The Owl Service

“So it’s an owl,” said Roger. “An owl that’s been sat on.”

“You wait,” said Alison, and she began to cut round the design with a pair of scissors. When she had finished she pressed the head forward, bent and tucked in the splayed legs, curled the feet and perched the owl on the edge of her candlestick.

Roger laughed. “Yes! It is! An owl!”

It was an owl: a stylised, floral owl. The bending of its legs had curved the back, giving the body the rigid set of an owl. It glared from under heavy brows.

“No, that’s really good,” said Roger. “How did you think it all out – the tracing, and how to fold it?”

“I saw it as soon as I’d washed the plate,” said Alison. “It was obvious.”

“It was?” said Roger. “I’d never have thought of it. I like him.”

“Her,” said Alison.

“You can tell? OK. Her. I like her.” He tapped the owl’s head with the pencil, making the body rock on its perch. “Hello there!”

“Don’t do that,” said Alison.

“What?”

“Don’t touch her.”

“Are you all right?”

“Give me the pencil. I must make some more,” said Alison.

“I put the lettuce by the sink,” Gwyn called. “I’m going to see Alison.”

“You wait, boy,” said his mother. “Them lettuce need washing. I only got one pair of hands.”

Gwyn slashed the roots into the pig bucket and ran water in the sink. His mother came through from the larder. She was gathering herself to make bread. Gwyn tore the leaves off the lettuce and flounced them into the water. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“I told you be sharp with them lettuce,” said his mother. “You been back to Aber for them?”

“I was talking,” said Gwyn.

“Oh?”

“To Roger.”

“You was talking to Halfbacon,” said his mother. “I got eyes.”

“Well?”

“I told you have nothing to do with him, didn’t I?”

“I only stopped for a second.”

“You keep away from that old fool, you hear me? I’m telling you, boy!”

“He’s not all that old,” said Gwyn.

“Don’t come that with me,” said his mother. “You want a back hander? You can have it.”

“There’s slugs in this lettuce,” said Gwyn.

“You was speaking Welsh, too.”

“Huw doesn’t manage English very clever. He can’t say what he means.”

“You know I won’t have you speaking Welsh. I’ve not struggled all these years in Aber to have you talk like a labourer. I could have stayed in the valley if I’d wanted that.”

“But Mam, I got to practise! It’s exams next year.”

“If I’d known you was going to be filled with that squit you’d never have gone the Grammar.”

“Yes, Mam. You keep saying.”

“What was you talking about, then?”

“I was only asking Huw if he could tell me why those plates were in the roof above Alison’s room.”

The silence made Gwyn look round. His mother was leaning against the baking board, one hand pressed to her thin side.

“You not been up in that roof, boy.”

“Yes. Alison was – a bit bothered, so I went up, and found these plates. I didn’t touch – only one. She’s cleaning it.”

“That Alison!” said Gwyn’s mother, and made for the stairs, scraping her floury arms down her apron. Gwyn followed.

They heard Alison and Roger laughing. Gwyn’s mother knocked at the bedroom door, and went in.

Alison and Roger were playing with three flimsy cut-out paper models of birds. One was on the candlestick and the other two were side by side on a chair back. The plate Gwyn had brought from the loft was next to Alison’s pillows and covered with scraps of paper. Alison pushed the plate behind her when Gwyn’s mother came in.

“Now, Miss Alison, what’s this about plates?”

“Plates, Nancy?”

“If you please.”

“What plates, Nancy?”

“You know what I mean, Miss Alison. Them plates from the loft.”

“What about them?”

“Where are they?”

“There’s only one, Mam,” said Gwyn.

“Gwyn!” said Alison.

“I’ll trouble you to give me that plate, Miss.”

“Why?”

“You had no right to go up there.”

“I didn’t go.”

“Nor to send my boy up, neither.”

“I didn’t send him.”

“Excuse me,” said Roger. “I’ve things to do.” He ducked out of the room.

“I’ll thank you not to waste my time, Miss Alison. Please to give me that plate.”

“Nancy, you’re hissing like an old goose.”

“Please to give me that plate, Miss Alison.”

“Whose house is this, anyway?” said Alison.

Gwyn’s mother drew herself up. She went over to the bed and held out her hand. “If you please. I seen where you put it under your pillow.”

