The Owl Service

He went up to Huw Halfbacon. Huw had not moved, and now Gwyn could hear what he was saying. It was almost a chant.

“Come, apple-sweet murmurer; come, harp of my gladness; come, summer, come.”

“Huw.”

“Come, apple-sweet murmurer; come, harp of my gladness; come, summer, come.”

“Huw?”

“Come, apple-sweet murmurer; come, harp of my gladness; come, summer, come.”

Huw looked at Gwyn, and looked through him. “She’s coming,” he said. “She won’t be long now.”

“Mam says you’re to make a board to nail over the loft in the house,” said Gwyn. “If I measure up, can you let the job last till tomorrow?”

Huw sighed, and began to shovel coke. “You want a board to nail up the loft, is that what you said?”

“Yes, but we need time to bring the plates down without Mam finding out.”

“Be careful.”

“Don’t you worry.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said Huw.

“Why has Mam taken against you?”

“You’d better ask her. I’ve no quarrel.”

“She’s been away from the valley all these years. You’d think she’d have got over any old rows. But she hasn’t spoken to you, has she?”

“Perhaps she is afraid in the English way,” said Huw. “But if they think I am weak in the head they should have seen my uncle. And Grandfather they would lock in their brick walls.”

“Why?”

“Grandfather?” said Huw. “He went mad, down through the wood by the river.”

“Here?” said Gwyn. “The wood in the garden, where it’s swampy?”

“Yes. We don’t go there.”

“Really, really mad?” said Gwyn.

“That’s what the English said. They would not let him stay here. He lost his job.”

“The English? Wasn’t the house lived in properly even then?”

“It has never been a home,” said Huw. “They come for a while, and go. And my grandfather had to go. They would not let him stay in the valley.”

“What happened to him?”

“He walked away. Sometimes we heard of him. He sent those plates. He was working in the big potteries, and he decorated the plates and sent them to the house, and a letter to say he was all right now, but word came soon after that he had died at Stoke.”

“But why were they put in the loft? And why did Mam have hysterics when I found them?”

“Ask her. She’s your mother,” said Huw. “Perhaps there’s always talk in a valley.”

“Is there anything needed for the house while we’re out shopping, Halfbacon?”

Roger and his father came into the yard.

“No, sir,” said Huw. “We are not wanting any stuff.”

“Good,” said Clive. “I’ll be off, then. Jot down what you want for your snaps, won’t you, Roger? Funny rock you have in the meadow, Halfbacon. Who drilled the hole in it?”

“It is the Stone of Gronw,” said Huw.

“Oh? What’s that when it’s at home, eh? Ha ha.”

“There is a man being killed at that place,” said Huw: “old time.”

“Was there now!”

“Yes,” said Huw. “He has been taking the other man’s wife.”

“That’s a bit off, I must say,” said Clive. “I suppose the stone’s a kind of memorial, eh? But who made the hole? You can see those trees through it at the top of the ridge.”

“Yes, sir,” said Huw. “He is standing on the bank of the river, see, and the husband is up there on the Bryn with a spear: and he is putting the stone between himself and the spear, and the spear is going right through the stone and him.”

“Oho,” said Clive.

“Why did he stand there and let it happen?” said Roger.

“Because he killed the husband the same way earlier to take the wife.”

“Tit for tat,” said Clive. “These old yarns, eh? Well, I must be off.”

“Yes, sir, that is how it is happening, old time.”

Gwyn went with Roger and his father towards the house.

“Will you be using the billiard-room today, Mr Bradley?”

“No,” said Clive. “I’ll be fishing as soon as we’re back: mustn’t waste this weather, you know. Help yourself, old son.”

“Here’s what I want for my camera, Dad,” said Roger. “It’s all there.”

“Fine,” said Clive. “Well, cheerio.”

“I was beginning to believe that maundering old liar,” said Roger.

“Huw wasn’t lying. Not deliberate,” said Gwyn.

“What? A spear making that hole? Thrown all the way from those trees? by a stiff?”

“Huw believes it.”

“You Welsh are all the same,” said Roger. “Scratch one and they all bleed.”

