The Cheesemaker's House (6 page)

Not sleeping well is becoming a habit. I wake with a start in the velvety darkness and my mind instantly switches to worry mode, the proverbial monsters from under the bed shifting and groaning and keeping me awake. I turn on the light, pick up a magazine, change my mind, put it down again. Not once, but several times. It is daylight before I doze off again.

So it is late next morning when William and I make our daily circuit of the garden and Margaret is already hard at work clearing the greenhouse. I watch her for a few moments, thinking how unlike my perfectly coiffed mother she is; straight hair cropped close, wiry arms tanned from being outside so much protruding from the sleeves of a floral blouse that has seen better days, her whole being vibrant with energy and good humour.

She stops work for a moment and spots me. “I thought I'd make a start before it gets too warm,” she explains.

I look guiltily at the raspberries. “I'll come out and join you when I've given William his biscuits.”

Margaret and I work for an hour or so, with William snoozing under a nearby plum tree. It's good to be doing something physical and even better that I'm not alone.

After a while Margaret gives up on the tangle of brambles in the greenhouse and comes over to help me.

“They're ripening beautifully,” she says. “You really do need to think about buying those nets.”

“I'll get them this afternoon. Only goodness knows what I'll do with all the fruit if I do manage to keep the birds off them – I've never made jam in my life.”

Margaret snorts. “Well don't ask me – I can never get mine to set.”

“Perhaps I'll give them to Adam so he can make some raspberry tarts for the café.”

“He'd certainly make the best of them – he's such a talented young man. Misunderstood by a lot of people around here, but then looking like a skinhead and keeping himself to himself doesn't exactly help.”

“So he doesn't get involved with the life of the village in the way Owen does?”

“Well no, but then he's not from around here.”

“From his accent I thought that he was.”

Margaret laughs. “You're obviously not tuned into the local subtleties yet. Adam's from Leeds – Owen met him when he was at university there.”

“I didn't realise they went back that far. Judging by the paintwork on the café, I assumed the business was pretty new.”

“It is. They only started it at Easter. Owen's a pharmacist by profession, you know, only he gave it up when his grandmother fell ill so he could look after her. Once she died he never went back to it. I don't know why.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“She had cancer and it was a nasty drawn out business for both of them. It's lucky that Adam moved in straight afterwards because Owen would be very lonely on his own.”

“Are you lonely on your own, Margaret?” I ask.

“Sometimes. But I just get on with it. Why, are you?”

I hesitate. “I…I don't really like to think about it. I'd rather keep myself busy, you know, so I don't have time.”

She reaches out and pats my hand. “It's much the best way, dear.”

I know she's right. But I also know I need more than just activity; I need to find something to do that will use my brain. As I carry the nettles to the compost heap it strikes me: Owen's problems with the café have provided me with the perfect opportunity to help him and to help myself at the same time.

I reach Caffé Bianco just before closing time; the last customers are going out just as I am coming in.

Owen looks up from the counter and smiles. “Hello, Alice. What can I get you?”

“Skinny latte please.” I delve into my bag for my purse but he stops me.

“Oh no, this one's on the house. We're shut, anyway.”

“Owen...”

“No argument.” He turns to the coffee machine. “You couldn't put the sign to closed and pop the bolt across for me, could you?”

Adam drifts out of the kitchen. “I could do with a coffee too. Alright, Alice?”

“Fine thanks. You?”

“Better now. Started the day with a hell of a hangover though. Not good for a Monday.”

“You can say that again,” Owen snaps.

“Oh, don't go on. You know why it happened – now just leave it, alright?”

“But every time you...”

“OK, OK – so I'm lousy at choosing boyfriends – there's no need to rub it in.” Adam sounds quite vicious, and there is an uneasy silence while Owen makes two lattes and an espresso for himself.

“I've come to talk to you about an idea I had to help the business,” I falter, “but if now's not a good time...”

“Oh, Alice – you are sweet, but you shouldn't worry about us,” says Owen a fraction too carelessly.

Adam snorts. “Don't bullshit, Owen. All you ever do is moan about how bad things are, and how we'll struggle to be here next month.”

“We won't be if I can't persuade the bank to give us some breathing space.”

“Won't trade pick up over the summer, with the tourists and that?” I offer.

“Well it might if we weren't stuck down an alleyway in the back of beyond,” grumbles Adam.

“It's not the back of beyond,” Owen retaliates. “It's on the main footpath to the biggest car park – and anyway it was the only place we could afford.”

I don't want this to escalate into an even bigger argument so I step in quickly.

“So what we really need to do is let people know you're here.”

