The Cheesemaker's House (14 page)

I wake in bed when it is barely light and realise I am alone. I sit up sleepily and look around me. Owen's clothes are not on the chair where he normally leaves them; perhaps he has decided to go home. But then I hear the patio doors slide open and closed beneath me and the sound spurs me into action; if I race downstairs and open the front door I can cut him off before he goes.

I grab my dressing gown and rush from my room. But one look through the glass in the front door makes me stop; Owen isn't walking away from the house, he is crossing the road from the green and walking towards it. But then he isn't; he comes into my field of vision from the direction of the barn. It is a heart stopping moment. I open my mouth to scream but instead I watch soundlessly as Owen's face becomes a mask of terror and he turns and runs for his life.

I push open the door and race up the drive after him, then across the lawn. I am calling his name but he doesn't stop and I lose valuable ground as we pass through the orchard. At the end of the garden he vaults the fence before setting off across the field.

“Owen – Owen – please – come back!” I am screaming but I can't follow him in my bare feet. All I can do is yell and watch him disappear in the direction of the Swale and the Moors.

I can't make up my mind how early I dare tell Adam what has happened, but at least prevaricating about that stops me from thinking about anything else. I hunch on a kitchen chair, unable to take my eyes off the digital clock on the cooker as it clicks away each minute.

It is 5.03 when I start watching the little green numbers and the hour until six is endless, but by the time quarter to seven arrives I have decided. My frozen muscles scream when I move, but I drag myself up the stairs and into the shower, get dressed, then set off up the road.

As I ring the doorbell I am praying that Owen has made his way home and will answer. But I know it is a faint hope. The house is silent; no-one comes. So I ring and ring again, and Kylie starts to bark and finally I hear Adam grumbling as he makes his way downstairs. His face is like thunder as he opens the door, but when he looks down at me his expression changes.

“It's Owen, isn't it? What's wrong?”

“He's run away.”

Adam stares at me, incredulous. “What d'you mean?”

“When I woke up this morning his clothes were gone but I was in time to…to…see him run off across the field. I tried to chase after him, but it was no good…I…I didn't have any shoes on.”

Adam opens the door wider. “You'd better come in.”

I follow him past the vase of walking sticks and up the hallway into the kitchen. Kylie unfolds herself from her basket to lick my hand in greeting. I sit at the table and fondle her ears while Adam runs water, fills the kettle and switches it on. Ponderously he reaches for the pot and spoons tea into it. He is moving as though he has a hangover – perhaps he does. He leans on the edge of the kitchen unit and watches the kettle as it boils.

Finally he says, “I didn't mean to push him over the edge, Alice. Never in a million years. But I was angry – so fucking angry...”

“It wasn't you – something else...”

He cuts me off. “But it must have been me – those awful things I said to him yesterday evening…those awful, awful things.”

I wait while he pours the water into the teapot and puts milk in the mugs. Then I ask, “What things, Adam?”

He swings around. “You mean he didn't tell you?”

I shake my head. “All he said was that he hadn't brought Kylie because you fancied taking her for a walk yourself.”

“Oh shit.” He brings the mugs over to the table and spoons sugar into them.

I reach my hand across and grasp his. “Whatever you said, it wasn't the final straw.”

“Well if that wasn't, then what was?”

I look down at my tea. “It's a long story. Well longish. Remember the night we went to The Black Horse? When I said I thought I saw Owen on the village green but you didn't? Well, that wasn't the first time I'd seen someone or something who looked very like Owen, but wasn't.”

“Someone or something? What do you mean?”

“I don't really know. It's like the crying I've heard, and now I'm sure the two are linked. Owen heard the crying too and, well, never mind that for the moment, but this morning he came face to face with the other Owen and he just turned and fled.”

“But I don't understand, Alice. What are you saying? Is the other Owen a real person or a ghost?”

