by Jane Cable
“No Owen today, pet?”
I try to smile while my stomach churns. “Not today,” I answer, “But you tell me just exactly how he makes your coffee and I’ll do the best I can.”
“Mainly milk, please, with just a little bit of that espresso stuff. I don’t like it too strong.” She sounds worried, so when the milk is hot we pour the coffee in together, a tiny bit at a time until it is just right, and I find I am over the bad moment. I can’t stop myself from wondering how many more bad moments there will be.
The worst one comes late in the afternoon when a skinny man of about my own age comes in. He is wearing jeans, an open necked shirt, and a rather worried expression.
“What can I get you?” I ask, giving him my best new customer smile.
His reply is a question of his own. “Is this Owen Maltby’s café?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is he around?”
“No, but his co-owner is.” I turn to call Adam from the kitchen.
The visitor persists. “Is he not around because he’s who the police have been searching the Swale for all weekend?”
“Who are you?” I try to sound arsy, but fail.
“Colin Smith, Yorkshire Post.”
Before my jaw can hit the floor I hear Adam behind me. “Get out of here, you little shit.”
“I’m only doing my job.” Smith looks nervous; unsurprisingly given Adam’s bulk looming over the counter.
“Get out before I throw you out.”
The half dozen customers sitting at the tables begin to look around.
“Don’t you touch me...”
Adam pushes past me so I grab his arm.
“No – Adam – he’ll have you for assault.” But Smith is making for the door, just as fast as his long legs can carry him.
As the door clangs shut Adam collapses into me and starts to sob. Most of the customers go back to their coffees and cakes in a typically English display of embarrassment, except for a Kirkby Fleetham farmer who leaves his wife at their table and makes his way across to the counter.
He taps Adam on the shoulder. “Come on lad, pull thyself together. Come and sit with Mother and me for a bit. I’m sure lass here will make you a nice cup of tea.”
And Adam goes with him, docile as a lamb.
Instead of making a cup I get out one of the large teapots, then turn the sign on the door to closed and slip the catch. I can’t face any more today. Two young mums with pushchairs hurry past me, which only leaves the couple by the window and the farmer and his wife. I fill the pot, load some parkin and flapjacks onto a tray, together with four clean cups and a jug of milk, and make my way across to the table.
Adam is calmer, listening to the farmer who is in full flow.
“...rumour in the village that it was young Owen they were looking for, but nowt was actually said. These things will get out though, in a place like this. It’s not Leeds, lad.”
I pour the tea and sit down next to the farmer’s wife, offering cakes around as though it was a tea party.
The farmer starts up again. “So it is right then, it were Owen they’re looking for?”
Adam nods. “He left Alice’s place to go for a walk very early on Sunday morning and no-one’s seen him since.” It is a reasonable approximation of the truth.
“And Dick Wainwright saw him jump off the bridge.”
“We think Richard was mistaken,” I tell him, but I don’t elaborate and he doesn’t ask me to. Instead, his wife chips in.
“He’s a good lad, Owen, always doing something for someone else. So cheerful about the place too, you’d never think...”
“He was very tired,” I venture.
“I don’t doubt it, pet,” the farmer’s wife continues. “When our Erica had shingles he were round every night to put on a poultice, but it fair took it out of him – looked so pale when he’d finished. His gran were the same; after our Paul were born and I had such a bad time, she were the only one to ease me, but she were always worn out afterwards.”
“He worked too hard in the café too,” Adam adds. “He shouldn’t be doing it – he should be making his living from curing people – it’s a rare talent and he shouldn’t waste it.”
The farmer shakes his head slowly. “Charming is a gift, lad, not to be used for gain. Wouldn’t be right. Owen knows that – he was born into it.”
This kindly couple know an awful lot about Owen, as most folk around here seem to. I am learning that lives are still conducted very much in public in these rural communities – there is little place for secrets. Which makes a total mockery of Owen being so chary about telling me.
“We just want to find him,” I burst out.
“Don’t you think lad from the Post could’ve helped?” asks the farmer. “Look, if you won’t speak to him, he’ll only go digging around and talk to other people. Just tell him what you’ve told us and be done with it. He’ll get a quote from the police too, and that’ll be that.”
“But it won’t be, will it? He’ll dig around anyway.”
“Well what’s to hide?”
There is a brief silence then Adam says, “Nowt,” very firmly.
Chapter Forty
Adam drops me at the garden gate and I crunch up the path. William is jumping at the door before I even open it and leaps up at me in greeting, his paws scrabbling at my jeans. His ears slip silkily between my fingers then he barks and races off across the lawn. I watch, but I do not follow.
I have no way of dealing with this pain so I drink myself into a stupor. Inevitably I spend Wednesday morning struggling with a hangover. But I can smile and sell coffee with a hangover, so that’s OK. It even takes the edge off customers asking about Owen once they’ve read the Yorkshire Post. A little bit, anyway.
