take the stuff drifted into my head in the early hours of the morning. I've always wanted a baby and I'm thirty-five years old – I could almost hear an inner voice telling me that this could be my last chance. But I can't trap Owen in the way that Angela trapped Neil. I can't bear the thought that I would never be really sure if he loved me or if he was just doing his duty.

I play with the vial for a few more minutes, idly staring out of the window. The thought of drinking it is making me gag. In the end I decide to go down Owen's grandmother's route and drown the mixture in gin. I have to say it goes down a little better and I stir myself to prepare tea.

It is a sultry afternoon and even with both windows open there is no breeze; the kitchen is too hot before I even turn on the oven. It won't be pleasant to eat in here and I'm loath to use the dining room, even though it's cool. I just don't like it for some reason.

The answer is clearly to eat on the little patio outside the snug and I'm sure there's some garden furniture in the loft space above the barn. It was a present from my mother so I wouldn't have dared leave it with Neil.

It is hard to see how the loft will ever become a luxurious holiday pad. The panes of glass in the windows are cracked and the beautiful oak beams covered in cobwebs. At the front end there's a nasty gash in the floor where Richard has started to experiment with load bearing joists to take the weight of the Jacuzzi. I wonder idly when he'll be coming back.

I find the little wooden folding table and struggle with it down the narrow stairs, taking it outside and setting it on the patio. As I go back for the chairs William starts to follow but gives up as soon as I enter the barn. It is far too hot for him to bother, and he slinks back to his shaded spot on the edge of the raised back lawn.

I know how he feels. The sticky heat is draining and by the time I've cleaned up the furniture all I can do is slump down on one of the chairs. William's spot is close by and I reach out to fondle his ears.

I must have dozed as I wake to the sound of Owen's voice. I open my eyes and see that he is in the scullery talking to a woman in a grey dress. I watch through the open casement but she has her back to me, so I can't tell who she is. Owen's face is tense and his words tumble out one after the other, but too faintly for me to hear what he is saying. The woman bows her head and he turns away from her, his shoulders rigid with anger.

It is at this point I realise there is no scullery, and no casement window. I bury my head in my hands and a wave of nausea rises up from the pit of my stomach. I am aware of William scampering towards the patio doors and starting to bark furiously, but I dare not open my eyes. What the hell have I just seen?

Suddenly Owen is beside me. “Alice – what's wrong?”

I shake my head, but it is beyond me to look up or speak.

His arm is tight around my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh. “Tell me, Alice. What is it?” He sounds desperate but I can't say what I saw – he'll think I'm nuts. Then I remember the warning he gave me about the herbs.

“It…it was just a stomach cramp…like you told me might happen.” I sit up slowly. “The worst of it's over now. I'm alright really.”

His grip relaxes. “I was afraid that's what it was when I saw you doubled up like that. Do you think you'd be better lying on the sofa?”

I look up properly then, towards the snug. And it is the snug, with its glazed patio door that I left open to let the air through. But I don't much fancy going in there.

“No, really, I'm OK now and it's so hot inside. There's a bottle of wine in the fridge. Why don't you fetch it and we'll sit here quietly and have a glass before supper?”