It is typical of Adam to have put it in such plain terms but I cannot answer him. I don't have to though, because the doorbell rings.

Adam leaps up. “It must be Owen – he's always forgetting his frigging keys.”

I follow him as far as the hall. On the doorstep is a policeman and my world seems to go into slow motion – just like it does in the movies, only this is sickeningly real. The policeman is asking Adam if this is where Owen Maltby lives. When Adam nods, he asks if he can come in. He is not alone; a policewoman follows him. They always send one when there is bad news. I am rooted to the spot.

As he draws level with me Adam says to the policeman, “I'm Adam James, Owen's housemate. This is Alice Hart, his girlfriend.”

“Have you found him?” My voice sounds squeaky and high pitched.

The policeman sits down at the table and gestures to us to do the same. The policewoman takes the chair next to mine and I imagine her pockets full of tissues for when I cry.

“So Mr Maltby is missing?” the policeman asks.

“Yes. Since early this morning. Why – what's happened?” Adam's voice sounds brusque; firmer than my own, anyway.

“We've had a report of someone fitting Mr Maltby's description jumping off the old bridge into the Swale. The gentleman who phoned us seemed to know him quite well and was pretty sure about what he'd seen, but of course at the moment we only have his word for it.”

“So, what are you doing about it?” Adam's words eddy around my head, colliding with the memory of Owen swimming in the river.

“...Miss Hart?” The policewoman is touching my arm.

“Sorry?”

“Any arguments or such like? Any reason your boyfriend might have taken his own life?”

I force my brain back into real time and clear my throat. “Owen's been under a tremendous amount of pressure recently...” But that is all I can say.

There is a long silence.

Finally Adam asks, “So what happens now?”

“We'll let you know if there are any developments, and of course we may want to ask you both some questions later on. Does Mr Maltby have any family who should be informed?”

“None that I know of. He was brought up by his grandmother but she died last year.”

I don't hear the policeman's reply. I am staring at the knots of wood in the kitchen table, trying not to think of all the years Owen has sat here drinking tea, just like Adam and I were before the doorbell rang. I want to go back to that moment again, but it won't change anything. I want to go back to first thing this morning; if only I'd just kept running across the field, not letting him out of my sight. I want to go back to…but none of it would make any difference.

Chairs scrape away from the table and Adam leads the police up the hall. On her way past the woman touches my shoulder but I don't react. I wouldn't know how to.

When Adam comes back I gather up the mugs and put the kettle on to boil again.

“The last lot went cold,” I explain, but he just sits down at the table and rests his head on his folded arms. I move across and put my hand on his shoulder. “Try not to think about it, Adam. It's the only way.” He doesn't answer, doesn't move. I carry on making the tea.

A few minutes later there is a tentative knock on the kitchen door. I rush to open it, struggling with the top bolt, only to see Margaret standing outside, wearing her Sunday best.

“I saw the police car,” she ventures. “I came to see what's wrong.”

“Owen's…Owen's...” but I can't bring myself to say it.

Adam looks up, his big round face blotchy and streaked with tears. “Owen's killed himself. He jumped off the old bridge into the Swale.”

The colour falls from Margaret's face. “No,” she whispers.

“We don't know that, Adam,” I find myself saying. “He might still be alive, he's a very strong swimmer, he might just have fallen...”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Alice.” Adam buries his head in his arms again.

I pull a third mug off the shelf and pour some tea for Margaret. “I've only just made it,” I tell her.

She sits down at the table and pats Adam's arm. “Alice may be right, you know. Owen's the last person in the world who would take his own life – his Christian faith would never allow him to. Adam, you should know that.”

I find myself gratefully clutching at the straw Margaret has offered, but then Adam mutters, “But what if he was beyond reason? What if he'd lost it completely?” And I think of Owen in the barn, endlessly reciting Christopher's prayer over the little skeleton. We fall silent.

