The Cheesemaker's House (13 page)

I take my coffee to the decking next to the pond to wait for Dr Graham, the archaeologist, to arrive. I want to get away from the house and feel the sun on my back.

Owen went off to work this morning as though nothing was wrong, but I took him a coffee while he was shaving, and the eyes looking out from the mirror were lifeless and ringed with black. What if the crying has been Owen in my barn all along? But it can't have been – that night I opened the door and saw only cattle he certainly wasn't there…but was that real, or was it the effect of too many sleeping tablets?

And if it is Owen, then why? I've seen a sadness in him, certainly, and more than once, fear as well. But what has shaken me most is his absolute conviction that he will hurt me; he almost sounded intent on making it a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I hear a car pull into the drive and I jump up from the bench to welcome my visitor. Dr Graham isn't the venerable old gentleman I expected but a prematurely balding man of about forty, tall and skinny, wearing cords and a black polo neck jumper.

He shakes my hand warmly and I offer him coffee.

“Later, perhaps,” he says, smiling. “I'd like to take a look at your find first.”

I show him into the barn and he kneels next to the hole in the floor. “My, oh my – that little skull looks perfect,” he exclaims.

“There's a shoulder bone poking out too,” I tell him. “I hope the whole thing's intact.”

“My first guess is that it might be.” He looks up over his shoulder and grins. “But in archaeology we're not really meant to guess, so don't tell anyone.”

“Then what will you do?”

“There's no doubt we need to lift the skeleton and have a bit of a dig around to see if we can find out anything about its context.”

“Its context?”

“Yes. How it relates to the building around it, if there's anything else buried with it. It might help us to get a date, and maybe even some clues as to how it got here.”

“It would be nice to know. But what happens to it afterwards? I…I'd like to think it could have a proper Christian burial.” This is Owen's idea actually – he mentioned it just before he left this morning – and somehow it does seem the right thing to do.

“Don't worry, Miss Hart, we do treat burial sites with the proper respect.”

“But afterwards? I'm sure it's not important enough to be kept in a museum...”

“We don't know that at the moment. But if it's not of historical significance there is nothing to stop you disposing of the body as you wish.”

‘Disposing' is such an awful word, like it's going to be thrown into the dustbin. “But it's someone's child,” I find myself whispering.

Dr Graham smiles again. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound harsh. Let's have that cup of coffee and I can explain the whole process to you.”

The house is empty and lonely after Dr Graham leaves and I want someone to talk to. I pick up the phone and dial Richard's number; he'll be interested to hear what's going to happen, I'm sure. But my call goes straight to voicemail – he must have had another job to fit into today. And I know Margaret has gone to York with a friend. I look at my watch; if I eat a sandwich really slowly, then do a few chores, it will be about three o'clock before I get into Northallerton and the café should be a bit quieter by then.

Actually, it isn't. There is quite a queue so I slip behind the counter and ask Owen if he wants a hand. He looks absurdly grateful.

“You couldn't clear a few tables, could you?”

I grab a tray and a damp cloth and get to work.

It is a full fifteen minutes later that the dirty plates are stacked in the dishwasher and the queue has dwindled to a couple of elderly ladies dithering over which cake to choose. I stand next to the coffee machine and listen as Owen takes them through what's on offer and then, with a great deal of charm, guides them towards the Victoria Sponge. I am sure the reason these old biddies come here is because of Owen; he never rushes them, he is unfailingly polite, and he has that special way of making customers feel they are the only person in the world. If they weren't about seventy I might even be feeling jealous.

Finally he turns towards me and I can see the lines of tiredness etched into his face.

I squeeze his hand. “How you doing?”

“Better for seeing you.” He gives me a brief kiss on the cheek. “How did the visit from the archaeologist go?”

I start to tell him but another customer comes in, and then another, so my account of what is going to happen next becomes disjointed as we make drinks and serve cakes. I thought Owen might stop me helping but he doesn't and we work seamlessly together while in the lulls I tell him that one of Dr Graham's team will come next week to excavate the body and the area around it, before taking the finds away to their lab to be examined and dated.

“Finds?” Owen asks, “Does that include the baby?”

“I think that is the baby.”

“Did you ask about burial?”

“Yes. If it's not of historical significance then we can do as we wish.”

“And if it is?”

I am puzzled by his anxious tone. “Well, it won't be, will it?”

“How do you know?”

“It seems pretty unlikely...”

“So does finding the skeleton of a baby in your barn at all.”

Another customer comes in and I have to concede that he is right.

A little while later Owen says, “I think we should talk to Christopher about this.”

“Christopher?”

“He's the vicar, after all. He might have a view. Or…or perhaps be able to say a few prayers or something before they start the excavation.”

There seems no harm in doing as he asks.

The evening starts well enough. Christopher and Jane are fascinated to hear how Richard found the little skeleton and the archaeologist's plans for it. As Christopher opens a second bottle of red Jane asks if she can bring the children to see the excavation.