Alison sat stiffly in the bed. Gwyn thought that she was going to order his mother from the room. But she reached behind her and pulled out the plate, and threw it on the bed. Gwyn’s mother took it. It was a plain white plate, without decoration.

“Very well, Miss Alison. Ve-ry well!”

Nancy went from the room with the plate in her hand. Gwyn stood at the door and gave a silent whistle.

“You ever played Find the Lady, have you?” he said. “‘Now you see it, now you don’t.’ Who taught you that one, girlie?”

CHAPTER 3

“You’ve caused a right barny,” said Roger. “Nancy’s been throwing her apron over her head and threatening I don’t know what, your mother’s had a fit of the vapours, and now Nancy’s on her dignity. She’s given my Dad her notice three times already.”

“Why doesn’t he accept it?” said Alison.

“You should know Dad by now,” said Roger. “Anything for a quiet life: that’s why he never gets one. But you’d a nerve, working that switch on her. Pity she knew the plates were decorated. How did you manage it?”

“I didn’t,” said Alison.

“Come off it.”

“I didn’t. That was the plate I traced the owls from.”

“But Gwyn says you gave Nancy an ordinary white one.”

“The pattern disappeared.”

Roger began to laugh, then stopped.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Alison nodded.

“Ali, it’s not possible,” said Roger. “The plate was glazed: the pattern was under the glaze. It couldn’t rub off.”

“But it did,” said Alison.

“But it couldn’t, little stepsister. I’ll show you.”

Roger climbed the ladder and opened the trap door.

“It’s too dark. Where’s your torch?”

“Here,” said Alison. “Can you see the plates? They’re in a corner over to your left.”

“Yes. I’ll bring a couple to prove they’re all the same.”

“Bring more. As many as you can. Let’s have them. Hand them down to me.”

“Better not,” said Roger: “after the tizz. But I don’t think these’ll be missed.”

“Mind the joists,” said Alison. “Gwyn nearly fell through the ceiling there. It was queer.”

“I bet it was!”

“No. Really queer. He slipped when he touched the plate, and he went all shadowy. Just for a second it didn’t look like Gwyn.”

“It’s the darkest part of the loft,” said Roger.

They washed the plates and took them to the window. Roger scrubbed the glaze with a nailbrush. “The glaze is shot,” he said. He picked at it with his fingernail. “It comes off easily.”

“All right,” said Alison. “I want to trace these owls before the light goes. I’m making them properly this time, out of stiff paper.”

“Not more!” said Roger. “Why do you want more? Where are the three you did earlier?”

“I couldn’t find them.”

“If you’re going to start that drawing again, I’m off,” said Roger. “When you’ve done one you’ve done them all. Shall I take your supper things down?”

“I’ve not had supper,” said Alison.

“Hasn’t Dad been up with your tray?”

“No.”

Roger grinned. “Your mother sent him to do the stern father act.”

“He’s not come.”

“Good old Dad,” said Roger.

Roger went downstairs and out through the kitchen to the back of the house. He listened at the door of a long building that had once been the dairy but was now a billiard-room. He heard the click of ivory.

Roger opened the door. His father was playing snooker by himself in the dusk. A supper tray was on an armchair.

“Hello, Dad,” said Roger.

“Jolly good,” said his father.

“I’ll light the lamps for you.”

“No need. I’m only pottering.”

Roger sat on the edge of the chair. His father moved round the table, trundling the balls into the pockets, under the eyes of the falcons and buzzards, otters, foxes, badgers and pine martens that stared from their glass cases on the wall.

“Don’t they put you off your game?” said Roger.

“Ha ha; yes.”

“This room was the dairy, wasn’t it?”

“Oooh, yes, I dare say.”

“Gwyn was telling me. He thinks it might have been the original house before that – an open hall, with everybody living together.”

“Really?” said his father. “Fancy that.”

“It often happens, Gwyn says. The original house becomes an outbuilding.”

“Damn,” said Roger’s father. “I’m snookered.” He straightened up and chalked his cue. “Yes: rum old place, this.”

“It’s that olde worlde wall panelling that gets me,” said Roger. “I mean, why cover something genuine with that phoney stuff?”

“I thought it was rather tasteful, myself,” said his father.

“All right,” said Roger. “But why go and pebble-dash a piece of the wall? Pebble-dash! Inside!” A rectangle of wall near the door was encrusted with mortar.