Owen folds his arms. “We can't afford to advertise, we haven't got any money.”

“You're like a fucking parrot these days,” Adam shoots back, “‘we haven't got any money, we haven't got any money'”. His mimicry of Owen's posh accent is cruelly accurate.

“Hey, cool it guys. This isn't getting us anywhere and it's beginning to piss me off.”

Adam fiddles with the handle of his mug and Owen straightens a pile of paper serviettes. Neither of them looks at me.

I take a deep breath. “OK, there are things we can do very, very cheaply to promote the café; things I can do at home on the computer for the price of a few reams of coloured paper and a printer cartridge. Leaflets for car windscreens, discount vouchers, loyalty cards – all sorts of stuff. Please let me try – you've both been so kind to me.”

“That sounds great,” says Adam. “We can offer a free coffee when they buy a cake or summat...”

“I don't think we need to be that generous,” I smile.

Owen opens his mouth to speak, but Adam cuts across him, “If you say ‘we haven't got any money' I'll thump you.”

“I wasn't going to say that. I was just going to say thank you.”

Adam puts an enormous arm around his shoulder and gives him a squeeze. “Good lad.”

I am half way to the car park when Owen catches up with me. I hear his footsteps running so I turn to wait.

“You shouldn't have had to have witnessed that,” he tells me, “I apologise. For both of us.”

“I understand. It's a stressful situation.”

He pushes his hair back, running his hand over his head in what is becoming a familiar gesture. “You're not wrong. It seems like I'm perpetually tired, just trying to work out what to do. And I'm afraid I take it out on Adam when I shouldn't. Especially when he's just been chucked by someone he was beginning to care about. I ought to be more patient with him I know, but...”

“If there are times you can't talk to him about stuff, then you can always talk to me.”

“Thanks, Alice. I really do appreciate it.” And he hugs me; a proper hug, not one of his little quick ones, a real hug where I feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. As I walk away my heart begins to sing. Most inappropriately, so I tell it in no uncertain terms to shut up.

I am most surprised to see Richard's van pull into the drive. I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since the night of the fete, but on a practical level I wasn't expecting to, knowing he was waiting for the damp proofer before being able to get any further with the barn. All the same, at the back of my mind was the nagging thought that I might have lost my builder.

Apparently I haven't. “How you doing, Princess?” he calls as he crunches across the gravel.

“Good, thanks. You?”

“Busy as hell with this dry weather. But I am free this evening – fancy coming out for a bite to eat?”

I hesitate. The night of the fete is very much unfinished business between us but somehow I don't want to be the one to bring it up. Our eyes meet, and all of a sudden Richard looks more than a little uncomfortable.

“Look, I can understand if…well...” he tails off for a moment before starting again. “Look, can I just come in for a minute?”

I nod and lead him as far as the garden room where I perch on the edge of my desk while Richard stands in front of me, looking rather like an exceptionally tall and dusty schoolboy.

“Alice, about, you know…I could say it was the drink but I'd rather just tell you I've never, ever done anything like that before and hope I never do again.”

He looks so wretched I try to make light of it. “You've probably never had to.”

He smiles fleetingly. “I'm not that irresistible – wish I was. But honestly, I…well, you know, I'll understand if you want to find another builder. I mean, I might have hurt you and it might be hard to have me around the house after that.”

“I might have hurt you, kneeing you in the groin.”

“Thankfully I was too drunk to feel very much, although I did wake up with a hell of a bruise on my thigh.”

“Well let's just say I won't give you another one unless you deserve it.”

“Deal.” We shake hands solemnly. “D'you want to come out then?” he asks. “There's a good band playing at a pub in Bedale.”

“Not tonight, Richard – I'm a bit tired. Another time, maybe?”

“Fair enough.” He starts towards the door but then he says “There's just one thing, Alice – why did you call me Charles?”

“Charles?”

“Yes, when you yelled at me to stop, you called me Charles.”

“Did I?”

“I wondered if Charles was your ex or something.”

“No – he was Neil. And for all his faults, Neil was never aggressive.”

Richard winces. “I didn't think I could be either. I may have thumped a bloke or two but I've never touched a woman in anger in my life, but there I was, trying to force you...”

“We were both very drunk.”

“I've been drunker. I've been over it time and again in my own head and I still don't know why I did it – it was almost like it was happening to someone else.”

“Someone called Charles, maybe?” I joke.

Richard laughs as he climbs into his van. “Let's hope so – it would get me off the hook, anyway.”

