The Cheesemaker's House (20 page)

I know Owen is at the door before he even knocks because William breaks into a furious volley of barking. Despite this, Owen bends down to fondle his ears but William bares his teeth and backs away.

Owen sighs, “I'm never going to win with that dog, am I?” He turns to me and smiles, “So how are you, Alice?” and the soft smoothness of his voice and the way he says my name twist something inside me. The way I feel about him hasn't changed at all.

I take the bottle of wine he's proffering. “Fine thanks. You?”

“Yes, good. I hope red's OK; I had a sudden panic walking down here that maybe you'd cooked fish and it wouldn't go.”

“You're OK – it's lamb.”

“Perhaps if I feed William some titbits under the table he'll stop growling at me.”

“No, Owen – you mustn't – Richard does that and it drives me nuts.”

There is an uncomfortable moment before Owen asks, “So how is Richard? I haven't seen him for ages.”

“He comes here every day it's too wet for him to work outside and given the weather recently that's been quite a lot. He's almost finished the barn so I'm planning to decorate the bathroom on Sunday – at least that'll be one room over there done and dusted.”

“Want some help? I'll only worry about you falling off chairs or something...”

“Oh, Owen, that's so sweet of you, but I couldn't ask – it's your only day off.”

“You're not asking, I'm offering. Change is as good as a rest, isn't it?”

I feel myself smiling “Then I'd love it if you would. It's not much fun on your own. It needn't be an early start though; I won't steal your lie-in.”

“Do I look as though I need it that much?”

I gaze at him long and hard. The hair around his temples is greyer and his laugh lines have been joined by a few deep furrows on across his forehead. His eyes may be bright but the rings under them are dark and deep. He looks as though he's lost weight, too.

“Yes, actually, you do.” I mean it to sound like a joke, but instead the words come out softly and I am embarrassed I've let down my guard. “So how is the café?” I continue brightly, hoping he didn't notice.

“Busy – which is good. The bank's off my back for the moment so we must be doing alright. And Adam even had a week's holiday.”

“How did you manage that?”

“The college approached us about taking on a young chef for work experience so it all fitted together pretty well.”

“I'm glad Adam got a break.”

“Yes, so am I. He has a new boyfriend – nice chap, paramedic from Middlesborough. They went off to Cyprus for a week and had a fantastic time.”

“Really? I'm so pleased for him.”

“It is good to see him happy. So – what have you been up to, Alice? I hear you've got a job.”

“Just part time but that suits me at the moment. I like being back in the hustle and bustle of a car showroom, but I managed to put one of the salesmen's noses out of joint this week because I sold a car and I'm not meant to – I'm only the receptionist after all...” And I prattle on about work, and Owen talks about the café, and the evening passes very quickly.

It is just after ten o'clock when he leaves. He gives me the briefest of little hugs – like he used to when we were only friends, right at the very beginning.

“It's been lovely, Alice,” he says, “I'll see you on Sunday morning” and he disappears down the path.

I stand in the doorway while William makes his last trip of the day to his favourite drainpipe. While my mind is happy with the way the evening went, my body is aching for Owen. The little hug has only served to kindle a flame and I am desperate to be touched by him in way I soon discover I can't even satisfy for myself.

When I get home from work on Saturday Richard has left me a note: ‘bathroom all done – go have a look'. So I don't bother taking off my coat and I wander over to the little side door of the barn and flick the light on.

As I step onto the smooth concrete floor the smell of damp plaster greets me and I notice the stud wall that divides the garage from the apartment has been skimmed. To my right a sink is plumbed into the wall and various electric wires hang out; Richard is waiting for me to choose the units to make up the kitchenette. I really do need to get a move on.

I am standing where the baby's body was found. I've heard nothing from the archaeologists and I wonder how long it will take. I'm curious, but by the same token I don't want to be landed with the tiny skeleton now Owen is back on the scene. Our little boat is rather too delicately poised to be rocked at the moment.

I look up at the end of the beam where it slots into the lime washed wall. Cyril's mate from the Historical Society came around to take a look and he was fairly certain that because of the shape of the beams, the house and the barn were built at the same time. He got excited about the one that runs across the centre of the hall ceiling then dragged me out to the barn to show me this one but I still don't really see what he meant. I guess you have to be an expert.

As well as the barn, he was very knowledgeable about which bits of the house were added when. Originally it was a two-up, two-down cottage with a ladder from what is now the snug (then the scullery – surprise, surprise) into my bedroom, which probably connected with a bigger room where the dressing room and landing are. Because it's north facing he said that the hall would have been the dairy but I didn't need him to tell me that either.

I climb the narrow stairway and cross the upper room to the bathroom. The terracotta and cream tiles give it some warmth and my pots of ochre emulsion stand ready for tomorrow. The lights are on dimmer switches and I turn them very low; the burnished copper taps glint invitingly and I am tempted to christen the Jacuzzi, but with no heating as yet it's a bit too cold. I'll have to bring a fan heater or two over tomorrow for when Owen and I are working. And maybe some towels and a bottle of wine for when we've finished. We did the friendship bit on Wednesday and that was OK; now it's time to bring some romance back into our lives.

