by Jane Cable
“Alice, please, you are my priority. If only you knew...”
I fold my arms. “Well alright, tell me. If I’m your priority, what’s so important that you have to disappear off somewhere tonight?”
He looks at his feet. “It’s the healing.”
“Healing? The charming, you mean.”
His tone becomes icy. “I am not a charmer.”
I think of his car parked outside Imogen’s house. “Whatever you call yourself, it’s pretty cloak and dagger, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The way you don’t tell me anything – you just say you’re too busy. If you told me, I...”
“I have told you.”
“No you haven’t – I want specifics. I want to know where you are.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just the way it is, that’s all...”
“You don’t trust me; you can’t talk to me about what’s important to you – what sort of relationship is that?”
“Please, Alice – don’t cry. I do trust you – probably more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, but...”
“Balls, Owen – total balls! You’re making excuses not to see me and you’re avoiding telling me the truth. Just like you comprehensively avoided telling me about when you ran away. Because that’s what you did – you know it and I know it. I saw what happened – I was there, remember – but will you talk about it? Will you even start to help yourself get over it? No! You’re just running away from it all over again – and now you’re running away from me too.”
Owen doesn’t reply. His face is paler than pale. He stands motionless for a moment then shakes his head. Then he turns very slowly towards the door, pulls on Kylie’s lead, and he is gone.
Chapter Forty-Nine
I know I ought to let it be over. Imogen or no Imogen, every word I said is true, and if Owen can’t accept it then I’m better off being apart from him. But it’s one thing convincing my head; quite another convincing my heart. So I think up lots of things to keep me manically busy by day, and in the evenings renew my acquaintance with the bottle.
But not every evening; I finally commit to Jane’s book club, join a weekly salsa-cise class at Northallerton Leisure Centre and even go to the Historical Society with Cyril Wainwright. I can’t say I am that excited by the idea of a talk on All Saints Church, but it is actually pretty good. And chatting to other members I find out about the Northallerton Reference Library and its local history collection. I make a mental note to visit it at some point in the near future.
In fact I enjoy my evening so much I go back again, for a talk entitled ‘Morality before the Victorians’. The speaker is very amusing, with all sorts of anecdotes about how life was rather less straight-laced before they stuck their noses in, but one slide stops my laughter in its tracks.
It is a black and white engraving of a crowd beating pots and pans gathering around a cowering man, with a young boy on a pole pointing accusingly at him, and it is almost the exact image of the dream I had about Owen the night after he disappeared. The speaker explains it is a folk punishment for sexually inappropriate behaviour, called a riding. It ties in exactly with Margaret’s story of the man who threw himself off the bridge, but rather than set me back on his trail it freaks me out to the point I spend all night throwing up.
It is a wake-up call to forget the past and ground myself in the present. If I don’t do that I’ll never be able to get over Owen. The weird stuff has stopped happening now he isn’t around, so perhaps Richard is right – maybe it was Owen causing it.
I got over twelve years of marriage quite quickly, so I can certainly get over a couple of months with Owen if I can stop myself dwelling on it. I know what I need to do; I have to set about finding a job and expanding my social circle.
In the short term I start shopping in Bedale and always walk William towards Kirkby Fleetham. I defy Owen by taking sleeping tablets whenever I need them. I invest in a decent coffee machine and make my own lattes in the morning. I trawl the internet for local motor dealers and hand deliver my CV to every single one.
But it’s hard. In my darker moments I wonder if Richard was right and Owen has cast some sort of love spell over me.
One evening when drawing the curtains, I catch sight of his car going past. In my mind’s eye I can see him flick at the indicator with his ring finger, pull into the lay-by and switch off the engine. He sits back in the seat for a moment before reaching behind him for his rucksack, then he makes his way slowly to his front door. As he puts his key in the lock he turns and glances in the direction of New Cottage.
Instead of the Sleep-Eazee I find myself making a camomile tea. I don’t think my bed has ever felt so empty.
Chapter Fifty
The parcel arrives towards the end of November. The postman hands it to me as I am scraping the ice off my car ready to go to work one Saturday morning. I struck lucky when a sports car dealership in Richmond needed a part time receptionist. I get to do afternoons and Saturdays because that’s when the owner’s wife would rather be at home with the kids, but it suits me just fine.
I sign for the envelope, recognise Neil’s handwriting, and sling it on the back seat. And there it stays until part way through the evening when I remember it again, and, my curiosity piqued, I venture out into the cold to fetch it.
Inside is a scribbled note from Neil saying he and Angela had found some stuff relating to New Cottage when they were clearing out ready to move. I tell William who the parcel is from as I spread the papers over the kitchen table. I expect him to prick up his ears at the sound of Neil’s name, but he doesn’t. I envy him his short memory. I fondle his ears and he looks up at me lovingly. Thank goodness for William; some nights, coming back to an empty house would be more than I could bear.
