The Owl Service (13 page)

“And the hen house.”

“Gwyn.”

“What?”

“Don't let her: the school.”

Gwyn came back up the hillside.

“She'll not wreck my chances,” he said. “Shall I tell you? If I go behind that counter, there's night school. And that's not all. I've been planning. If I go behind that counter, there's nobody'll keep me there. I've been saving up, and I've bought a set of records, and if I go behind that counter I'll buy a record player. Night school's not everything. I can tell you, Alison. I couldn't anyone else. But I can tell you. These records. They teach you to speak properly. That's what matters. That, and night school.”

“No!”

“What's wrong?”

“There's nothing wrong with the way you speak, except when you're putting it on to annoy people.”

“But I'm a Taff, aren't I?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Alison. “I like it. It's you, and not ten thousand other people. It doesn't matter, Gwyn!”

“It doesn't matter – as long as you haven't got it!” said Gwyn, and he rattled down the scree to the water.

Alison watched him out of sight, then she walked along the peat road, off the mountain, past the barn and the sheep dip, over the ford, and climbed through the garden to the house.

Inside the house was dark and cool, and Alison heard the tea trolley in the parlour. She hurried upstairs, and a few seconds later came down again and went out through the cloakroom.

She found Gwyn sitting on the tree stump by the hen hut.

“Here,” said Alison. “I want to give you a present.” She pushed a box into Gwyn's hand.

“What for?”

“For today.”

“I haven't anything for you, girl.”

“Never mind,” said Alison, and she ran back through the wood.

Gwyn opened the box. “Greetings from the Land of Song”, he read. He turned the box over. “A Keltikraft Souvenir”. And then the small lettering at the bottom. “Made in England”.

“N
ot a sausage,” said Roger, “except thirty-six frames of trees on a hill. It must have been a fluke with the other batch.”

“I dare say,” said Clive.

“But will you buy me some more film when you're shopping?” said Roger. “I've had enough fir trees, but there's plenty to do here – some nice composition.”

“Right you are. Oops!” Clive swung at the ball and missed.

“Game set and match,” said Roger.

“Phoo! It's those wide uns that catch me,” said Clive. “I'm a bit long in the tooth for Ping-Pong.”

“Your spinners are the dirtiest I've seen,” said Roger. “The ball doesn't even bounce. How do you manage it?”

“Aha,” said Clive. “Trade secret. Where's Ali? I thought she was coming for a knock-up.”

“Margaret took her for a walk instead.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Dad, when are we going home?”

“Nearly three weeks, isn't it?” said Clive.

“Any chance of going sooner?”

“Why? Aren't you enjoying it here?”

“No.”

“What's up? We couldn't ask for better weather.”

“It's not that.”

“Don't you hit it off with Margaret and Ali? I know it's often sticky at first – these things – you know? They usually shake down all right in the end.”

“That'd be the same whether we're here or not,” said Roger. “It's this place that's giving me the pip. I've got to get out.”

“Whoa back,” said Clive. “You're kicking over the traces, that's all. Everyone goes through it. It'll pass.”

“Dad, please let's go home.”

“No can do,” said Clive. “We're geared to stay the three weeks, and it'd be no end of a palaver if we changed.”

“A lot of work for Margaret,” said Roger.

“That's it,” said Clive. “Hello, here's my favourite princess. Had a nice outing?”

Alison came into the table-tennis room holding a box camera by the strap.

“Yes thanks.”

“Good. We've just finished a game. If you want one I'm afraid Roger will have to hold the fort alone: I'm done for. He's had me chasing round till I'm blue in the face. I'll score, if you like.”

“I hadn't come for a game,” said Alison. “Roger, could you develop this film for me, please?”

“What, now?”

“Please. Before tea. Mummy and I've been taking snaps, and Mummy asked if you would, so can you see how they've turned out?”

“It's not as simple as that,” said Roger. “It takes time. Won't it wait?”

“Do what you can, there's a good lad,” said Clive.