It is only when Owen says, “It's not a sideshow, it's a burial site,” that I realise how little he's contributing to the conversation.

“I don't think the fact that it's a burial would bother them too much...” Jane starts, but Owen cuts across her.

“That isn't what I meant. I meant that it should be treated with respect.”

“Jane only wants to bring the children to look,” I tell him. “It would be very educational for them.” I know I sound awfully prim but it certainly isn't up to Owen who I let into my barn and who I don't. There is an uneasy silence.

“They will treat it with respect, Owen,” says Christopher, easing the cork out of the bottle. “It's the way they've been brought up.”

Owen looks suitably contrite. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. But anyway, that's not how I meant it.”

Christopher puts the wine down and leans forwards, interested, rather than confrontational. “Then how do you mean it?”

“It's just the way everyone's behaving. First Margaret having a good poke about in the hole; then the archaeologist labelling the poor child as ‘a find' and threatening to cart it off to a museum somewhere…it's not right.”

“I'd have said it was the normal thing,” I reply.

“Maybe, by some people's standards, but it's not
right
.” Owen takes a deep breath and I notice his hands are shaking as he pours wine first into Jane's and then into my glass. “Look, however long ago it was someone buried a tiny child in unconsecrated ground. Now that child deserves a proper, Christian burial. Not to be treated as…as…well, a sideshow is the best word I can think of.”

“Owen,” I try to take his free hand, but he pushes me off. “They did say we could give it a proper burial once they'd finished.”

“As long as it's not of historical importance. That's all that matters to them; not that it's a tiny human being.”

“We do need to discover the historical context, though,” says Christopher. “Only then will we know what's appropriate to do.”

“What d'you mean, appropriate? Are you refusing this child burial?” Owen is bristling with indignation.

“Listen, Owen. The first thing that needs to be determined is when the baby died. For all we know, it could pre-date Christianity.”

I shake my head. “The archaeologist was fairly certain that it couldn't pre-date the barn. Although of course he can't be sure until they've excavated it properly.”

Christopher steeples his fingers together. “Well if that's the case, then we're dealing with a predominantly Christian era, certainly. However...”

“Then what's the problem?” Owen bangs the wine bottle down on the kitchen table and Christopher looks genuinely shocked.

“Owen, this is really important to you, isn't it?”

“It should be important to all of us. We all call ourselves Christian, after all.”

Christopher ignores the slur. “So you're saying that if we do nothing, we are walking by on the other side?”

“Yes, that is what I am saying. Yes.” But it sounds to me as though it's not what Owen is thinking at all.

“Well once the authorities release the body I don't see why it can't be re-buried in the churchyard with the appropriate Christian rites.”

“And if they don't release the body?”

“Then there's nothing I can do. We can't exactly stage a midnight raid on the museum, can we?” Christopher laughs and Jane joins in a little uneasily, but I don't. I even have to stop myself from edging my chair away from Owen.

“Is there nothing you can do before they take it away? Maybe say the burial service over it where it is?”

“I can't do that, Owen. For one, as you pointed out, the ground isn't consecrated, and for another, under church law they'd then need to go through all sorts of hoops before exhuming it. It just can't be done.”

“It can't, or you won't?”

Christopher's voice is firm, but gentle. “It can't be done. But what we can do, of course, is pray for the baby's soul. Prayer is a powerful thing, Owen. I don't have to tell you that.”

Owen runs his hand over the top of his head. “Yes…you're right. I…I'm sorry, Chris. But this is just so important.”

“I know.” Christopher reaches out and pats his shoulder. “Shall we say a prayer now?”

Owen nods and we all bow our heads.

“Heavenly Father, we know nothing of the child whose bones lie in Alice's barn, but like all your children, we know that this little soul deserves your peace. As Jesus said to gather little children to him, so may you gather this child into your fold, and grant him or her everlasting grace. Amen.”

We fall silent. The wine tastes bitter in the back of my throat.

Owen stretches over to silence the alarm then thuds onto his back, motionless. I prop myself up on one elbow and see that his face is deeply lined with exhaustion, his skin a dead, unhealthy-looking grey. I trace my finger along his cheekbone and down the side of his face, but he neither smiles nor opens his eyes.

“Owen, you stay there. I'll go into the café this morning.”

Then his eyes do shoot open, but they are dull. “No, Alice. I can't let you do that.”

He starts to sit up but I push him back onto the pillows. “You bloody well will. You look awful. What use will you be to Adam if you keel over in the middle of a busy Saturday?” Without waiting for a reply I leap out of bed and flounce off to the bathroom.

Owen may be worn out but I have woken up completely refreshed, and it isn't until I am in the shower that I realise why; there was no crying last night. Not a sob, not a sound. Thank goodness it seems to be over again. But Owen's troubles are clearly not; in fact, by taking on moral responsibility for the skeleton he's actually adding to them and I don't understand it at all.

