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“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 the door and gave a silent whistle.
“You ever played Find the Lady, have you?” he said. “‘Now you see it, now you don’t.’ Who taught you that one, girlie?”
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_b03b64b1-875a-574e-a3af-960de4d22297)
“You’ve caused a right barny,” said Roger. “Nancy’s been throwing her apron over her head and threatening I don’t know what, your mother’s had a fit of the vapours, and now Nancy’s on her dignity. She’s given my Dad her notice three times already.”
“Why doesn’t he accept it?” said Alison.
“You should know Dad by now,” said Roger. “Anything for a quiet life: that’s why he never gets one. But you’d a nerve, working that switch on her. Pity she knew the plates were decorated. How did you manage it?”
“I didn’t,” said Alison.
“Come off it.”
“I didn’t. That was the plate I traced the owls from.”
“But Gwyn says you gave Nancy an ordinary white one.”
“The pattern disappeared.”
Roger began to laugh, then stopped.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Alison nodded.
“Ali, it’s not possible,” said Roger. “The plate was glazed: the pattern was under the glaze. It couldn’t rub off.”
“But it did,” said Alison.
“But it couldn’t, little stepsister. I’ll show you.”
Roger climbed the ladder and opened the trap door.
“It’s too dark. Where’s your torch?”
“Here,” said Alison. “Can you see the plates? They’re in a corner over to your left.”
“Yes. I’ll bring a couple to prove they’re all the same.”
“Bring more. As many as you can. Let’s have them. Hand them down to me.”
“Better not,” said Roger: “after the tizz. But I don’t think these’ll be missed.”
“Mind the joists,” said Alison. “Gwyn nearly fell through the ceiling there. It was queer.”
“I bet it was!”
“No. Really queer. He slipped when he touched the plate, and he went all shadowy. Just for a second it didn’t look like Gwyn.”
“It’s the darkest part of the loft,” said Roger.
They washed the plates and took them to the window. Roger scrubbed the glaze with a nailbrush. “The glaze is shot,” he said. He picked at it with his fingernail. “It comes off easily.”
“All right,” said Alison. “I want to trace these owls before the light goes. I’m making them properly this time, out of stiff paper.”
“Not more!” said Roger. “Why do you want more? Where are the three you did earlier?”
“I couldn’t find them.”
“If you’re going to start that drawing again, I’m off,” said Roger. “When you’ve done one you’ve done them all. Shall I take your supper things down?”
“I’ve not had supper,” said Alison.
“Hasn’t Dad been up with your tray?”
“No.”
Roger grinned. “Your mother sent him to do the stern father act.”
“He’s not come.”
“Good old Dad,” said Roger.
Roger went downstairs and out through the kitchen to the back of the house. He listened at the door of a long building that had once been the dairy but was now a billiard-room. He heard the click of ivory.
Roger opened the door. His father was playing snooker by himself in the dusk. A supper tray was on an armchair.
“Hello, Dad,” said Roger.
“Jolly good,” said his father.
“I’ll light the lamps for you.”
“No need. I’m only pottering.”
Roger sat on the edge of the chair. His father moved round the table, trundling the balls into the pockets, under the eyes of the falcons and buzzards, otters, foxes, badgers and pine martens that stared from their glass cases on the wall.
“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.”