“OK,” said Roger. “But I know what it'll be – poor definition, bad grouping, too far away from the subject, sun on the lens, camera shake – the lot.”

They walked together along the path behind the stables. Roger stopped at the end door. He put his ear to it.

“Dad.”

Clive and Alison came back.

“Listen. What can you hear?”

“Somebody moving about inside?” said Clive. “Rustling.”

“Any footsteps?” said Roger.

“Um – no.”

“The door's padlocked, and there's no other way in,” said Roger, “and I heard exactly the same thing last week.”

“Did you, by Jove!” said Clive. “Let's find out what it is, then.”

“None of the keys fit: I've tried.”

“We'll see about that,” said Clive. “Old Hoojimmaflip's at the front, raking the drive. I'll give him a shout.” He went round the corner of the building. “Ahoy! Here a minute, will you?”

“What are you looking so green for?” said Roger.

“I can smell petrol,” said Alison. “It makes me sick.”

“Now then,” said Clive. He came back with Huw Halfbacon. “This door. Let's have it open.”

“No, sir,” said Huw.

“It's locked. Where's the key?”

“It is not opening,” said Huw. “That is a beauty padlock see.”

“Yes,” said Clive. “We: want: the: key.”

“No, sir.”

“The key, Halfbacon. Where's the key?”

“Gone, sir.”

“You mean lost?”

“In the river,” said Huw. “Old time. She locked the door and threw the key.”

“What the blazes for?” said Clive.

“Yes, sir. Now excuse me: I must go working to Mrs Bradley.”

Huw shambled away.

“No one,” said Clive, “no one can be that dense! It's a conspiracy!”

“They're mad, every one of them,” said Roger. “The way they smile and nod their heads, and they could be saying anything. You never know where you are with them. Please, Dad, let's pack up and go home.”

“Steady on,” said Clive. “I think we're being a bit imaginative. They can't all be as cuckoo as that.”

“Can't they?” said Roger. “I'll tell you something. I noticed it by chance. This wasn't being done for anyone's benefit. You know I've been swimming every afternoon – well, four days ago I was walking up from the river along the farm road by the kitchen garden, and I happened to notice that Gwyn character sitting on the seat – you know, the one that's let into the very thick part of the hedge nearest the house. He was just sitting.”

“What's wrong with that?” said Clive.

“The next day,” said Roger, “he was there again. And since then I've been watching, and every afternoon at four o'clock he comes and sits on the seat for half an hour. He doesn't do anything. He sits, and he glowers, and then he goes. Every day! The same time! And you can see he's not enjoying himself: he's not doing it for the view. Now if he's supposed to be the bright one, what does that make the others?”

“Have you thought about the madman who jumps in the river at the same time every day, and then goes spying?” said Alison.

“Give us that film,” said Roger. “Let's see what masterpieces of the art we have here.” He went off, swinging the camera.

Clive sat on the edge of the fish tank and mopped his neck. “You wouldn't believe it possible not to get a bite out of that river,” he said. “Weather like this, not a breath of wind – I dunno. I'll be reduced to trawling for the beggars in this tank soon.”

Alison sat by him. She kept looking at the water and then up to her bedroom.

“Odd about that door,” said Clive. “I'd have sworn there was somebody inside. What's the place used for?”

“I don't know,” said Alison. “I've never been in.”

“It's always locked?”

“I can't remember. There are so many empty rooms.”

“Odd. I don't like to feel I'm being bamboozled by domestics, and that Halfbacon fellow was definitely, but definitely, playing me up.”

“His English isn't very good,” said Alison.

“It's not that bad,” said Clive. “Ah well. Who did he say lost the key?”

“She,” said Alison.

“She who?”

“She nobody.”

“Nancy?” said Clive. “I wonder. Could be. I'll ask her.”

Alison dipped her hand in the water.

“Enjoying your holiday?” said Clive.

“Yes, thank you, Clive.”