“I’ve seen worse than that,” said his father. “When I started in business I was on the road for a few years, and there was one Bed-and-Breakfast in Kendal that was grey pebble-dashed all over inside. Fifteen-watt bulbs, too, I remember, in every room. We called it Wookey Hole.”

“But at least it was all over,” said Roger. “Why just this piece of wall?”

“Damp?”

“The walls are a yard thick.”

“Still,” said his father, “it must be some weakness somewhere. It’s cracked.”

“Is it? It wasn’t this morning.”

“Right across, near the top.”

“That definitely wasn’t there this morning,” said Roger. “I was teaching Gwyn billiards. We tried to work out what the pebble-dash was for. I looked very closely. It wasn’t cracked.”

“Ah, well it is now,” said his father. “Not much use doing any more tonight. Let’s pack up.”

They collected the balls, stacked the cues and rolled the dustsheet over the table.

“Would you like me to take Ali her supper?” said Roger.

“Yes – er: no: no: I said I would: I’d better. Margaret thinks I ought. She’s a bit upset by the fuss.”

“How’s Nancy?”

“Phew! That was a real up-and-downer while it lasted! But I think we’ve managed. A fiver cures most things. She’s dead set against some plates or other – I didn’t understand what any of it was about. No: I’d better go and chat up old Ali.”

Alison was cutting out the last owl when she heard her stepfather bringing the supper tray. She had arranged the plates on the mantelpiece and had perched the owls about the room as she finished them. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and came in backwards.

“Grub up!”

“Thanks, Clive,” said Alison. “What is it?”

“Nancy’s Best Limp Salad, with sheep-dip mayonnaise.” He put the tray by the bed and lit the lamp. “I say, these are jolly fellows. What are they?”

“Owls. I made them.”

“They’re rather fun.”

“Yes.”

“Well – er: how are the gripes?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“Good. Up and about this morning?”

“What sort of a day did you and Mummy have?” said Alison.

“Didn’t catch anything, and one of the waders leaked, but I’ve great hopes of tomorrow. Old Halfwhatsit says he knows a stretch of the river where they always bite.”

“I bet he didn’t say where it is.”

“Er – no. No, he didn’t.”

“Have you been sent to tell me off about Nancy?”

“What? Oh. Ha ha,” said Clive.

“I don’t know why she was going on like that,” said Alison, “and I didn’t see it had anything to do with her. Gwyn found some of those plates in the loft, and she came storming up as if she owned the place.”

“Yes. Well. Old Nance, eh? You know—”

“But she went berserk, Clive!”

“Too true. We had a basinful when we came home, I’ll tell you! Your mother’s very upset. She says you ought to – oh well, skip it.”

“But it’s my house, isn’t it?” said Alison.

“Ah yes.”

“Well then.”

“It’s a bit dodgy. If your father hadn’t turned it over to you before he died your mother would’ve had to sell this house to clear the death duties. Morbid, but there it is.”

“But it’s still my house,” said Alison. “And I don’t have to take orders from my cook.”

“Fair dos,” said Clive. “Think of your mother. It was hard enough to get someone to live in all summer. If Nance swept out we’d never find a replacement, and your mother would have to cope by herself. She’d be very upset. And it is the first time we’ve all been together – as a family, and – and – you know?”

“Yes, Clive. I suppose so.”

“That’s my girl. Now eat your supper. – Hello: sounds as if we’ve mice in the roof.”

“Don’t wait, Clive,” said Alison. “I’m not hungry. I’ll eat this later, and bring the tray down in the morning. Tell Mummy not to worry.”

“That’s my girl. God bless.”

CHAPTER 4

“And the room was so cold,” said Roger. “It was like being in a deepfreeze. But it was the noise that was worst. I thought the ceiling was coming in. And there were scratchings going on round her bed, too, on the wall and then on the iron and her supper tray – you could tell the difference. Is that what you heard when you went up the loft?”

“No, not as bad,” said Gwyn. “But she said it was getting louder. What did you do, man?”

“I called her, but she was fast asleep.”

“What time was it?”

“About one o’clock,” said Roger. “You know how hot it was last night – I couldn’t sleep, and I kept hearing this noise. I thought she was having a nightmare, and then I thought perhaps she was ill, so I went up.”

“The noise was in the loft? You’re sure?”

“Positive. It was something sharpening its claws on the joists, or trying to get out, and either way it wasn’t funny.”

“You’re absolutely certain it couldn’t have been rats?”