It’s clear the papers relate to the history of New Cottage and despite myself my stomach lurches with excitement. I stand up abruptly and walk over to the wine rack. Supplies are low, but there is a lone bottle of red in the bottom corner. I’ve been avoiding it because it was one that Owen bought me but needs must. I burrow in the kitchen drawer for the corkscrew and pour myself a large glass.
Some of the documents are handwritten on thick creamy parchment and my fingers start itching to pick them up. When I do I am disappointed to find myself wading through several leases and deeds from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.
But right at the bottom of the pile is something more relevant. It’s a legal agreement, dated October 1785, between Henry Allen of Thames Street London, cheesemonger and John Almond of Fencote, for the ‘absolute purchase’ of the property. I rush into the garden room to dig out the note Margaret left me; Alice had married Charles Allen about sixty years before and surely this was a descendant. A cheesemonger too. Clearly Alice’s cheese had passed down through the family, even if her house had not.
Instead of phoning Margaret to share the news I decide to tell her about it after church. I go every Sunday; there’s no chance of running into Owen – he hasn’t been near the place since he did his disappearing trick. I guess he’s too embarrassed but that’s his problem not mine.
Owen is destined to be pushed to the forefront of my consciousness today, because during the prayers for the departed Christopher reads out the name Audrey Cutt. She has to be a relation of Imogen’s and while we chat over coffee in the vicarage I discover it is her mother.
Without thinking, I blurt out, “Oh dear, Owen will be upset.”
Margaret looks at me in surprise but Jane nods. “I expect you’re right – he was very good to Audrey, after all.”
Another lady I know only by sight agrees. “When I saw her last she was so full of praise for him; every night he’s been around there, giving her inhalations – she said they eased her breathing much better than anything the doctor suggested.”
I start to collect the dirty cups and plates and take them into kitchen.
Margaret follows me and leans against the worktop as I stack the dishwasher.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you mention Owen since you split up.”
“Yes,” I reply. “And look where it got me.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, I almost made a complete fool of myself.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’ll tell you later,” I mumble as Jane comes in with another load of plates.
I have no intention of doing so but Margaret is nothing if not persistent and I begin to wish I hadn’t offered to show her the papers. As we walk back to New Cottage she starts again.
“You were going to tell me why you thought you’d made a fool of yourself back there.”
“I didn’t – I just almost did.” I know I sound like a petulant child and I immediately apologise.
She pats my hand. “Look, I don’t want to stick my nose in, but...”
I take a deep breath. “It’s nothing really – it’s just that I thought Owen was going out with Imogen, not helping her mother…Well, I still don’t know for sure he isn’t, of course.”
“He isn’t.” Margaret is categorical.
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s breaking his heart over you, that’s how.”
“Rubbish.”
“It’s not. He’s...”
“Margaret,” I tell her, “he could have put me right about Imogen when he had the chance – he could have told me where he was going, but he refused. He could have told me lots of things – but he wouldn’t. He knows how to fix this – it’s not in my hands.” The last bit isn’t strictly true, but it’s good enough. “Let’s just consider the subject closed,” I finish rather lamely.
I am completely deflated by the conversation and strangely devoid of any enthusiasm for my discovery. I rather perfunctorily show Margaret the document selling New Cottage out of the Allen family and send her on her way. All I want to do is wallow in my misery over Owen.
Chapter Fifty-One
For quite some time the hall – or dining room, as it was – has been almost finished, just waiting for the curtains. I found some lovely apricot velvet in the haberdashery in Northallerton, and luckily one of our customers at the garage is a seamstress so she made them and delivered them yesterday.
Even so, it is late in the afternoon and almost dark before I decide to pull myself together and put them up. I spread them out over the easy chair in the corner of the hall; they look beautiful against the rust coloured walls and they are exactly what the room needs to finally make it feel warm.
But first the old curtains have to come down. I shut William in the garden room so he won’t caper around at a critical moment and then I climb onto a kitchen chair to start releasing the hooks. I have one curtain down and am starting on the second when I lean a bit too far, the chair slides, I make a grab for some fabric and it rips, leaving me tumbling to the floor.
My chest is agony as I fight for the breath knocked out of me by the cold slabs – I will never be able to fill my lungs again and I begin to panic. But someone is nearby and I stretch out my hand. It is ignored as they carry on their conversation.
“…late this year, the rennet will have soured.”
“No, child, you did right to wait. Grief is more likely to turn rennet than the passing of the seasons.”
“Then the cheese will taste bitter, all the same.”
There is a pause and I become aware of a wooden paddling sound and its rhythm is strangely soothing. But it comes to an abrupt halt.
“Mother – how do you bear it?” The young woman’s voice is anguished and it resonates inside me.
“Because I must. And you must, Alice – although Lord knows your losses are greater than mine.”
“No…Thomas…a child…a grandchild…it’s all the same.”
“But the fruit of my womb was with me for twenty-seven years, not ripped away at the moment of birth. I have memories – and good ones, at that.”
