The Cheesemaker's House by Jane Cable

before but now it sounds very close.
    Wide awake, I sit up and listen, but once again I can’t pinpoint the sound. It seems louder when I lean out of the open window, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. The sobs are truly heartbreaking; someone’s in real trouble somewhere and I hope they have someone to comfort them. Rather selfishly, I also hope that even if they haven’t they’ll shut up.
    I close the window and crawl under the duvet. The crying doesn’t seem any quieter and I stick my head under the pillow, which works to a degree, but just as I am dropping off the weeping reaches a new crescendo. As if that isn’t enough it wakes William and he starts whining. I yell at him to pack it in. There is peace (from him at least) for about five minutes, and then he starts up again.
    I fling back the duvet and stalk down the stairs, almost tripping over my handbag. I pick it up, march into the garden room and let William out. Daybreak is seeping into the sky and I watch him race across the lawn to cock his leg on a tree. He seems undisturbed by the crying now, but it sure is bothering me. I wonder if taking more sleeping tablets would block it out and I read the label on the packet; you can take up to eight pills so I down another six with alacrity.
    I know they won’t work straight away so I follow William across the garden. He is sniffing around in the long flowerbed that stretches towards the pond. I can still hear the crying but it doesn’t seem to be coming from a neighbour’s house; if anything the sound is eddying around and I resolve to follow it.
    William and I walk towards the little orchard, but the noise becomes fainter and we retrace our steps until we are standing between the garden room and the barn. Here the crying seems to be bouncing off the buildings and the noise intensifies until I can hardly bear it. William starts to whimper and I begin to feel uneasy – and then I begin to wonder if it can possibly be coming from inside the barn.
    My desperate desire to make the noise stop is stronger than my growing fear. Keeping William to heel I walk up the side of the barn and open the small door. But inside all is quiet, just the peaceful munching of the two cattle as they chew the cud. No-one crying at all. Very gently, I close the door.
    When I realise what I have seen I am rooted to the spot. But I don’t dare open the door again to check if the cows are still standing in their stalls, and if the sweet smell of fresh hay still permeates the air. My hand is locked onto the handle, but I am too scared to turn it, and still the crying goes on and on. Then William licks my bare leg and I am galvanised into action, running back into the garden room and slamming the door.
    William flops onto his rug and looks at me expectantly; he’s after a biscuit. As I pull one from the box on the shelf I notice the sleeping tablets. I have to shut out that noise or I’ll go mad. I give William his treat, fling a few more pills down my throat, and curl up next to him. His fur is soft and warm. Under my hand his little heart beats solidly.

Chapter Eighteen
    At first I can only feel, and hear. William wriggles out from under my arm and starts to bark; a corner of my brain realises he wants to go out but I am incapable of doing anything about it. So I am thankful when I hear the garden room door creak open. But I’m not grateful for long, because Margaret is calling my name and shaking me. I want to tell her to go away but for some reason I can’t speak. She must understand what I want though, because after a little while she leaves.
    My peace isn’t meant to last. I am hauled into a sitting position but my head lolls forwards and I can’t lift it to see who’s holding my shoulders.
    â€œAlice – Alice – how many of those bloody tablets did you take?” I register the fact that it is Owen’s voice, but I can’t answer. He holds