The Owl Service. Alan Garner

      “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.