“I caused Thomas such pain.”
“No, child. Not you; it was the circumstance you found yourselves in. You did what you believed was right.”
There is a rustle of cloth behind me and a brush of rough fabric across my face. I look up to see an old woman with clear blue eyes, and for a moment our gaze seems to meet. I am still stretching out my arm, but with a brief shake of the head she says:
“The help you need will be forthcoming. Accept it and the line of the charmers will not end.”
“You are right, Mother, I know that,” the other Alice replies. But I have the strangest feeling that the old woman wasn’t talking to her.
I hear a door shut, but tangled up with it is another sound – an urgent rapping on the window. I have enough breath in my body to sit up to look and Owen’s face is pressed against the glass – he is mouthing something but I can’t hear him through the double glazing so I gesture towards the unlocked kitchen door and he disappears.
I am trembling but I don’t know whether it’s due to the fall, or what I’ve just witnessed, or lying on the cold flagstones. But I am not on flagstones now; I put my hand down and run my fingers along the familiar smoothness of the polished floorboards.
The kitchen door opens and closes and moments later Owen drops to the floor beside me.
“Alice – are you alright? What happened?”
“I was putting up my new curtains and I fell off the chair – I winded myself, that’s all. I’m OK, really.”
He puts his hands gently on my shoulders. “But you’re shaking.”
“I know…it’s just…I thought I...” I grind to a halt. I can’t tell him what I saw – it might drive him away and that’s the last thing I want.
“You thought what?”
“Nothing. I was just a bit disoriented for a moment, that’s all.”
“Did you hit your head?” His lovely blue eyes are full of concern.
“I’m not sure to be honest. But I don’t think so.”
He puts his hand on the top of my head and starts to feel my cranium. “Let me know if anything hurts,” he says. He works his way around my skull and then along my temples. Yes – it hurts – but inside me, with the pain of loss. So I don’t tell him.
Instead, when he finishes I say, “That all seems fine then.”
He sits back on his heels. “Just let me know straight away if you get a headache, or blurred vision, or feel sick or faint.”
“I will.”
“Just make sure you do. Come on – let’s get you off that floor.”
Owen helps me up and leads me into the snug, his hand solicitously under my elbow. He sits me down on the sofa.
“Right,” he tells me, “I’m going to make some tea.”
I smile, “With about a ton of sugar in mine, I guess.”
“You guess absolutely right,” he laughs and disappears into the kitchen.
While I am waiting for him to come back I remember William and set him free from his garden room prison. Naturally, as soon as he sees Owen he starts to growl.
“William – behave,” I tell him, and he slinks away with a great sham of reluctance to lie in his favourite place in front of the wood burner.
Owen passes me my tea and sits down next to me.
“So,” I start, “don’t take this the wrong way – I’m really pleased to see you – but why did you come?” Did the old woman somehow send for him? I have to know.
He looks briefly down at his mug and then back at me. “Margaret’s spent half the afternoon chewing my ear off. She…she persuaded me I owe you at least an explanation, if not an apology.”
“Maybe it was me who jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“About Imogen, yes. But I can see why you thought it and I should have told you more about what was going on. It’s not just the confidentiality thing, it’s well, I…I find it so difficult to talk about stuff.”
It is the first time he has even admitted it. I reach out and
put my hand over his. “I know.”
He looks at me hopefully. “You do understand, then?”
“Owen, I try. But the trouble is, when I know there are things you aren’t exactly telling the truth about it’s very hard to trust you when you tell me nothing at all.”
“W...what sort of things?”
But he knows – I am sure he does. “Like you saying you went on holiday when we both know you ran away.”
There is a silence and for once I am not tempted to fill it. If he won’t answer me then he can walk out of my life forever, but if he will…if he’ll even just try to…I swallow hard.
His hand is trembling on his mug and he won’t look at me.
“Owen,” I say finally. “I saw you take off across the fields that morning. I saw...” But somehow I can’t say what I saw. “I…I blamed myself. I…I should have been more supportive the night before.”
“Alice, believe me, there was nothing more you could have done. I was at the end of my tether. Everything…everything…had got on top of me. I wasn’t you or Adam or…it was me.”
“So did you try to jump off the bridge?”
He pushes his hair back from his face in that oh so familiar gesture. “I can’t remember getting to the bridge, honestly I can’t. I don’t know, I…it’s all so muddled…if I could really remember it then I would tell you, I promise…” He trails off, biting his lip. His face is deathly white and there are beads of sweat on his forehead – I have pushed him far enough and at least he tried. I cast around for a way to take the pressure off him without completely changing the subject.
“Richard thought perhaps he’d seen the ghost of that man in your gran’s story.”
“Gran’s story?”
Of course I am being horribly vague; she must have had loads of stories. “Margaret told us – the one where the philanderer who couldn’t have the girl he wanted threw himself off the bridge.”
Owen looks puzzled. “I don’t remember that one.”
