The Owl Service (3 page)

“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.”

“Fairs do's,” 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.”

“A
nd 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.

“G
wyn 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.”