by Jane Cable
On the outside my life is returning to whatever passes for normal. I go into the café with Adam on Wednesday, and again on Thursday morning, because Owen has to attend a formal interview with the police. He refuses to let either Adam or I go with him and he is a little pale when he comes into the café afterwards. But he helps with the lunchtime rush and all the customers seem pleased to see him. In the afternoon I serve them on my own while he sits in the office catching up with the paperwork. But after that I am surplus to requirements.
I miss the bustle of the café and with my mind less than fully occupied it has time to drift to places I haven’t been allowing it to go. I owe William a very long walk but I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, so instead I make a list of everything that wants doing to the house. The sooner I finish it the better; the last few weeks have made me realise that I need a job.
I wander from room to room with my piece of paper. Progress, of sorts, has been made. Upstairs I have two habitable bedrooms and a dressing room. The next job is undoubtedly the bathroom; it’s small and dated and needs a total revamp. Top of my list then.
Walking into the chill of the dining room I wonder what on earth to do with it. I don’t use a dining room so maybe the answer is to take the table out and just make it into a hall. All I ever do is hurry through it anyway.
I start to shiver as I gaze around the room but it’s not that cold. It must be the shock of everything that’s happened but I can’t let it get to me. I shake myself and stride into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and call Richard about when he can resume his work on the barn. I’ve been too much alone this morning – I’m not used to it. But his phone is on voicemail so all I can do is leave a message.
Instead of returning my call Richard drops around in the middle of the afternoon. William and I both rush to greet him.
“Hello, Princess,” he beams. “Lady of leisure again, are you?”
I snort. “You must be joking – I’m way behind with the house – it’ll never be finished at this rate.”
“Ah, if only you’d called me just for my company – but I knew you’d want me to do something.”
I consider telling him how pleased I am to see him but decide against it. Instead I ask him when work can restart on the floor.
“Back end of next week, I reckon. Let’s see what sort of mess the archaeologists have made of it.”
I unlock the barn for the first time in a week and we step into the gloom. I am about to put the light on but Richard hauls both of the big doors wide open.
“Poo – it smells all fusty in here.”
He’s right. To me it smells just a little of animals and straw, but I am surely imagining it. William has a very sensitive nose and he trots in quite happily.
Lucy has shovelled the earth back into her trench so the floor is fairly flat. When he found the baby’s body Richard had dug about two thirds of the surface, so there’s still work for him to do.
“Are you worried about finding anything else?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It hadn’t occurred to me – lightning not striking twice and that. I just need to finish so Bob can get on with the damp proofing. It’s holding everything else up.” I am grateful that Richard is such a practical man with little imagination.
But over a cup of tea in the kitchen I begin to wonder if I am right about the imagination bit when Richard changes the direction of the conversation.
“So Owen’s back, then?”
“Yes.”
“He OK?”
I nod. “Seems to be. He’s treating it like he just went on holiday.”
“I know – that’s what the police told me. They dragged me back in yesterday, to ask if I wanted to change my statement.”
“And did you?”
“I told them that if it wasn’t Owen I saw then it must have been a ghost.”
“What did they say?”
Richard turns his mug in his hands. “Something snide about breathalysers. But they did mention Owen told them he’d walked across the old bridge that morning and maybe that’s what I saw. But I didn’t; Alice, the more I think about it, the more sure I am – I saw someone jump – no question.”
“It must have been the other Owen.”
“But who is he? The ghost of the man Margaret told us about?”
“I…I don’t know. I don’t even know if I believe in ghosts. Anyway, aren’t ghosts meant to be wispy things that float around moaning? This…other Owen…he always seems so…so…real.”
“I know – it’s driving me bonkers – I’ll end up as nutty as Owen if I’m not careful,” he laughs.
So that’s what he thinks – that I’m hooked up with the village loony. There is a little voice in the back of my head telling me he’s probably right.
“But what is there to know?” I ask him. “If they’re not real, how on earth do we find out about them? And if they are real…or were real…where on earth would we start looking?”
Richard looks puzzled. “They?”
“Well, it’s not just the other Owen – I saw him talking to a woman in grey once, and...” No – it seems too fanciful to say out loud.
Richard leans back and folds his arms. “Go on, Princess, spit it out.”
I sigh. “Well, the crying we heard…I can’t help thinking it’s all tied up with the baby.” I look down at my tea. “Richard – this is such a weird conversation to be having.”
“I hate to say it – but there’s always been weirdness around Owen.”
“Look, I know you think he’s a charmer, not just a herbalist...”
“Well he is. The weird stuff proves it.”
“But it mightn’t be him – it might be me that’s causing it. Or you even – you’ve seen and heard the same things as I have.”
“But has anything like this ever happened to you before?”
I shake my head. “No. After my father died I was desperate to see his ghost, but I never did. How about you?”
“Yes. And that was to do with Owen, too. But it was a long time ago, I have to say.”
“How long?”