It is no good asking Adam for advice, either. He's not good in the mornings, but even so I am unprepared for the mouthful I get when I turn up instead of Owen to go to work.

“It's alright for fucking Owen. Who's going to do the baking when I fancy a lie-in on a Saturday?”

“Owen doesn't ‘fancy a lie-in' – he's exhausted.”

“What the fuck do you think I am?” It isn't a question I have a satisfactory answer to, so for once I keep my mouth shut.

Normally Adam's humour improves as the morning wears on, but not today. I try to do what I can to help in the kitchen before the café opens but I am told in no uncertain terms to get out. And later there is no cheerful banter as we work and I begin to wonder whether I did the right thing after all.

Owen appears at the café in time to deal with the midday rush. He looks a little better but on close inspection I realise that he is wearing some of my concealer to hide the shadows under his eyes. He tries half-heartedly to send me away but I simply carry on working until things quieten down at about three o'clock.

“You can go with a clear conscience now, Alice,” he tells me. “And thank you, I really do appreciate it.”

“I know you do.” I kiss him on the tip of his nose. “Are you coming around tonight?”

“I'd like to, if you'll have me.”

“Just why would I not?” I tease. “Perhaps we could walk the dogs, take a picnic with us if the weather holds?”

Finally he smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

“Shall we ask Adam if he wants to come?”

“Great idea.”

But it isn't – far from it. When I ask Adam if he wants to come for a picnic I get a lengthy tirade about how come Owen is well enough to go out when he wasn't well enough to come to work, and how he'll have a few choice words to say about it to Owen too, once the café is closed for the night.

“Please…Adam,” I beg him. “It wasn't Owen's fault. It was mine – I made him stay in bed. He looked so awful and he really isn't...”

“Shut the fuck up and get out,” Adam hisses. If the café wasn't full of people I know he'd have yelled the words out loud.

I hope our picnic at the trout pond will make Owen relax a little and the way he hits the wine makes me think that relaxation is his intention too. Or maybe even oblivion. Owen is not a big drinker and he downs two thirds of the bottle in relatively short order. But it does make him more talkative and he tells me about how, when they were teenagers, he and the owner's son would camp out on the island for days at a time.

“If you look carefully in the bushes there are a whole load of old stones, like there used to be a building here. We'd try to find them and work out what it was like.”

I look around the island. “Small and damp, I'd guess.”

“More than likely. When we were really little we'd pretend it was a highwayman's hide out – maybe even Dick Turpin's – and have all sorts of battles with the law. It used to make Gran laugh – she'd sometimes come over here collecting wild herbs.”

“Do you collect herbs from here?”

“Not very often.”

He doesn't elaborate, but being me, I push on. “So where do you get your herbs from, mostly? Do you grow them all?”

“A wholesaler's in London.”

“So that's why you have to go down there?”

“Yes.”

Owen has gone from chatty to monosyllabic within minutes. I touch his arm.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Owen...”

He sighs. “Look, I'm sorry. I had a nasty letter from the bank manager again, that's all.”

“You don't need that when you're already so exhausted.”

“No, it's just one more thing...”

There is a choke in his voice. We are sitting with our arms around each other's shoulders and he reaches across to hold my free hand just as tightly as he can. It feels complete, as though we have closed a circle between us and are therefore safe. But of course it's not real. I can't keep Owen safe from the world. The best I can do is to be there for him and I so want to tell him that I love him, but it doesn't seem to be the right time.

I am stiff with cold before he turns and kisses me. “Thanks for not making me talk,” he says. “I don't think I could right now.”

“That's OK. Let's go home and have a nightcap.”

We have more than one nightcap, to be honest, even though we hardly speak again. We curl together on the sofa in the snug, drinking brandy and listening to a Duffy CD. When it finishes the silence is filled with the sound of sobbing.

I look at Owen in horror. “Oh no – not again.”

I expect him to question me but instead he stands up and heads for the patio doors.

“Where are you going?”

“To the barn.”

I unwind my legs from under me. “I'm coming with you.”

He shakes his head, “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

“I don't care. I'm coming.” If I do I might finally get to the bottom of what's going on.

I follow him up the garden and through the side door of the barn, edging around the hole where the skeleton is. To my surprise Owen kneels next to it, but I remain standing. Or rather I try to. He tugs on my hand so violently I find myself kneeling too.

“Show some respect,” he hisses and a chill runs through me.

And then he starts reciting Christopher's prayer. Not just once, but over and over again, and, as far as I can remember, word perfect from the one time Christopher said it. From the dark corners of the barn I can smell the sweetness of the hay and hear the snuffling breaths of the animals close by. My head begins to spin with the brandy and my enforced kneeling upright and I feel I am going to topple into the grave, but somehow I stay rigid next to Owen, right until he finally says Amen. I am shaking so much it is all I can do to crawl outside and collapse face down on the cool, damp grass.