After a while Margaret asks what the police are doing and Adam tells her they're looking for him. Then she asks what we're going to do. Adam and I look at each other blankly. Finally, and somewhat desperately, she asks if there is anything she can do.

“There is one thing,” I hesitate, “When you go to church, can you ask Christopher to say a prayer for Owen? Not a public one, because we don't want anyone else to know what might have happened until we know what has, but just a prayer to himself. Owen is a great believer in Christopher's prayers.”

“Yes of course, Alice, and I'm sure it will help.”

After she leaves Adam asks me if I really believe in all that mumbo jumbo. I say that I think I do, but it doesn't matter what I believe, but what Owen does. So I tell him about our drink with Christopher and Jane on Friday night, and then what happened in the barn just hours before Owen disappeared.

When I've finished Adam looks at me bleakly. “So he had totally lost it then?”

I nod. “I think so, yes. Even before he saw the other Owen; even before your argument; so you needn't start blaming yourself.”

“Alice, I will always blame myself. You see, I told him I wanted out of the café, out of his life. I threw every good thing he's done for me over the years back in his face. And d'you know what? He just stood there and took it. I wanted him to fight, to yell back at me, but he didn't. He just waited until I'd run out of steam and then he asked me to give him another week or so, just so he could work out how to unravel it all. And then he went upstairs to get ready to go to see you.

“But I couldn't leave it there. I was even angrier that he didn't seem to care I was leaving so I stormed after him. But when I got to the top of the stairs I could hear him sobbing. Like a little child – like he did when his gran died – and if I'd been any sort of friend I'd have gone right in there and hugged him. But I didn't. I just grabbed a beer and went to watch television.”

I want to say to him ‘There are always things that we think we should have done' but somehow I can't form the words.

I use William as an excuse to go home. Adam and I are not doing each other any good; he is drowning in guilt and grief while I am trying to pretend this isn't happening. Although he looks forlorn, alone at the kitchen table, I sense his relief when I leave.

In total contrast William jumps up to lick my hands before racing across the lawn. I follow him half heartedly, and all I can do is wonder why I didn't just keep running after Owen. Surely tearing my feet to shreds would have been nothing compared to the way his world was tearing apart. After a very short while I can stand it in the garden no longer, and lead a reluctant William back to the house. I can't even look at the barn.

Being inside isn't much better. I wander around like a ghost. For a long time I stand at the dining room window, gazing at the village green, willing at least one of the Owens to appear, but of course no-one does. A few cars whizz past, blatantly ignoring the thirty mile an hour limit like they always do, and then a couple of cyclists, but no Owen.

The room is chill and I hug my arms around me. I am longing for my shawl; my grey dress feels thin and inadequate, and yet it's the one I always wear. My hand reaches for my stomach, so recently bereft of the life inside it and the dark emptiness threatens to engulf me. I am not gazing at the village green, but at the farmhouse beyond. It is so achingly familiar with its low thatch, but its homely comfort is too far in the past for me to reach.

I jump out of my skin when Richard's van pulls into the drive. I feel disorientated, as though my mind slid off somewhere else. It must be shock, I tell myself, and stride through to the garden room to open the door.

Richard looks as though he has aged about ten years. The lines around his eyes are not laughing, but are etched deeper into his tanned skin.

“I came to say how sorry I am about Owen,” he says, looking down at his trainers.

“How do you know?”

“It was me who saw him on the bridge. Alice – I would have stopped him if I could, I tried to go after him, I...” He is twisting his keys round and round. What he says hits me like a bow wave; if it was Richard who saw Owen jump, then there can be no mistake.

I grip the doorframe. William licks my hand. Richard continues to stand there.

“Come in,” I say. “Then you can tell me exactly what you saw.”

For about the hundredth time today I make a pot of tea and spoon sugar into the mugs. Richard doesn't complain and we sit down at either side of the little kitchen table.

“So – what happened?”

“Didn't the police tell you?”

