climbed down for Alison’s torch. He wiped his face on his sleeve, and winked at her.
“That’s shut their racket, anyway.”
As he said this the scratching began on the door over his head, louder than before.
“You don’t have to open it,” said Alison.
“And say goodbye to fame and fortune?”
“Don’t laugh about it. You don’t have to do it for me. Gwyn, be careful. It sounds so sharp: strong and sharp.”
“Who’s laughing, girlie?” He brought a dry mop from the landing and placed the head against the door in the ceiling. The scratching had stopped. He pushed hard, and the door banged open. Dust sank in a cloud.
“It’s light,” said Gwyn. “There’s a pane of glass let in the roof.”
“Do be careful,” said Alison.
“‘“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller’ – Yarawarawarawarawara!” Gwyn brandished the mop through the hole. “Nothing, see.”
He climbed until his head was above the level of the joists. Alison went to the foot of the ladder.
“A lot of muck and straw. Coming?”
“No,” said Alison. “I’d get hayfever in that dust. I’m allergic.”
“There’s a smell,” said Gwyn: “a kind of scent: I can’t quite – yes: it’s meadowsweet. Funny, that. It must be blowing from the river. The slates feel red hot.”
“Can you see what was making the noise?” said Alison.
Gwyn braced his hands on either side of the hatch and drew his legs up.
“It’s only a place for the water tanks, and that,” he said. “No proper floor. Wait a minute, though!”
“Where are you going? Be careful.” Alison heard Gwyn move across the ceiling.
In the darkest corner of the loft a plank lay over the joists, and on it was a whole dinner service: squat towers of plates, a mound of dishes, and all covered with grime, straw, droppings and blackened pieces of birds’ nests.
“What is it?” said Alison. She had come up the ladder and was holding a handkerchief to her nose.
“Plates. Masses of them.”
“Are they broken?”
“Nothing wrong with them as far as I can see, except muck. They’re rather nice – green and gold shining through the straw.”
“Bring one down, and we’ll wash it.”
Alison saw Gwyn lift a plate from the top of the nearest pile, and then he lurched, and nearly put his foot through the ceiling between the joists.
“Gwyn! Is that you?”
“Whoops!”
“Please come down.”
“Right. Just a second. It’s so blooming hot up here it made me go sken-eyed.”
He came to the hatch and gave Alison the plate.
“I think your mother’s calling you,” said Alison.
Gwyn climbed down and went to the top of the stairs.
“What you want, Mam?”
“Fetch me two lettuce from the kitchen garden!” His mother’s voice echoed from below. “And be sharp now!”
“I’m busy!”
“You are not!”
Gwyn pulled a face. “You clean the plate,” he said to Alison. “I’ll be right back.” Before he went downstairs Gwyn put the cage trap into the loft and closed the hatch.
“What did you do that for? You didn’t see anything, did you?” said Alison.
“No,” said Gwyn. “But there’s droppings. I still want to know what kind of rats it is can count.”
Roger splashed through the shallows to the bank. A slab of rock stood out of the ground close by him, and he sprawled backwards into the foam of meadowsweet that grew thickly round its base. He gathered the stems in his arms and pulled the milky heads down over his face to shield him from the sun.
Through the flowers he could see a jet trail moving across the sky, but the only sounds were the river and a farmer calling sheep somewhere up the valley.
The mountains were gentle in the heat. The ridge above the house, crowned with a grove of fir trees, looked black against the summer light. He breathed the cool sweet air of the flowers. He felt the sun drag deep in his limbs.
Something flew by him, a blink of dark on the leaves. It was heavy, and fast, and struck hard. He felt the vibration through the rock, and he heard a scream.
Roger was on his feet, crouching, hands wide, but the meadow was empty, and the scream was gone: he caught its echo in the farmer’s distant voice and a curlew away on the mountain. There was no one in sight: his heart raced, and he was cold in the heat of the sun. He looked at his hands. The meadowsweet had cut him, lining his palm with red beads. The flowers stank of goat.
He leant against the rock. The mountains hung over him, ready to fill the valley. “Brrr—” He rubbed his arms and legs with his fists. The skin was rough with gooseflesh. He looked up and down the river, at the water sliding like oil under the trees and breaking on the stones. “Now what the heck was that? Acoustics? Trick acoustics? And those hills – they’d addle anyone’s brains.” He pressed his back against the rock. “Don’t you move. I’m watching you. That’s better – Hello?”
There was a hole in the rock. It was round and smooth, and it went right through from one side to the other. He felt it with his hand before he saw. Has it been drilled on purpose, or is it a freak? he thought. Waste of time if it isn’t natural: crafty precision job, though. “Gosh, what a fluke!” He had lined himself up with the hole to see if it was straight, and he was looking at the ridge of fir trees above the house. The hole framed the trees exactly … “Brrrr, put some clothes on.”
Roger walked up through the garden from the river.
Huw Halfbacon was raking the gravel on the drive in front of the house, and talking to Gwyn, who was banging lettuces together to shake the earth from the roots.
“Lovely day for a swim,” said Huw.
“Yes,” said Roger. “Perfect.”
“Lovely.”
“Yes.”
“You were