“Three more weeks, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Almost.”

“Oh: yes,” said Alison.

“Er – how's your mother liking it?”

“Fine. Mummy adores the country – walks, and picking things up. We brought some feathers back today: lovely pale creamy ones with brown wavy bars round the edges.”

“You don't want to go home early, then?” said Clive.

“Why?”

“I was thinking you might be a wee bit out of sorts with it lately. I was thinking you might not be very happy here.”

“Clive, you're the kindest man I've ever met,” said Alison.

“Easy does it, Mata Hari!”

They laughed.

Gwyn came up the path from the kitchen garden on to the drive. He hesitated when he saw Clive and Alison by the tank and looked over his shoulder. Then he walked away towards the yard.

Clive turned his wrist. “Twenty past four,” he said. “Well I never.”

Alison played with the water.

“I think I'll drift along and have a word with old Nance before tea,” said Clive.

“I'll stay here,” said Alison.

“Might be as well. You never know what you'll find with that lady, do you?”

When Clive had gone Alison watched her reflection in the water. At first she was trying to decide whether what she saw now was what she had seen from her bedroom, but as she held her own gaze for minute after minute it became harder for her to look away. She dared not look away, because she knew that she herself was being watched.

What is it? Something's happened. Something's stopped. Something's stopped. What? The rake!

Alison swivelled round. Huw Halfbacon was leaning on his rake, his head forward, fixed on her. Alison tried to stare him out, but in the end she had to act as if she had been thinking of something else. She turned – and looked straight into another pair of eyes: the same intense blue. It was Gwyn. He was in the dining-room window. There was no quiet in his eyes, nothing that Alison had seen when he had sat where she was now. Huw was still there. Alison felt gripped between their looking as if between pincers.

Stop peering at me.

If she moved she had either to pass Huw and go in by the front door, or to walk towards the dining-room window to reach the cloakroom.

She tossed her hair. A motorcycle engine broke into life, and its sound moved away up the road. She wrinkled her nose against the fumes.

Huw and Gwyn were still watching her, but the disturbance had loosened their grip. She could ignore them.

“Ali! Ali! Why didn't you tell me? Where did you take this?” Roger came charging out of the cloakroom, and a big sheet of wet paper was plastering itself over his arms and chest. “Quick! Here! What is it?”

“Oh, that,” said Alison. “I saw there was one number left, so I snapped your Bryn thing from the road as we came past. You've been muttering about it for so long, I did it for a lark. I only pointed the camera: didn't bother with the viewfinder. It was just to use the film up.”

“What's this? There. Between those two fir trees on the left.”

“Why are you making such a fuss?” said Alison. “It's only Gwyn.”

H
e'd a fair old job, throwing that spear. Gwyn had found the Stone of Gronw, but from where he stood among the trees on the Bryn it was no different from all the other rocks. The Bryn commanded the valley, and he could watch Alison's movements and be ready for any chance, but there was no chance.

Then it was time to go to the kitchen garden. She did not come.

Tea. When he saw her laughing with her stepfather by the water Gwyn's hand squeezed the box in his pocket. She had laughed like that on the Ravenstone. He looked over his shoulder at its point on the skyline. He wanted to crush the box, to hear the shells crack, and he imagined himself crossing the lawn: he would flip the box into the water between them, discarded, litter.

Gwyn walked towards the yard.

“Where you been all afternoon?” said Nancy.

“Out,” said Gwyn.

“Fine time I've had, not a hand's turn to help me,” said Nancy.

“Oh, drop dead, you miserable cow.”

“Is that what they teach you at the Grammar?” said Nancy.

“I wish it was,” said Gwyn. “‘A' Level Profanity – by, that'd be worth taking.”

“Well, right now you can take this tea trolley.”

Gwyn pushed the trolley through the dining-room. From the dark of the room Alison and her stepfather, sitting together outside, were as brightly lit as if they were on stage. Gwyn watched, and when Clive left Alison he moved to the window.