“Only in outline. Richard, please, I need to know.”

“There isn't much to tell. I was coming back from town at about quarter to six this morning. I'd…well, I'd bumped into an ex in the pub last night and one thing kind of led to another.” He pauses. “But anyway, I was crossing the new bridge when I saw Owen on the old one. I knew something wasn't right straight away because he was standing on the parapet. I mean, I know he's a strong swimmer but he understands that river – he'd never dive in from there – and besides, he was fully clothed.

“As soon as I got to this side I stopped and shot out of the van. I called out, but maybe I shouldn't have because it was then he just leant forwards and tipped himself into the river. It sounds fanciful, but for a moment, before he…he did it…he looked just like an angel. His arms outstretched, his fair hair and white shirt...” Richard swallows hard.

“I absolutely pelted down the bank. I knew he'd be hurt, but I thought at least I could jump in after him and try to stop him from drowning. But by the time I got there I couldn't see him. Nothing in the water at all – not even a ripple. I guess the current's quite fast under the bridge but I keep going over it again and again in my head; if there was anything else I could have done.”

Richard paints good pictures with his words. I think of the funny stories he's told me about his other clients; odd how you think of irrelevant things at stressful times. But something about the image isn't right – I replay the scene in my mind and suddenly I hit upon it.

“Owen wasn't wearing a white shirt,” I blurt out. “He was wearing a brown fleece.”

“What about underneath?” Richard sounds cautious.

I think hard. Had Owen taken the fleece off yesterday evening? No – he'd put it on; when he arrived he'd been carrying it – and wearing his blue T-shirt.

“A blue T-shirt.”

“Perhaps he went home to change?”

I shake my head. “No. Richard – he ran across those fields in such a state...” I stop mid sentence. “The shirt couldn't have been cream, could it?”

“Yes, very easily. Or any light colour. I didn't really get that good a look; it was just the impression of an angel stayed with me.”

“What you saw could very well have been an angel. To be honest, I don't rightly know what it was, but it wasn't my Owen.”

So for the second time today I launch into the story of the other Owen and how I think it's somehow linked to the crying we heard. Richard listens without comment, his big hands wrapped around his mug of tea.

When I finish he says “So this other Owen, as you call him, he's always wearing a cream shirt, is he?”

“Yes. Not white – a really definite cream.”

“Then I've seen him before. One night last week when I was driving home I passed him in the lane coming up from Scruton. I beeped my horn and waved but he didn't acknowledge me. I just thought it was Owen being a miserable sod, to be honest.”

It takes a moment for what he says to sink in. “So you've seen him too?”

“Looks like it. But Alice, what is it we've seen? A ghost?”

“I don't know, I...” My hand flies to my mouth. “Adam! We've got to tell Adam it wasn't Owen you saw – he's breaking his heart up there. Come on.”

“Perhaps you'd better go on your own. I'm not right comfy with Adam, you know.”

I grab his wrist. “Oh no, Richard, this is no time for a bout of homophobia; Adam mightn't believe it if I tell him, but he'll have to believe a firsthand account.”

When we arrive Margaret is sitting with Adam in the kitchen. She offers us tea but I refuse, saying I'm drowning in the stuff. Adam is so dazed he doesn't even question why Richard is there but Margaret looks at us expectantly.

“Richard was the one who saw Owen jump off the bridge – but now we've talked about it we've realised it wasn't Owen at all.”

At this point Adam does acknowledge Richard. “Crap, Alice. He's just saying that to get into your good books now Owen's gone. He's had the hots for you since the day you arrived.”

“No – it's not like that at all. It was me who realised it couldn't have been Owen because the person Richard saw jump was wearing a cream shirt.”

“You mean there were two people throwing themselves into the river this morning? Get real, Alice.”

I want to shake him. “Adam – what Richard saw was the other Owen. I didn't see where he went because I was too busy trying to catch our Owen, but he must have headed for the river too.”

