The Cheesemaker's House (25 page)

Owen sits on the edge of the bed. He waves a limp hand around the room.

“So you didn't run away when you saw all this?”

I sit down next to him. “It was the closest I came. It was the evening after we'd painted the bathroom. But you were so kind to me when I was ill – and I could see how much you were struggling…no, I couldn't run away.”

He reaches for my hand. “It will seem odd, sleeping in Gran's bed with someone.”

“Well she must have done it at some stage,” I laugh.

Owen shakes his head. “I think not.”

“Whatever do you mean? She was your grandmother.” I stop in my tracks. “She was, wasn't she?”

“Yes. Yes of course she was. But she never married. My father was the product of a wartime affair with a Canadian army officer; he was a physicist in civilian life – she always said it was where I got my scientific brain from.”

I think of the woman in the photograph and the big knickers in the bedroom drawer. “Owen, I've been snooping,” I confess. “I was just so desperate to get to know her and when Adam's train was delayed it seemed the perfect opportunity. I looked at the photo but it told me nothing so I opened a drawer – a drawer I don't think you've been into since she died.”

He drops my hand. “Like I said – you and Adam – you've got me all ways up. Cornered. Trapped.” He stands. “Look – you sleep here and I'll go on the sofa.”

“Owen – no – I shouldn't have done it but I'm not sorry I did. You see I found an envelope addressed to you – I expect she thought you'd find it after she died.”

“So did you open that too?” His voice is heavy with sarcasm.

“Of course I didn't – but you should. In the top left hand drawer of the dressing table is a red jewellery box – it's inside the lid.” I stand too. “You're angry with me, and rightly so. I'll sleep on the sofa – you stay here.”

Of course I do not sleep. I hunch on the edge of the armchair, inwardly kicking myself for handling this all so badly. The china menagerie on the mantelshelf stares down at me malevolently and I can't say I blame them; I have probably destroyed every shred of trust Owen had in me. But he has to read that letter. I wonder if he will.

My fingers are stiff and knotted together. The voices from Margaret's muted TV have kept me company through the wall, but after a brief flare of music there is silence. I glance at the clock on my phone – it isn't even midnight and the date reminds me it's the longest night.

It crosses my mind to collect William from the kitchen and go home. The house is so quiet that Owen must have gone to bed and it is very cold. I cast around for something to wrap myself up in and then I remember the chenille cover on the dining room table. It will do.

I turn off the light but I know the haughty china cats are still staring at me and I am beginning to despise them. I burrow into the sofa, years of embedded dust and fluff irritating my nose. I stifle a sneeze and I lie there, listening to the silence.

A door closes quietly upstairs and I hold my breath for a moment, hoping for a creak on the stair. A car goes past outside, slowly and cautiously on the icy road. There is a hand on my shoulder and I jump out of my skin.

“Alice?” It is Owen, his voice close to my ear. I twist around to find he is crouched next to me. “I read the letter,” he says.

I struggle to release my hand from the chenille, and when I do I stroke his cheek, smoothness and stubble on the ends of my fingers. “I'm glad.”

“You're cold,” he replies. “Budge up.”

Our feet hang off the end of the sofa as we wrap our bodies together, my face burrowed into his chest, his breath warm in my hair. There is something unfamiliar about the feel of him and it takes me a moment to realise there is a chain around his neck. I nudge it with my nose.

Owen accepts the question. “My grandfather's St Christopher. You must have seen it in the box. Gran wanted me to wear it always.”

“Is that what the letter said?”

“Yes.” He pauses, “And plenty about grief, and regret, and love. She regretted Grandfather giving her the St Christopher because if he'd kept it he might have come back safe, but I don't think she regretted anything else.”

“Then she was a remarkable woman.”

“She also knew me very well. Like you and Adam know me; better than I know myself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“One day, Alice, I'll let you read the letter but I'm not ready to share it just yet; it's too true and it exposes too many of my faults. Some of the things Ads said tonight…about confronting...”

“You don't have to do it alone, Owen.”

“I know – and I can't do it alone either. But I have to find the place to start myself.”

I hug him tighter to me. “You've read the letter. I think you already have.”

The frost stays away in the run up to Christmas so the gravedigger has no trouble doing his work. It is a small hole, but deep. He stops when he comes across another coffin. Margaret wants him to scratch around to see if there is a name on it but Owen says there would be no point. And for us there isn't; we know it contains the remains of Thomas Winter.