“I don’t know what it was,” said Roger, “but it sounded big.”

“How big?”

“Big enough.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing – I funked out,” said Roger. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“How is she this morning?”

“She was all right at breakfast, a bit queasy, but that’s all.”

“Where is she now?”

“She said she was going to find her paper owls. She’s obsessed with those futile birds.”

“Them off the plates?” said Gwyn.

“Yes. Do you know how they got into the loft?”

“My Mam won’t say anything about them – nothing that sticks together: she’s that mad. And the switch Alison put across her! By! It’s making her talk like a Welsh Nationalist!”

“Ali says she didn’t switch the plate.”

“Pull the other,” said Gwyn. “It’s got bells on.”

“That’s what I said to her yesterday. But she didn’t switch.”

“Ring-a-ding-a-ding,” said Gwyn.

“Listen. I fetched two more down from the loft, and when I went into Ali’s bedroom last night they were on the mantelpiece. The pattern’s gone.”

“How did you know?” said Alison. She stood at the door of the billiard-room with the plates in her hand. “I was coming to show you.”

“Er – I thought I heard you having a bad dream last night,” said Roger, “so I popped in. The plates were on the mantelpiece.”

“Yes: they’re the same, aren’t they?” said Gwyn. “Well now, there’s a thing.”

“How can it happen?” said Alison. “Is it tracing the owls that makes the plates go blank?”

“What did you use?” said Roger. “Pumice?”

“Let’s see the owls,” said Gwyn.

“I haven’t any.”

“What?” said Roger. “You’ve done nothing else but make owls.”

“They keep disappearing.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Gwyn.

“Has your mother said anything?” said Alison.

“Not that can be repeated: except she’s made it a condition of staying that the loft’s nailed up permanent.”

“Today?”

“Now there she’s hoist by her own petard, like. It’s stupid. She won’t let Huw Halfbacon in the house.”

“What does she have against him?” said Alison.

“Search me,” said Gwyn. “Anyway, I measure the hatch, then Huw makes a cover, and I nail it up. We can spin that out till tomorrow between us. Plenty of time to bring the plates down, isn’t it?”

“How about leaving them where they are?” said Roger.

“We can’t,” said Alison. “I must make some owls.”

Roger shrugged.

“We’ll have to be a bit crafty,” said Gwyn. “Mam’s propped the kitchen door open. She’d hear us easy if we tried to carry them down.”

“That woman!” cried Alison. “She’s impossible!”

“I know what you mean, Miss Alison,” said Gwyn.

There was a scream from the kitchen.

“That’s Mam!” said Gwyn, and they looked out of the billiard-room. Nancy appeared at the outside door of the larder with a broken plate in her hands.

“Oh!” she shouted. “Oh! Throwing plates now, are you? That’s it! That’s it! That’s it, Miss! That’s it!”

“What’s the matter?” said Alison.

“Don’t come that with me, Miss! I know better! So sweet and innocent you are! I know! Spite and malice it is!”

“What’s the matter?” shouted Roger.

“I know my place,” said Nancy. “And she should know hers. I was not engaged to be thrown at! To be made mock of – and dangerous too! Spite, Miss Alison! I’m not stopping here!”

“It was me,” said Gwyn. “I was fooling about. I didn’t see the door was open, and I didn’t see you there. The plate slipped. Sorry, Mam.”

Nancy said nothing, but stepped back and slammed the door. Gwyn beckoned the other two away.

“Wow,” said Roger. “What was that?”

“Thanks, Gwyn,” said Alison. Gwyn looked at her. “I couldn’t help it,” she said.

“Couldn’t you?”

“Will somebody tell me what’s going on round here?” said Roger.

“Forget it,” said Gwyn. “I’d better go and butter up the old darling. Don’t worry, I can handle her all right. I’m going down the shop this morning, so I’ll buy her a packet of fags to keep her happy.”

“She looked wild,” said Alison.

“Do you blame her?” said Gwyn. “And what’s a clip on the earhole among friends? You go and square your family, put them wise, get in first: just in case. I’ll calm Mam down, and then we’ll see to the loft. She’s touchy this morning because I’m not supposed to speak to Huw, and I must over this job.”

“But what happened then?” said Roger. “That plate was the one she took from Ali’s room yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“I know,” said Gwyn. “Where are the others?”

“I put them on the billiard table,” said Alison.