“What happened to you yesterday by the Stone of Gronw?” said Gwyn. “You knew what I meant when I was trying to explain how it felt when I picked up a plate. And then you started talking about the stone out of nowhere.”

“It was a feeling,” said Roger. “One minute everything’s OK – and the next minute it’s not. Too much clean living, I expect. I’ll cut down on the yoghurt—”

“And you came straight up from the river,” said Gwyn. “Didn’t you? Work it out, man. We both felt something, and it must have been near enough at the same time. What was it?”

“A thump,” said Roger. “A kind of scream. Very quick. Perhaps there was an accident—”

“I’ve not heard of any,” said Gwyn. “And in this valley you can’t sneeze without everyone knowing from here to Aber.”

“There was a whistling, too,” said Roger, “in the air. That’s all.”

“And I got a shock from the plates,” said Gwyn. “And nothing’s been the same since. Did you notice the sky when you were with your Dad a few minutes ago?”

“No?”

“Flashing,” said Gwyn. “Like strip lighting switched on, only blue.”

“No,” said Roger.

“Huw saw it. Where’s Alison?”

“Gone to tell her mother about yours.”

“There’s something to show you,” said Gwyn. “In the billiard-room.”

They found Alison rattling the door handle. “Why have you locked it?” she said. “I want the plates.”

“They’re still here,” said Gwyn.

He unlocked the door and they went inside.

“Gwyn! You’ve broken them!”

“Not me, lady. Have you seen what’s behind you?”

“Holy cow!” said Roger.

CHAPTER 6

She was tall. Her long hair fell to her waist, framing in gold her pale and lovely face. Her eyes were blue. She wore a loose gown of white cambric, embroidered with living green stems of broom and meadowsweet, and a wreath of green oak leaves in her hair.

“Gave me quite a turn, she did,” said Gwyn. “There was just her eyes showing at first, but that pebble-dash soon came off.”

“She’s so beautiful!” said Alison. “Who’d want to cover her up?”

“Sixteenth century, if it’s a day,” said Roger. “Fresh as new. How’s it survived under that lot?”

The woman was painted life-size in oils on wooden panelling. She stood against a background of clover heads spaced in rows.

“What a find!” said Roger. “It’ll fetch thousands.”

“Not so fast,” said Gwyn. “We’ll keep our mouths shut. You’ll have to organise your Dad, and the one person who mustn’t know is my Mam.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? Don’t you realise? You’ve a masterpiece here.”

“My mam would take an axe to it,” said Gwyn. “Start thinking. You’ve not asked me how I found it.”

“How did you, then?” said Alison.

“It was your plates. I was coming back in here when I heard them smash. They’d been chucked against the pebble-dash, and a piece fell off.”

“Why should this make your mother wreck it?” said Alison.

“My Mam’s scared stiff about something. She’s grim at the best of times, but not this bad. It’s the plates, isn’t it, Alison?”

“How should I know?”

“Guessing; and what Huw said. ‘Mind how you are looking at her,’ and now in the yard, ‘She’s coming,’ he said.”

“What does that mean?” said Roger.

“You can’t tell. He could be talking about the weather. It’s called ‘she’ in Welsh.”

“Then that’s it,” said Roger.

“But if it isn’t?” said Gwyn. “Someone cared enough about the painting and the plates to lug a dinner service into the roof and to pebble-dash this wall. You don’t go to all that trouble for nothing. Somebody wanted them hidden, and now they’re not hidden. They’re – loose.”

“It might not have been the same person. And there’s no harm, whatever the reason is,” said Alison, “not if we find something as wonderful as this.”

“Have you looked close? Marvellous detail, isn’t it?” said Gwyn.

“Every strand of hair,” said Roger. “I can’t get over how it’s stayed so clean all this time.”

“Marvellous,” said Gwyn. “Have you looked at them clover heads, boyo?”

“Great stuff: like heraldry,” said Roger. He went right up to the panelling. “And yet you could pick them—” Roger stepped back. “Oh no,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” said Alison. She looked. The heads were formed of curved white petals bunched together, each painted separately, fine and sharp. But the petals were not petals: they were claws.