So on Christmas Eve afternoon we finally lay Alice and Thomas's baby to rest. We have a very short service inside. I expected Owen to take an active part, but he does not, and Christopher reads the lesson himself – the one about Jesus suffering little children to come to him – and then we troop across the churchyard for the committal.

Christopher leads the little procession, followed by Owen who is carrying the box with the baby's remains. Adam, Margaret and I are close behind and Richard trails after us. I don't know how he knew about the funeral but of course he has every right to be here. He found the baby, after all. And he saw Thomas. And he is descended from Alice Fulton.

It proves too awkward for Owen to lower the box into the grave on his own and it is Richard who comes forward to help him. As they both straighten I see them look at each other with something that approaches understanding. Then Owen steps back beside me and looking across the grave I notice Richard has mud on his suit trousers.

I cannot take my eyes off that mud as Christopher begins the committal. I need something to focus on; I am too scared to look around me in case I see Mother, or Alice, or even Thomas, watching proceedings. But whether or not I can see them I feel their presence. I glance at Owen, but he is staring into the middle distance. Who, or what, he sees, I cannot tell.

Richard takes his leave of us in the churchyard and Owen all but sleepwalks back to New Cottage. His skin has an unhealthy grey tinge to it. Christopher helps him out of his coat and guides him to the sofa in the snug. He speaks to him for a few moments then comes into the kitchen to fetch a cup of tea. By the time he takes it back, Owen is fast asleep.

The rest of us stay quietly in the kitchen.

“He's exhausted,” Christopher explains. “He told me it was as though he's just healed half a dozen people.”

I bow my head. “I wish I understood more about this healing.”

Adam nods. “Me too. It's an amazing gift, but it takes too much out of him – I wish he would give it a break sometimes.”

“I don't think he has a choice,” Margaret chips in. “In that way it's a gift and a curse.”

“Everyone has choices,” Adam mutters.

“I don't think Owen does” Christopher says. “It's like a vocation to him, a calling. It's part of who he is.”

After a little while Christopher and Adam leave but Margaret lingers in the garden room. She delves into her handbag and pulls out the charm wand.

“I know you gave it to me,” she says, “but I think it needs to come home. I…I'd just feel happier if it did.”

I nod. “The time does feel right.”

“Perhaps it should never have left here.”

“No – I think it needed to for…for things to happen. But that's all finished now.” I give her a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Margaret.”

She envelopes me with real warmth. “You too, Alice.”

Owen is still fast asleep and I fetch a blanket from the airing cupboard to cover him. He doesn't even stir. I draw the curtains across the patio door and dim the lights to their lowest level, bathing the room in an orange glow. Then, very quietly, I close the door and retreat into the hall. I let William out of the garden room; he and I are going to decorate the Christmas tree.

It is something I've been looking forward to doing with Owen but I find I am quite content doing it on my own. It's not an enormous tree – about four feet high – and it is sitting in front of the hall window where everyone passing the house can enjoy it. First the lights go on, then the tinsel, and finally the baubles; all new this year, and all red and gold. I left the old Christmas stuff with Neil.

I step back to admire my handiwork then wander into the kitchen to pour myself the smallest of glasses of wine and take it back to the easy chair in the hall. William snuggles against the radiator, but in truth it isn't cold in this room any more – in fact it feels rather warm and cheerful with the tree lights sparkling and reflecting off the glass. Next Christmas there will be a child; of that I have no doubt. I can almost feel her starting to grow inside me.

I close my eyes and picture Owen's face, sound asleep in the next room. The long lashes covering those extraordinary eyes, the lines etched deeply under them, the fair hair tinged with grey. He may have aged physically these last few months but there is more than a little that is childlike about him, in both his looks and in his nature. From his simple kindness to his complete inability to deal with the tough things in life, like his grandmother's death. Although now I have every confidence that he will be able to.

It's always been in him. Taking on someone like Adam and turning their whole life around was a courageous thing to do. So is curing the sick and giving comfort to the dying, without a thought about the cost to yourself. No, there is plenty enough man in Owen to learn and to grow. He will make a fine father. And a fine husband.

He showed me the diamond ring in his grandmother's box and he told me that one day it will be mine. But not yet. He says he needs to get his head straight first, that he needs to be worthy of loving me. I laughed and told him the boot was on the other foot but he would have none of it. Stubborn he is for sure; but he will be worth the wait.