I get up early on Sunday and prime the bare wood before going back into the house to shower and have some breakfast. I take William for a quick wander up the garden then lock him in the garden room; I don't want him running around getting paint on his fur – or growling at Owen for that matter. I tape a note to the door saying I'm in the barn.

It isn't long before Owen arrives. I hear his footsteps on the stairs just as I am replenishing my paint tray. I straighten up and poke my nose around the door.

“I'm in here,” I call.

“Good morning, Alice,” he says with his usual politeness. “Sorry if I'm a bit late.”

“You're not late – I just started early.”

“Saved something for me to do I hope?”

“Of course. If you're worried about me standing on ladders then you can do the ceiling.”

It takes a good few hours to finish the job but eventually we're able to sit on the edge of the Jacuzzi and admire the results of our labours.

“It looks smashing, Alice, really it does,” Owen tells me. “Really warm and inviting to have a long soak after a day walking on the Moors.”

“What about a soak after a hard day's decorating? Fancy trying the Jacuzzi out?”

My heart is in my mouth as I say it, but Owen shakes his head. “The steam wouldn't do the wet paint any good, would it?”

He is being pragmatic and decidedly unromantic, but you can't fault his logic. I am desperate to close the physical space between us though so I pat the back of his hand. “Sensible as ever.” I tell him.

He looks at me sideways. “No, not always – sometimes the exact opposite.” He turns his hand over and intertwines his fingers with mine for a moment, before letting go and standing up. “Anyway, I'd better get on.”

“Oh. I was going to cook you a meal to say thank you.”

“Don't worry – I've got some leftover chicken casserole of Adam's that needs finishing up.”

It's hard but I tell myself to be grown up about this and hide my disappointment. After all, he's just spent most of his Sunday helping me out. But I must have failed because Owen stops at the bathroom door.

“Come to think of it, there's quite a lot of chicken casserole – I'm sure it would stretch to two. There's a few things I need to do right now, but if you wanted to come over at about 7.30...” he trails off, looking as uncertain as I feel.

I put on a bright smile. “It won't have to stretch so far if I bring a pudding, will it?”

He grins back. “A veritable feast. See you later.”

I am left remembering the touch of his fingers on mine and thinking perhaps there is hope; maybe he just wants to play things ultra slowly.

When I arrive at his house he does nothing to disabuse me of this thought. I have changed into a skirt and pretty cardigan which I leave rather too unbuttoned and as he helps me off with my coat he briefly places his hands on my shoulders and tells me I look lovely, but that is all. Not even a little hug, and certainly no kiss, although for a moment I sense the thought of one in his eyes.

But he is happy and chatty as he dishes up the casserole and we put my apple crumble in the oven to warm. It is almost as though we have gone back to our early days – or to square one, in my book – except now I am craving intimacy even more because I know what I'm missing. Owen opens a bottle of wine and I pray that a couple of glasses will embolden one of us to make the first move.

So when he says, “Alice, there's something I want to talk to you about,” I feel my mouth go dry.

I lean towards him over the table and rest my chin on my hand. “Go on,” I encourage.

“I think I'm about to get busy with my herbs again, in fact, I know I am. It might mean I don't have much spare time for a while and...” he trails off.

“I don't suppose you have the slightest idea how long...”

He shakes his head. “It's another case of emphysema, like Audrey Cutt – word gets around.”

“It's because you're so good at helping people,” I find myself saying and suddenly I feel very proud of him.

He looks down at his hands. “I use the gifts I have been given, that is all.”

“Have you ever thought of making a career as a herbalist?”

“No. These are gifts, Alice. They are not to be used for profit.”

I nod as though I understand. “Did your grandmother teach you?”

He hesitates. “Mainly, but some of it I feel I've always known. The gift is passed down, Alice, from generation to generation.”

“So you will pass it down to your children?”

“Not any child, it would have to be a daughter. But it's academic. The buck stops here.”

I am puzzled. “Why?”

He stands up to start clearing the plates “Because who's ever going to marry me?” he laughs.

“Now you're just fishing for compliments,” I tease, and the moment passes.

Later I go to use the bathroom. It is the first time I have been upstairs and I am confronted by three doors on the landing. Owen told me the bathroom is at the back, but the front bedroom door is open and I can't resist a peep. It is clearly Adam's room, judging by the Leeds United scarf draped over the mirror and the large navy donkey jacket flung on the bed.

The door to the back bedroom is closed but my wine-fuelled curiosity gets the better of me. Downstairs I hear Owen usher Kylie outside so I very gently turn the handle.

