we can almost see the patronising, unperceptive, well-intentioned and severely limited Clive, the nervy, quick-witted, imaginative, generous, rebellious Gwyn. Clive’s relationship with his stepdaughter, Alison, could hardly be better revealed than through his own words:
“You’re looking a bit peaky this morning,” said Clive. “Sure you’re OK? Mustn’t overdo things, you know. Not good for a young lady.”
The tension in the family situation is made even more vivid by the setting. Garner is exceptionally sensitive to the atmosphere of places, and the Welsh valley where he conceived the story, and where the TV version was filmed, is a powerful and oppressive character in its own right. I have driven past that valley many times, and never without feeling glad to have left it behind. Setting and people, both living and mythical, combine in this wonderful novel to produce an effect unlike anything else in fiction. Is it a children’s book? Of course it is, and of course it’s not only for children. Nowadays, I’m very glad to say, children’s literature is taken seriously by academe, and not dismissed as trivial. The Owl Service is one of the books that made that both possible and necessary. Fifty years after it was first published, we can see that it was always a classic.
Philip Pullman
“How’s the bellyache, then?”
Gwyn stuck his head round the door. Alison sat in the iron bed with brass knobs. Porcelain columns showed the Infant Bacchus and there was a lump of slate under one leg because the floor dipped.
“A bore,” said Alison. “And I’m too hot.”
“Tough,” said Gwyn. “I couldn’t find any books, so I’ve brought one I had from school. I’m supposed to be reading it for Literature, but you’re welcome: it looks deadly.”
“Thanks anyway,” said Alison.
“Roger’s gone for a swim. You wanting company are you?”
“Don’t put yourself out for me,” said Alison.
“Right,” said Gwyn. “Cheerio.”
He rode sideways down the banisters on his arms to the first-floor landing.
“Gwyn!”
“Yes? What’s the matter? You OK?”
“Quick!”
“You want a basin? You going to throw up, are you?”
“Gwyn!”
He ran back. Alison was kneeling on the bed.
“Listen,” she said. “Can you hear that?”
“That what?”
“That noise in the ceiling. Listen.”
The house was quiet. Mostyn Lewis-Jones was calling after the sheep on the mountain: and something was scratching in the ceiling above the bed.
“Mice,” said Gwyn.
“Too loud,” said Alison.
“Rats, then.”
“No. Listen. It’s something hard.”
“They want their claws trimming.”
“It’s not rats,” said Alison.
“It is rats. They’re on the wood: that’s why they’re so loud.”
“I heard it the first night I came,” said Alison, “and every night since: a few minutes after I’m in bed.”
“That’s rats,” said Gwyn. “As bold as you please.”
“No,” said Alison. “It’s something trying to get out. The scratching’s a bit louder each night. And today – it’s the loudest yet – and it’s not there all the time.”
“They must be tired by now,” said Gwyn.
“Today – it’s been scratching when the pain’s bad. Isn’t that strange?”
“You’re strange,” said Gwyn. He stood on the bed, and rapped the ceiling. “You up there! Buzz off!”
The bed jangled as he fell, and landed hard, and sat gaping at Alison. His knocks had been answered.
“Gwyn! Do it again!”
Gwyn stood up.
Knock, knock.
Scratch, scratch.
Knock.
Scratch.
Knock knock knock.
Scratch scratch scratch.
Knock – knock knock.
Scratch – scratch scratch.
Gwyn whistled. “Hey,” he said. “These rats should be up the Grammar at Aberystwyth.” He jumped off the bed. “Now where’ve I seen it? – I know: in the closet here.”
Gwyn opened a door by the bedroom chimney. It was a narrow space like a cupboard, and there was a hatch in the ceiling.
“We need a ladder,” said Gwyn.
“Can’t you reach if you stand on the washbasin?” said Alison.
“Too chancy. We need a pair of steps and a hammer. The bolt’s rusted in. I’ll go and fetch them from the stables.”
“Don’t be long,” said Alison. “I’m all jittery.”
“ ‘Gwyn’s Educated Rats’: how’s that? We’ll make a packet on the telly.”
He came back with the stepladder, hammer and a cage trap.
“My Mam’s in the kitchen, so I couldn’t get bait.”
“I’ve some chocolate,” said Alison. “It’s fruit and nut: will that do?”
“Fine,” said Gwyn. “Give it us here now.”
He had no room to strike hard with the hammer, and rust and old paint dropped in his face.
“It’s painted right over,” he said. “No one’s been up for years. Ah. That’s it.”
The bolt broke from its rust. Gwyn climbed down for Alison’s torch. He wiped his face on his sleeve, and winked at her.
“That’s shut