I try the same tactic on Wednesday night and it is reasonably successful, but my befogged mind has trouble grappling with a call from the Archaeological Trust, saying they are sending someone to dig up the skeleton tomorrow. I agree before I’ve even thought about it. And then I panic. I rush into the kitchen and garble goodness knows what rubbish at Adam, who asks why on earth I don’t call Margaret. Of course she is only too delighted to have the opportunity to babysit a real, live archaeologist.
On Friday I discover an additional strategy for coping. It’s called mindfulness, according to Psychologies magazine, but really it’s just living in the moment, and it almost works. I don’t think about tomorrow, or next week, or next month without Owen, because quite frankly I can’t bear to. I just think about what’s happening in the here and now. Which is all very well, but it means I completely forget about the excavation until I see a strange car in my drive when Adam drops me home.
“The archaeologist hasn’t left yet,” I tell him, “want to come and have a look?”
He shakes his head. “Not my thing, Alice. See you tomorrow.” So I walk up the drive alone.
Of course Margaret is still here. She is crouched by the hole – which is now somewhat larger – next to a slight woman with orangey-red hair.
“Oo – Alice – you’re just in time – we’re about to lift the skeleton.”
The archaeologist stands up and introduces herself as Lucy Miller. Next to her feet is a plastic storage box generously lined with bubblewrap. It looks like a macabre cradle.
“So, how have you got on today?” I ask in my friendliest café manner, trying to force the cradle image out of my mind.
“Pretty good, really,” Lucy tells me. “Margaret’s been a great help. We extended the trench so that we could fully excavate the skeleton and with luck we’ll be able to lift it whole. Nothing much in the way of other finds though – only this.” She holds out a plastic bag containing a small brass key.
I arrange my features into a polite frown. “How odd. I guess someone must have dropped it.”
“No – when we found it there were traces of fabric through the loop – something like ribbon. If you look very carefully,” she points down into the hole, “you
’ll see another small piece there – just at the nape of the baby’s neck. It was quite deliberately put there and buried with the child. It’s rather sweet, really.”
“But why bury a baby in a barn? Or at least, I’m assuming the barn was here when it was buried.”
She nods. “Oh yes, as far as I can see it must have been. The burial is quite close to the wall – so much so that building the foundations would have disturbed it. But from the state of decay I don’t think it would have been very long after; we’d need a carbon date to be sure.”
“Can you do that from what you’ve found?”
“Well on the one hand bone’s something we can date very easily, but on the other it probably isn’t old enough for us to be particularly accurate.”
Bone. That’s all it is – a bundle of bone. Yet someone had cared enough to put a key on a ribbon around the baby’s neck.
It is as though Margaret can read my thoughts. “At first Lucy thought it was an attempt to hide evidence of infanticide, or a late abortion, but the key puts a rather different complexion on things.”
“Infanticide?”
“It was quite common in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries,” Lucy explains. “There were times of great hardship when people simply couldn’t afford to raise another child. But this…I don’t know…I can’t be sure, of course, but my gut feel is that this baby was wanted but was stillborn – it’s so small, even by the standards of the day, although why it wasn’t buried in the churchyard I don’t know.”
I think of Owen. “When you’ve finished the carbon dating and that, can we give it a proper burial? Your boss said it might be possible if it wasn’t of any great historical significance and I don’t suppose it is.”
“No, I don’t think it is either. It’s just one family’s sad little story.”
Lucy’s words come back to me later. I get up off the sofa and wander into the dining room to look out over the village green. It is dusk and I have come here because I am hoping to see Owen sitting under one of the trees but the only sign of life is a bat flitting between them. After a while I slip outside. My footsteps make tracks in the dew as I walk round and round the trees, still looking.
I start to walk; back up the village past the church, past his house and beyond. The night is quiet and still; a fox barks somewhere but not even a candle gutters in a cottage window. My bare feet scratch on the rough grasses that cover the track.
I pause a little distance from the cottage. It is hunkered down behind the reeds, seeming to float on the marshy pond, its thatch stretching low to meet the honeysuckle climbing up its walls. Here a welcoming candle does burn in a window but I cannot go on – I have no reason to and an unbearable wave of grief hits me, as though it is emanating from the house itself and rising to meet my own pain.
I sink to my knees and the damp seeps through the fabric of my long grey skirt. I hug myself, and find that I am weeping and saying “My baby, oh, my baby,” over and over again.
Chapter Forty-One
It is hard to describe the total and complete exhaustion I feel as I turn the sign on the café door to closed. Words like empty, drained and hollow don’t even begin to cover it. All I want to do is sleep and I am so shattered that I probably will.
But first there are a few chores that Adam and I need to do; load the dishwasher, tidy the kitchen, cash up and open the bundle of post that has been neglected since the morning. Then we’re going to treat ourselves to fish and chips. I think we’ve earned it.
I am just lifting the drawer out of the till when Adam cries out. “Alice! Come here!”
I ram it back in and race to the office where he’s standing with a postcard in his hand. “It’s from Owen!” he yells and I grab it to read.
‘Dear Adam and Alice,
I saw the Yorkshire Post and I’m sorry I worried you. I just needed to get away for a while. Like Alice told the paper, I went for a walk and just kept on walking. I hope you can both forgive me.