“Someone had a nasty mind,” said Roger.

“Or maybe that’s the way it was when they painted it,” said Gwyn. “Nasty.”

“You can’t have flowers made of claws,” said Roger.

“Why not? You can have owls made of flowers, can’t you?” said Gwyn. “Let’s bring the plates down. I want to see them close to – and with the pattern on. Leave this pebble-dash: I’ll clear it up later. And don’t say anything about this wall until we’ve had a think.”

They arranged that Gwyn and Roger should take the plates out of the loft and lower them from the bedroom window in a linen basket to Alison, who would be waiting with a barrow.

“I’m getting cold feet over this,” said Roger. “Shouldn’t we leave it as it is, and nail the loft up?”

“There’s something in this valley,” said Gwyn, “and my Mam’s on to it. She’s been like the kiss of death since she saw them plates. That clover: them plates: it’s owls and flowers, and it’s dangerous.”

“So nail the loft up,” said Roger. “If you’d seen Ali last night you wouldn’t be keen.”

“That’s why I’m shifting the plates,” said Gwyn. “Get them away from her first, and then we can think. I’ve not had a proper look at them paper models she makes: are they genuine?”

“Absolutely. I’ve watched her. It’s dead clever the way she traces the patterns out so it fits together.”

“Does she really keep losing them?”

“I think so,” said Roger. “She’s quite het up about it.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Gwyn. “We must disconnect her.”

“Disconnect?”

“That’s about it. Batteries can’t work without wires.”

Gwyn went up into the loft, and handed the dinner service to Roger, who put it in the linen basket and lowered it on a rope to Alison, then Gwyn measured the hatch, and came down.

“You know, I think we’re being a bit overwrought about all this,” said Roger. “When you see them they are just plates. And perhaps it was just mice.”

“Mice,” said Gwyn. “I’d forgotten. I set a cage trap.”

He climbed up the ladder and opened the hatch. Roger could see him from the waist down. He stood very still.

“Have you caught anything?” said Roger.

“You’ve seen a cage trap, haven’t you?” said Gwyn. “You know how it works – a one-way door: what’s in it can’t get out: right?”

“Yes,” said Roger. “Have you caught anything?”

“I think I’ve caught a mouse,” said Gwyn.

“ ‘Think’?”

Gwyn came down the ladder. He held out the cage. Inside was a hard-packed ball of bones and fur.

“I think it’s a mouse,” he said. “Owls aren’t fussy. They just swallow straight off, and what they don’t want they cough up later. That’s an owl’s pellet: but I think it was mouse.”

CHAPTER 7

They had not heard Nancy come up the stairs. She was in the bedroom doorway. “It’s taking you long enough to measure that door, isn’t it, boy?” she said. “Is that all you’re doing? What you need that trap for?”

“I’ve finished, Mam,” said Gwyn. “I’m going down the shop.”

“About time,” said Nancy. “I’m wanting flour for tea scones: be sharp.”

“Can I have my money now?” said Gwyn.

“You has pocket money Saturday,” said Nancy.

“I know, Mam. Can I have it early this week?”

“You think I’m made of it? There’s nothing as can’t wait. Saturday, boy.”

“But Mam—”

“Down the shop with you, and less cheek.”

“I’m not cheeking you.”

“You are now,” said Nancy.

Gwyn went downstairs and into the kitchen. Roger followed. Gwyn opened a cupboard and took his mother’s purse from behind a cocoa tin.

“You’re not going to nick it, are you?” said Roger.

“No,” said Gwyn.

“You don’t need cash for the flour,” said Roger. “It goes on the account.”

“Yes,” said Gwyn.

“Do you have pocket money every week?” said Roger.

“Yes.”

“Bit quaint, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Though if that’s how you’re fixed I suppose it’s OK to take some early. You’re not pinching it – just anticipating.”

“Not even that,” said Gwyn. “I’m giving.” He opened the purse, and dropped the ball of mouse inside. “A poor thing, but mine own.” Then he closed the purse, and put it back in the cupboard.

Gwyn walked so fast down the drive that Roger had to run after him. His face was white and he did not speak.

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