It is with a great deal of satisfaction I close my computer down. I pick up a sheaf of papers from my printer; red and white Caffé Bianco leaflet and loyalty card mock ups. They look clean, fresh and eye-catching and I am sure Owen and Adam will like them. I send a text to let Owen know they are ready, and wait for his reply.

In the end I wait almost a whole day. And it annoys me, because although I am busy moving my bed into the spare room ready to decorate my own bedroom and putting the nets over the raspberries, I am acutely aware that I am waiting. I keep picking up my phone to make sure I haven't missed it bleep and that exasperates me even more. I stuff it in the cutlery drawer and don't look again for a whole hour.

As I potter around avoiding the kitchen I try to make sense of it; surely if Owen really likes me he wouldn't leave me hanging on like this? And as he's not showing a great deal of interest, why am I hanging around waiting for him? I end up feeling like a sad loser and over the course of the day I become more and more miserable.

At last I receive a reply from Owen: ‘Can you come to the house tonight – about 8.30?' I cheer up instantly. Bugger.

I hear Kylie bark in the distance when I ring the doorbell, then footsteps in the hall. Owen has changed out of his work clothes into a bright blue tie-dyed T-shirt and the colour really suits him. He leads me into a dining room at the back of the house.

“I hope we'll be comfortable enough in here, but it will be easier to spread things out if we work on the table.” He pulls back a chair and I sit down.

“Now, what would you like to drink? Glass of wine? Cup of tea?”

“A glass of wine would be nice.”

“I've got some dry white in the fridge – is that OK?”

“It would be lovely.”

As I wait for him to come back I examine my surroundings and find that they are not so very different in style to the front room. The table and chairs are of the period of the house, and in a rich mahogany. The table is covered with an old fashioned chenille protector which matches the slightly faded dark green velvet curtains.

When Owen comes back he is smiling cheerily and carrying two large glasses of wine.

“Is Adam joining us?” I ask.

“No, he goes to Middlesborough on a Thursday night – there's quite a gay scene there and he enjoys it better than being buried in the country. He says hello though.” He laughs, “I think he's rather taken to you, you know – it's a great compliment – he normally can't stand women.”

I get the sample leaflets out of my bag and explain what I've done. Owen suggests small changes to the wording here and there and we include a voucher for a half price cup of coffee. Owen likes the loyalty card as it is; with any luck it will keep people coming back, but in reality Adam's cakes alone ought to do the trick.

Finally I pull out a poster, with a little map showing directions to the café.

“That's all very well, Alice,” says Owen, “but we really need something like this at the end of the alleyway.”

“Sorted – I hope.” I have my fingers crossed here; I've been a bit cheeky and he mightn't like what I've done. “I've got quite friendly with the woman in the haberdashery on the corner, and she's willing to put it in her window provided you give her staff a 20% discount.”

Owen is open mouthed and I back pedal rapidly. “I know 20% sounds a lot but she strikes a hard bargain. I could always go back to her though…I haven't promised...”

“Oh Alice, it's not that at all – you're wonderful, really you are. How on earth did you think of doing that?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I've worked in selling all my life and it feels like I've always known this sort of stuff. It comes naturally. Anyway,” I carry on quickly, “how do you want to tweak the poster?”

We talk for a little longer, and when everything is finalised and I've finished my wine I stand up to leave. I say everything, but there is still a small piece of card in my pocket and I can't decide whether to give it to Owen or not. But he seems a bit less tense than he has been of late so I decide to risk it. It's a little trick I read about in Psychologies magazine.

“I've got something for you,” I venture, and I press it into his hand.

He reads it out loud: “This too will pass.”

“For when you're having a particularly shitty day. Stuff it in your pocket and remember it's there.”

“Alice, that's so sweet of you…it might just help me to keep everything in perspective and stop me taking it all out on Adam. He really doesn't deserve it.”

“We normally do take things out on the people closest to us.”

He smiles a wry smile. “Yes, worrying, isn't it? Sometimes…sometimes the harder you try with someone the more you tie yourself up in knots.” And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, he might be talking about me.

“Perhaps the answer's not to fret about it too much,” I suggest, knowing only too well it's easier said than done.

Owen offers to walk me home and we stroll in silence back to New Cottage. I am half way up the drive, some yards away from him, when I turn to say goodnight.

“Come here.” His voice is different; soft, low, yet commanding in a way which sends shivers down my spine.

I retrace my steps and he hugs me; tenderly but firmly, and then he drops a gentle kiss onto my cheek.

I find myself saying, “Don't disappear on me” – but I don't know where the words come from.

“I'll try not to.” He touches my shoulder and smiles, and then he is gone. I raise my fingers to my cheek as I watch him walk up the village.