“I’ll pick them up on my way back,” said Gwyn. “We’ll have a good look at them later.”

“Who’s going to deal with which?” Alison said to Roger as they walked across the lawn.

“We’ll each tackle our own, I think, in this case,” said Roger.

“Mummy’s sunbathing on the terrace,” said Alison.

“Right. Dad’s in the river somewhere, I expect, trying out his puncture repairs. Peculiar business, isn’t it? You know just before Nancy yelled – when you were letting off steam about her – a crack went right through that pebble-dash in the billiard-room. I saw it. It was behind you. Peculiar that. It’s the second since yesterday. Dad spotted one last night.”

Gwyn walked slowly. The plate had been on the dresser in the kitchen: his mother had been in the larder: a difficult shot. Who could have done it? Huw was shovelling coke by the stables. Who would have done it?

The smash in the billiard-room was like an explosion. Gwyn ran. The fragments of the plates lay on the floor. They had hit the wall where it was pebble-dashed, and the whole width of the mortar near the top was laced with cracks. Gwyn looked under the table and in the cupboards, but no one was hiding, and the animals were motionless in their glass.

Very gently, and softly, trying to make no noise, Gwyn gathered up the pieces. The morning sun came through the skylights and warmed the oak beams of the roof. They gave off a sweet smell, the essence of their years, wood and corn and milk and all the uses of the room. A motorcycle went by along the road above the house, making the glass rattle.

Gwyn heard something drop behind him, and he turned. A lump of pebble-dash had come off the wall, and another fell, and in their place on the wall two eyes were watching him.

CHAPTER 5

“Gwyn said he’d done it. I don’t think she believed him, but she had to shut up.”

“Good,” said Clive. “His head’s screwed on.”

“Yes, Gwyn’s all right,” said Roger. “But I thought you’d better know, in case Nancy wants to make a row over it.”

“Too true,” said Clive.

“None of us chucked the plate,” said Roger.

“It probably fell, and the old girl thought someone had buzzed her,” said Clive. “That seems to have fixed my puncture.” He lumbered out of the river. “Dry as a bone.”

“Have you seen this, Dad?” said Roger. He was sitting on top of the upright slab. “This hole?”

“Oh? No.”

“Any ideas how it was made?” said Roger. “It goes right through.”

“So it does. Machine tooled, I’d say. Lovely job. Seems a rum thing to do out here in the wilds.”

“Have a squint from the other side, up towards the house.”

Roger’s father put his hands on his knees and bent to look through the hole.

“Well I never,” he said. “Fancy that.”

“It frames the top of the ridge, and the trees, doesn’t it?”

“Like a snapshot.”

“That’s a point,” said Roger. “I wonder if it’s possible. You’d need a heck of a focal depth, and the camera I’ve brought here only stops down to f.16. It’d be interesting, technically – You’re off shopping today, aren’t you?”

“Yes: back after tea, I expect. That’s the drag of this place. It’s a day’s job every week.”

“I’ll need a different film and paper,” said Roger. “Can you buy it for me?”

“Surely. But write it down, old lad.”

Gwyn locked the billiard-room door, and instead of putting the key back on its hook in the kitchen he kept it in his pocket and went down the narrow path between the back of the house and the high retaining wall of the steep garden. He moved in a green light of ferns and damp moss, and the air smelt cool.

When he reached the open lawn he sat on the edge of the fish tank and rinsed his hands. Grey lime dust drifted from his fingers like a cobweb over the water. He bit a torn nail smooth, and cleaned out the sand with a twig. Then he went to the stables.

At first he thought that Huw must have finished with the coke, but when he came to the yard he saw Huw leaning on his shovel, and something about him made Gwyn stop.

Huw stood with two fingers lodged in his waistcoat pocket, his head cocked sideways, and although his body seemed to strain he did not move. He was talking to himself, but Gwyn could not hear what he said, and he was dazzled by the glare of the sun when he tried to find what Huw was looking at. Then he saw. It was the whole sky.

There were no clouds, and the sky was drained white towards the sun. The air throbbed, flashed like blue lightning, sometimes dark, sometimes pale, and the pulse of the throbbing grew, and now the shades followed one another so quickly that Gwyn could see no more than a trembling which became a play of light on the sheen of a wing, but when he looked about him he felt that the trees and the rocks had never held such depth, and the line of the mountain made his heart shake.

“There’s daft,” said Gwyn.