The Cheesemaker's House by Jane Cable Page A

me upright with one hand while his other finds my pulse. He swears – uses the f-word in fact, and then says something about mustard.
    â€œDon’t like mustard,” I try to mumble, but I lose track of what’s going on, except that Margaret is holding me up and she won’t stop talking. “Had to stop the crying,” I tell her, “please let me sleep.” But she won’t, and the next thing I know Owen is forcing some disgusting liquid down my throat. I gag and spit it out.
    He shakes me gently. “Alice, can you hear me? This is really, really important.” His voice is urgent so I try to concentrate. I also try to lift my head and open my eyes to look at him, but I only have a very narrow range of vision.
    He is speaking again. “You’ve taken too many tablets and they’re making you ill. You have to drink this; it’ll make you very sick, but if you don’t I’ll need to call an ambulance and they’ll take you to hospital and pump your stomach out. You don’t want that to happen, Alice, do you?” I manage to shake my head.
    â€œGood. Now come on, I’ll hold you up.” He shuffles to my side and props me against his shoulder. “Now drink.” He tips the glass into my mouth again and I take the liquid down. Then I am vomiting into a bucket I didn’t know was on my lap and William is barking and snarling.
    â€œGet that bloody dog away from me!” Owen yells, then William’s claws drag along the floor and Margaret murmurs
    â€œIt’s OK, fella, Owen’s only trying to help her, ssshhh...”
    Her remonstrations don’t work and I guess she takes him outside because the barking becomes quieter. I am exhausted by it all and lean against Owen.
    â€œCome on Alice, talk to me, you must stay awake.”
    â€œSo tired…the crying...”
    He drops a kiss onto the top of my head. “Oh, you poor angel, and I’ve been such a selfish shit, wrapped up in myself...” He reasserts himself. “Alice, talk to me. Do you know who I am?”
    â€œOwen.”
    â€œThat’s right. And where do I live?”
    â€œNext to Margaret.”
    â€œAnd what’s my café called?”
    He questions me relentlessly and after a while it becomes easier to answer. He feels my pulse again and I am aware of his body relaxing a little beside me.
    â€œMargaret told me you’re a pharmacist.”
    â€œYes, I was.”
    â€œWhy did you stop?”
    â€œI’ll tell you in a minute. But first I’m going to take you upstairs to bed, because you need to rest.”
    I try to smile. “I thought I wasn’t meant to go to sleep.”
    â€œThere’s a difference between sleeping and falling unconscious. You chucked up a fair few of those pills, your pulse is normal, and you’re more with it now.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œBecause you’re asking me the questions.”
    He wriggles around until he is kneeling beside me and puts his arms under my thighs and back. He lifts me easily for such a slightly built man and carries me through the dining room and up the stairs. He pauses at the top for a moment, then sees my unmade bed through the open door in front of him and puts me gently down on it, covering me with the duvet.
    He sits on the edge of the bed and holds my hand. I open my eyes properly and look at him; his face is pinched and pale and there are dark circles under his eyes, but I still get lost in that incredible blue – it is almost as though I am hypnotised by it as I fall asleep.
    From the moment of waking I am aware I am not alone in the room. I can’t work out why, but when I open my eyes and see Margaret sitting by the window reading I remember and inwardly cringe with embarrassment.
    â€œMargaret,” I say, and she looks up from her book. “I am so sorry for all the trouble I put you and Owen to. Really I am.”
    â€œThat’s