The Owl Service. Alan Garner
What do you think of that?” She was flushed.
Roger took the plate and turned it over. “No maker’s mark,” he said. “Pity. I thought it might have been a real find. It’s ordinary stuff: thick: not worth much.”
“Thick yourself! Look at the pattern!”
“Yes. – Well?”
“Don’t you see what it is?”
“An abstract design in green round the edge, touched up with a bit of rough gilding.”
“Roger! You’re being stupid on purpose! Look at that part. It’s an owl’s head.”
“—Yes? I suppose it is, if you want it to be. Three leafy heads with this kind of abstract flowery business in between each one. Yes: I suppose so.”
“It’s not abstract,” said Alison. “That’s the body. If you take the design off the plate and fit it together it makes a complete owl. See. I’ve traced the two parts of the design, and all you do is turn the head right round till it’s the other way up, and then join it to the top of the main pattern where it follows the rim of the plate. There you are. It’s an owl – head, wings and all.”
“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