“Well, we were just kids – probably even before we started school – or maybe just after. Owen and I were very good mates when we were nippers – my mum and Owen’s mum had been friends, you see.”
“So were Owen’s parents around then?”
“No. It was a shotgun wedding and his dad scarpered when he was just a baby – very embarrassing for his gran, but worse for his mum. She lost the plot completely apparently – I can’t even remember her – she topped herself before Owen was out of nappies.”
Richard’s telling of the story is matter of fact but it grips me – just how abandoned must Owen have felt when he was old enough to know what happened? But I don’t want to be sidetracked so I point Richard back in the direction of his original story.
“We were playing on the village green one afternoon and it was very hot. It was just Owen and me, and a little girl called Alice. After a while Owen’s gran came out with a couple of homemade lollipops and when she gave them to us I asked if there was one for Alice too. She looked shocked for a moment, then gave me a hug and told me I was a special little boy.
“After she’d gone I asked Owen what all that was about and he just said it was probably because he was normally the only one who could see Alice. It was then I realised Alice wasn’t there, but Owen said she’d gone home to Ravenswood Farm. Later I asked Mum if there was a girl called Alice living there and she said not. But I’d been playing with her for half the afternoon. I couldn’t understand it.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“Only once – in the distance. I was in the car with my dad and she and Owen were walking along the road by the church.”
“So you saw someone that only Owen could see?”
“Not just saw – I played with her, spoke to her – but she wasn’t even real. She was a figment of Owen’s imagination and he was so completely persuasive I bought into it too.�
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“So is that what you think we’re seeing and hearing? Figments of Owen’s imagination? That’s just not possible.”
“Of course it’s possible – he’s a charmer – he’s got special powers. What on earth is it going to take for you to believe me?”
“That’s absolute rubbish – no-one has the power to make other people see what isn’t there.”
“But Alice – charmers cure people by the laying on of hands. If they can convince them they’re well just by doing that and stuffing a few harmless herbs down their necks, think how persuasive they can be in other ways.”
I fold my arms. “You’re only saying this because you don’t like Owen, and that’s all there is to it.”
“I only wish it was that. Still, if you’re so besotted you’re not going to see reason then I’m clearly wasting my breath.” Richard stands up and gathers his keys. “I’ll finish the floor on Monday, OK?”
He is gone before I can say another word.
Chapter Forty-Four
Richard’s theory is so ridiculous I put it right out of my mind. The more I think about the other Owen, the more I wonder if he has been real somewhere along the line, and if that’s the case then maybe there’s a clue in Owen’s gran’s story. So I decide to broach the matter with Margaret.
We have been busy in the garden all morning; it’s been growing like topsy while I’ve been working in the café and I find it hard to know where to start. So after Margaret has finished her chores in the greenhouse she takes me in hand and we both set to on the small patch in front of the house. It’s soothing working with Margaret; letting her chat about the village wash over me while I chisel away at the dandelions in the lawn.
By lunchtime the whole place is looking much tidier. We wash our hands and make ham sandwiches and tea, which we take to the bench next to the pond. William follows us, looking excited about the sandwiches.
“So,” asks Margaret, “how’s Owen?”
I stop chewing to think about phrasing my answer. “This is going to sound silly, but I don’t actually know. Apart from the fact he’s making every excuse under the sun not to go to church, he’s trying so hard to make everything super-normal I can’t see what’s underneath.”
She nods. “That’s the impression I get too.”
“When he was missing, Christopher said he’d have a hard time coming to terms with what he’d done so maybe this is his way of coping with it. I’m just not sure it’s terribly healthy.”
“It isn’t. But unfortunately it’s Owen all over – he was just the same when his gran died. It’s not that he didn’t show any emotion at the time; he certainly did, except that before very long he was his bright and cheerful self, and his life seemed back to…well…normal.”
“Except that he never went back to his career.”
“No. I did think it odd at the time, but then I wondered if he’d only become a pharmacist because it’s what his gran would have wanted so now he was free to do something else. He does seem to enjoy running the café.”
“So you think he’ll just bury all this and not talk about it again?”
“Very likely.”
“But Margaret, I can’t do that. I want to know what happened – and so does Richard. He says he knows what he saw by the river that morning and he needs to make sense of it.”
“I have to say I’ve been puzzling over it too. One part of me says it has to be linked to that old story of Owen’s gran’s but then I start wondering if I remembered it that way just to fit the facts. I hadn’t thought of it for so long and anyway, just because it’s local folklore doesn’t mean it actually happened.”
“I wondered if that story was our link to the past as well. But it’s so very hard; I don’t even believe in ghosts.”
“Well I do,” says Margaret.
“You do?” I have to say I am surprised.
“If only because we can’t know everything. Maybe ‘ghosts’ is the wrong word – maybe paranormal is a better term – outside normality, if you like.”
It sounds sensible and I nod. A small bird drops down onto the edge of the pond and William barks, frightening it away. A car passes along the lane. I feel a deep flash of empathy for Owen wanting everything to be ordinary.