But this isn't a young man's room; it is an old woman's. There is a pale yellow candlewick bedspread on the bed and from what I can make out from the shaft of light from the landing, yellow and white floral curtains. The furniture is dark oak, and on the bedside table is a black and white photograph in a plain silver frame. Peering around the corner at the dressing table I spot an ivory hand mirror and clothes brush, and a collection of china dogs. The only trace of Owen in the room is a vague smell of his aftershave. I close the door and go back downstairs. After a very short while I make my excuses and go home.

The heady mixture of damp raincoats and perfume is too much for me and I escape up the escalator to the household department. The thudding behind my eye eases a little as I rise serenely above the fug and I take a deep breath as a display of white fluffy duvets appears in front of me.

My momentary calm is shattered when I turn a corner past the pillows and am confronted by piles of candlewick bedspreads. My head starts to thump again and I make straight for the coffee shop, but the cappuccino is bitter and the chocolate brownie too dry. Instead I open my bottle of water and pop two paracetamol from their plastic blisters. The water spills down my chin as I take them and I wipe it away before anyone sees.

I pick the froth off the top of my coffee with the tip of my teaspoon, thinking that I will hate candlewick bedspreads forever. I didn't even know you could still buy them; they belong to another age – the age of Owen's grandmother. I don't even know her name.

She has always been standing in the shadows behind him but I didn't realise how little he had let her go. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised; ever since I've known him he has proved completely incapable of facing up to his feelings. That he should creep into his grandmother's bed rather than move on should not have taken the stuffing out of me the way it has.

And yet, after he picked me up off the floor the Sunday before last, he tried to talk. And I remember, when we were arguing all those months ago, he said he trusted me more than he trusted anyone else. I dismissed it at the time, but what if it's true? What if I can help him to turn his life around and it's just because I'm so bad at loving people that I'm thinking about running away.

Reality check: every bit of pap psychology I've ever read is telling me he's trouble. The guy needs professional help – he'd just never admit it. I worry he could even be dangerously unhinged but I have no evidence of that. Owen is kind and sweet and spends all his time helping people. Is he perhaps too good to be true? Or does his seriously dodgy self esteem depend on him doing stuff for other people? Seeing a sale basket emblazoned with the words ‘damaged goods' does nothing to improve my state of mind.

All afternoon at work I battle with the headache and by the time I set out for home it has been joined by a distinctly sore throat. It's Friday night and I am due to go to The Black Horse for a few drinks but I can't face it and spend the evening curled up in the snug with William, feeling very sorry for myself.

Next morning I am no better; if anything, my throat is worse. I struggle into work but I'm sent home again within an hour and stumble gratefully into bed and fall fast asleep.

I am woken by my phone bleeping a text. I feel disoriented; I have no idea what time it is – except that it's daylight and for a moment I wonder why I was asleep. Then I stretch out to pick up my mobile and my aching head reminds me.

The text is from Owen: ‘Fancy taking the dogs for a walk tomorrow afternoon?' Of course I would, but even getting out of bed is too much of a challenge at the moment. ‘Would love to but not feeling too good' I text back.

Almost at once my phone rings and almost splits my skull in two. It's Owen.

“What's wrong, Alice?” he asks.

I try to sound cheerful, “Apart from my throat feeling like sandpaper and my head thumping fit to burst...”

“You're not at work, are you?”

“No. They sent me home. I'm tucked up in bed.”

“Good. That's where you should stay until I get there. The weather's lousy so it's quiet at the moment – if it keeps that way I'll try to finish a bit early, but I can't promise.”

“Owen – you couldn't pop into the chemist and get me some throat sweets, could you?”

“No. Because I'll bring you something better than that.”

When I open the door to let Owen in he gives me a great big hug and I hope that's what he meant by something better than a throat sweet.

“You poor duck,” he says, “you look absolutely rotten,” and he leads me into the snug and sits me down on the sofa.

“Now, let's take a look at that throat. Open wide.” He peers inside and tuts. “It's all red and inflamed. I bet you've got a temperature too.” He puts the back of his hand on my forehead and nods.

“I've also got the headache from hell,” I mumble. “Did you bring anything from the chemist?”

“I've brought one of my own tinctures. But first of all I think you need to gargle with some good old fashioned salt water to stop that infection taking hold.”

I screw up my face. “It'll taste foul.”

“It'll sting like mad too, but I'll only ask you to do it once – after that you can stick to echinacea.”

“To what?”

“Trust me, Alice,” he squeezes my hand, “I know what I'm doing.”

The salt water is horrible but he is right – it takes the edge off the soreness and he puts a glass of water with some echinacea on the bedside table for me to sip every hour or so. Finally he gives me two little tablets for my headache and puts a cool flannel smelling of rosemary on my forehead.

He sits on the edge of the bed and takes my hand. “I'd like to come back later to see how you are – would that be OK?”

“Lovely.”

I drift off to sleep with the thumping in my head fading and the scent of rosemary wafting into my nose.