I take my wine glass back to the kitchen and rinse it out. The charm wand is where I left it, next to the kettle. I hold it up to the light and try to count the seeds but find it is impossible. I give it a little polish with the tea towel then tuck it on the ledge above the front door. No-one will see it, but I will know it's there. Then I settle down with my book.

I hear the church bell start to toll for Midnight Mass. I take a peep at Owen in the snug – he is still fast asleep. William slips past me and to my absolute amazement jumps up and curls himself on Owen's feet.

I fetch my duvet and tuck myself under it on the other sofa. I don't want Owen to wake alone. By whatever strange bonds we are already tied together, for better and for worse, just as surely as if the ring was on my finger and Christopher had said the words over us. After all, William's instinct is unerring.

 

 

 

The icy air is a slap in the face after the fug of the probate office. And a slap in the face is what I damn well need, but it doesn't help and I am left feeling disorientated. I have to pull myself together. For Claire's sake, as much as anything. A father is irreplaceable, after all – a husband is, well…

She touches my arm. “Come on, Mum – let's go for a coffee now that's over.”

“I thought you had to be in college?”

“It's fine – I've got time. No class ‘til 11.30.”

The closer we get to Winchester city centre the more crowded the pavements become. The early morning shift of Christmas shoppers battles back to Tower Street car park, carrier bags thudding against their legs. Coats, handbags, reddened faces rush towards me and I sidestep into the gutter. A cyclist curses. Claire grabs my arm.

“Watch out, Mum.”

“Sorry… sorry.”

It is little better when we reach the pedestrian section of the High Street. Crowds ooze around a handcart laden with gloves and scarves. Claire fingers an emerald green one with orange tassels but I can't stop now; I can see Caffe Nero ahead and I want to be inside, away from all this. I turn my head, that's all. I keep walking.

My face meets the softness of an anorak. It is the smell of it which makes me recoil. I look up to see a bearded face framed by straggly hair.

“Sorry,” the man mumbles.

“No – no it's my fault – I wasn't looking.”

He melts into the crowd and Claire is tugging at my arm. But I know him; I'm sure I do. Then I'm sure I don't. How could I?

Claire sits me down at the nearest table while she queues for our drinks. She'll be gone a while. I unbutton my coat and spread it over the back and arms of the low leather chair, sliding into its lining. I close my eyes but I can still hear Christmas; instrumental carols through the chatter. A face drifts across my memory; a pair of intense hazel eyes. No. It was twenty years ago.

Claire has two mugs of latte in one hand and a plate of banoffee pie in the other.

“They've run out of trays.”

“I don't think I've ever seen it so busy in here.”

She hands me a fork and plunges the other one into the pie. “Sugar. We need it.” She savours a mouthful. “Mmmm – it's delish. Dig in.”

“I'm OK, Claire. Really.”

She nods, but she doesn't believe me. Come on, Isobel – get a grip. I clear my throat. “I'm fine, honestly. I was just… wondering… I think I know that tramp I bumped into.”

Claire frowns. “How do you know a tramp?”

“He wasn't a tramp then. It was a very long time ago. I'd only just finished college – if I'm right, of course.”

“So what makes you think it was him?” She sounds cautiously curious.

“Two things really – his height and his eyes. You have to admit he was exceptionally tall.”

“You only came up to his chin.”

Her words stir a warm memory and I pick up my fork.

“So who do you think is he, Mum?”

“Someone I knew before I started my teacher training. I was filling in time selling stationery and he was the office manager at one of the big firms of solicitors.”

“Office manager? Wow – I wonder what happened?”

I shrug. “People's lives change. The last time I saw him he was wearing a suit.” But that's a lie and I know it; Robin was naked – his face buried in a pillow, our duvet twisted around his legs. I ask Claire what classes she has today.

The clock ticks past eleven and Claire has to go. The crowds outside are even thicker, but through the shifting shapes of bags and coats I spy a bearded man in a grubby blue anorak sitting on the bottom step of the Buttercross – right opposite the café door. Claire's eagle eyes don't miss him either.

She nudges me. “Mum – it's your tramp.”

I nod. “I know. I think I'll get another coffee.”

“You'll be alright?”

“Of course I will. Now you run along and I'll pick you up from the station later.”

I do buy another coffee, but it isn't for me. I ask for a takeaway and balance some sugar and a stirrer on the lid before fighting the short distance across the street. I put the cup on the step next to the man but he doesn't look up. I am unsure now; unsure of everything and I don't know what to say, but as I turn away I hear him mumble “Thanks, Izzie.” I have only moved a few feet but I keep on walking.