“I guess the first thing to do,” Margaret continues, “is to find out whether these people do have any historical basis.”
I feel much braver and less stupid knowing I’m not alone in my crazy ramblings. “But how on earth do we do that?”
Her answer only frustrates me. She taps the side of her nose. “I admit there isn’t a lot to go on – but I’ve got a few ideas. You concentrate on looking after Owen and leave the past with me.”
I feel as though I am sitting on my hands. I don’t even have Owen to look after as she suggests – he keeps saying he’s busy – and I keep telling myself I don’t need him around here all the time, do I? It’s not like he’s moved in or anything.
Even so I am delighted when he’s free on Friday night. It is August Bank Holiday already and I am determined to make the most of the last knockings of summer so I decide we’ll have a barbecue. William’s nose goes into overdrive due to a couple of lamb chops and some sausages and Owen turns up in good time to light the charcoal and open the bottle of wine he’s brought.
It only takes one glass before the question that has been at the back of my mind hurtles forwards and out of my mouth.
“So, how are you feeling, Owen?”
“Fine. Why do you ask?” He is making quite a show of looking puzzled, but something else crosses his face first and I don’t quite catch what it is.
“Well, you know, you weren’t great before you disappeared...”
He interrupts me. “My holiday,” and he emphasises the word, “did me the world of good.”
I want to shake him. “Owen,” I remind him, “You’re talking to me, Alice, not some customer in the café you hardly know.”
The stunned expression on his face is completely false. “Well, what do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“It is the truth. I’m absolutely fine. Aren’t you pleased?”
He’s seriously defensive now and although I’m getting angry some instinct tells me not to corner him. I guess I’m scared that I might say or do something that would send him racing off across the fields again.
“Of course I’m pleased.” I make myself reach out to stroke his hand. After a few moments he turns his palm upwards and grips his fingers in mine, squeezing them together until one of his nails cuts into my flesh. I glance up at him, only to see an incredible amount of pain in his eyes. When I look back down I see blood oozing from my index finger and seeping under his nail.
Chapter Forty-Five
I do not follow William into the garden but watch from the door as his fur darkens and starts to cling to him. He doesn’t seem to mind the curtain of rain which restricts my view to the blurred outline of the trees by the beck. I lean on the doorjamb and spoon cereal into my mouth, chasing the final cornflake around the bowl. I have no idea why I am hurrying to finish my breakfast.
Even the house is getting me down. The new shower in the utility room has been plumbed in but the brickwork around the door is unfinished and grubby boxes of tiles invade my kitchen. Richard has been laying the new floor in the barn but I resolve to drag him straight back inside so I don’t have to live with this mess a moment longer.
I dry William off in an old towel and give him a biscuit. His tail thuds damply against my legs. The sofa and a good book beckon but if Richard is going to be working inside then I can’t skive off either. Anyway, it’s time I started to turn the dining room into a hall.
I empty the dresser and Richard helps me to move it into the living room. Then I pile the chairs upside down on the table, take down the curtains and start washing the walls. I work my way from the kitchen door to the window. I scrub at the dinginess around the light switch, making my fingers raw.
Richard has
put the radio on and sings along tunelessly. I am glad of the background noise but even the happiest songs do not lift me. I haven’t seen Owen for almost a week and my mind wanders off down a familiar path.
He wants out and he’s too kind to tell me – it isn’t in him to be cruel. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all. He’s too screwed up for me to help him anyway. But on the other hand, perhaps we’re both just suffering from the backlash of his disappearance. But how the hell can we move on when he won’t tell me the truth about what happened? How can we get anywhere when he won’t talk?
Harry Nilsson’s ‘Without You’ comes on the radio and Richard’s screeching reaches a new crescendo. I am amazed William doesn’t start to howl as well.
I yell through to the kitchen, “Turn that bloody racket off.”
The song continues but Richard’s head appears around the door. “What’s got into you?” he asks “Don’t like my singing?”
“Piss off.”
“Oo – don’t take it out on me if you’ve had an argument with your boyfriend.”
“If he’s never here, how can I fall out with him?” I snap, and despite myself my lip starts to quiver.
“Hey, come on, stop that.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze.
I lean into him for a moment and he is warm and solid and smells vaguely of tile adhesive. “Sorry.” I take a deep breath and he squeezes my shoulder once more.
“Better?” he asks after a few moments.
I nod.
“OK. You go and wash your face and I’ll put the kettle on.”
When I come back Richard is leaning against the work surface nursing a mug of tea. He picks up another one and hands it to me.
“Thanks, Richard,” I say, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He shrugs. “I just don’t like to see you upset, that’s all. Owen’s an idiot anyway, if he’s got someone else.”
“I’m not sure it’s that...” I start, but then I look at his face and it says it all.
“Purely circumstantial evidence,” Richard continues. “And I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t said you had problems. It’s just that I’ve seen his car parked outside the same house in Scruton a few times recently and I’ve kind of put two and two together. Making about sixteen too many, probably.”