Owen.’
And I promptly burst into tears. All the uncried ones I haven’t been able to shed come tumbling out and Adam envelopes me in a great big hug.
“He’s OK, Alice – he’s OK,” he whispers.
I manage to look up, sniffling. “I know. That’s why I’m crying, I think.”
“You daft bint.” But he hugs me tighter and lets me cry for as long as I want to, which is quite a while. Then I count the cash, and he tidies up the kitchen, all the time singing loudly and out of tune. He is so happy that when he goes to put the money in the night safe he comes back with a bottle of Cava.
“It’s only a cheap one – but it’ll go with fish and chips and we need to celebrate.” I smile and play along with his happiness, but inside it doesn’t feel right and I don’t understand why.
It is only as I am getting ready for bed that the next wave of emotion hits me; a stranger, completely out of the blue. Now I know Owen is OK I can face looking at a picture of him, but when I flick to the photo library on my phone I am overcome by anger. There he is, on the beach at Skinningrove, looking exactly like Richard’s angel with a halo of sunshine behind him, yet he has done the most hurtful thing possible to Adam and me, without even half a thought for our feelings.
“You selfish bastard,” I yell at the picture, “How could you do this when we love you so much?” Red hot tears sear down my cheeks and I fling myself onto the duvet and howl. Never in my life have I been so angry; but then I’ve never loved like this either and I am even more furious with Owen for making me feel that way.
Chapter Forty-Two
I am sitting in the office making neat piles of coins from the day’s takings when suddenly the crashing of dishes from the kitchen stops and I hear Adam cry out
“Owen – thank fuck you’re back!”
Owen’s voice is quiet. “Ads – I’m sorry as hell, really I am.”
“It doesn’t matter – you’re here now, and everything can get back to normal.”
“Does that mean you’re going to stay?” Owen’s voice sounds tentative, but that isn’t the word that comes to the top of my mind as he continues. “I shouldn’t have done a runner, but I couldn’t see past anything, you know, not without you and me here in this café, it means so much...” The word that comes into my mind is manipulative. There seems to be something less than honest in his voice.
“Of course I’ll stay. Me and Alice, we’ve done a pretty good job...”
Owen cuts across him. “Alice – is she here?”
As Adam answers I feel panic begin to rise.
“She’s in the office – cashing up.”
Owen’s footsteps are rapid in the narrow corridor and I only just have time to stand up and face the door before he is wrapping his arms around me and telling me how sorry he is, again and again.
His breath is warm on my hair and I nuzzle his neck, pulling myself closer into his hug. He smells different, somehow, but he feels the same; holding me solidly, rubbing his hands up and down my back, trying his best to make me feel secure. I am too scared of what I might say to speak.
“Alice,” he whispers, “say you can forgive me.”
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” I manage eventually, but my voice sounds small and somehow unconvincing. He holds me even tighter and slowly the worst of my anger starts to melt away.
Now I can look up. He touches my cheek and gently pushes my hair away from my face.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he murmurs, “have you missed me?”
It is an unbelievably stupid question, but I nod. It is the truth – I have missed Owen more than I ever believed possible.
“Oh, God, Alice – I am just so sorry.” His face is a mask of anxiety and sorrow, but there is nothing I can read in his eyes. I comfort myself with the thought it will take a while for everything to get back to normal.
In fact, we have a very normal evening. Adam cooks supper while Owen tells us about his week walking on the Moors as if it had simply b
een a holiday. We crack open a bottle of wine but as we are considering a second Owen says, “We’d better be a bit careful – Adam and I have an early start at the café tomorrow.”
I look across the table and Adam’s eyes meet mine. I am about to open my mouth, but instead he speaks for both of us.
“Alice and I have an early start. I think there’s probably a few things you need to do before you come back to work; like see Margaret, for one – and Christopher. Not to mention squaring things with the police. Anyway, there’s no rush for you to come back until you feel ready; we’re a good team, Alice and me. And if you need longer…you know, to have a proper rest and get your head around stuff...”
Owen’s eyes are pleading for my support.
“Adam’s right,” I tell him. There is plenty more I want to say, but I don’t. If I start the anger might spill out, just when I’ve got it under control. I scrape back my chair. “Time for me to go, anyway.”
Owen stands too. “I’ll walk you home.” It isn’t an offer; it’s a statement of fact.
We don’t speak until I open my back door. William is about to fly out, but when he sees Owen he stops short and growls.
“Some things don’t change,” Owen says with a wistful smile.
This is an Owen I recognise. I put my arms around his waist and look up into his eyes. “Nothing has really; it’s just a bit odd.”
He nods. “I know, and it’s all my fault.”
“No – no blame.” I reach to kiss him – for the first time since he came back – and he responds so tenderly and with such feeling I could weep. But I don’t; or at least not until after we make love and his body is finally still, on top of mine, when all of a sudden I am wracked with sobs and there is nothing Owen can say or do to stop them.
Chapter Forty-Three