“The other Owen?” Adam is more thoughtful now. “I suppose if you can see him, and Owen did, then there's no reason why Richard shouldn't...”

“I've seen him before, too,” Richard interrupts, “only I thought it was our Owen at the time – I was just a bit surprised when he didn't acknowledge me.”

“Excuse me,” butts in Margaret, “what on earth are you on about?”

So for the third time today I tell the story of the other Owen.

I expect Margaret to be highly sceptical but she isn't. In fact, she passes no judgement at all, just nods occasionally, and when I have finished starts on a tale of her own.

“Owen's gran used to tell a story about a young man who killed himself by jumping off that bridge. I couldn't get it out of my mind in church – I kept thinking that Owen must have known the story too and perhaps that was what had put the idea into his head.”

Richard looks ashen. “So you think it could have been this other guy's ghost I saw?”

Margaret nods.

“What else do you know about him?” I ask, but my voice comes out hoarse.

“Well the story goes that he fell in love with a girl who was secretly engaged to someone else. The lad had always been a bit wild, but he went completely off the rails when he found out he couldn't have her, drinking and wenching, as they put it then – it was even said he fathered an illegitimate child but he never acknowledged it. Still he tried to persuade the woman he loved to marry him but she would not break her word to her fiancé and in the end he drowned himself in the river.”

It's only a story but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I start to shiver. A chill creeps through me from head to foot.

Margaret asks if I'm alright and I shake my head. “I think I'll just go home and have a lie down. It's probably delayed shock – I'll be OK.”

She reaches over the table and squeezes my hand. “That sounds like a very good idea, Alice.”

Back in my own bedroom I draw the curtains against the sun. On the floor next to the window is Owen's T-shirt – he didn't even stop to put it on. I pick it up and bury my face in it. It smells of his sweat, and the washing powder he uses, with just a hint of his deodorant. It smells just like Owen and I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to think of him out there, somewhere. I cannot bear to think of him suffering. But more than anything, I cannot bear to put the T-shirt down and I sit on the side of the bed, waiting for the tears to come. But nothing happens.

I put my face to the T-shirt again. I picture Owen washing the tearstains from his face yesterday evening then pulling it over his head. He'd done a good job – I hadn't noticed he'd been crying and he hadn't told me – not anything about the row with Adam. The familiar hurt surges up with a vengeance; I love him so much, but I know him so little. And yet – I know him so well, too. Sometimes, I feel I even know what he isn't saying. But not this time. When it all came falling down on top of him, he didn't tell me and he ran away from me. How can I mean anything to him?

I want to shelve the hurt but I can't because it's almost physical. It is gnawing into my stomach and chest like a rat. I didn't know emotional pain could feel this way. I hug the T-shirt to me, trying to make the feeling so acute that the bubble will burst. I can hear Owen's voice telling me that it was inevitable he would hurt me and I wonder if even then he was planning to kill himself.

The thought brings me to my senses; it wasn't Owen who jumped from the bridge this morning. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't Owen. But as for where he is…I would sell my soul to the devil just to be able to answer that one.

I sit on the bed for hours, but I don't cry. Eventually I start to feel cold so I crawl under the duvet. I fall into an exhausted sleep and – rather inevitably – I dream about Owen.

I am watching from a window as a mob of people banging pots and pans surround him, chanting words I can't quite make out. In the middle of the crowd are two teenage boys on stilts, but one of them has flowers in his hair and they are bumping and grinding their bodies together like some lewd circus act. Owen is ignoring them and trying to push through the mass.

His way is barred by the boys on stilts and two women grab him from behind while some of the men pull his leggings from him and lift up his shirt to expose him to the crowd, who are now pointing and jeering loudly. I feel my face glow crimson – I have never seen a man's intimate parts before and I am burning with shame. I turn away from the window and feel myself falling, falling forever into a blackness where all I can hear is the thudding of my heart.