The Woman at the Window (17 page)

‘She didn't recognise me,' he said. ‘She had no idea who I was.'

Rosamund maintained a disapproving silence. She restrained herself from telling Raymond not to moan about it. For goodness sake, with all the years that had gone by and after so many exploits and goodness knows indescribable adventures there was no good reason why she should remember. And there was no need for Raymond to make such a tragedy out of it either. Through all the years when Sybil dominated his life he had not so much mentioned the wretched Meleri. And if she by some magic process had become the harmless Millie it had to be some form of improvement.

‘The poor thing has gone quite ga-ga,' she said. ‘You do realise that, don't you?'

‘Yes, I suppose so,' he said. ‘But it's so strange. Life can be so pitiless. So tragic. I'm shaken, you know. Really, shaken.' A pair of resident dowagers appeared walking arm in arm along the path that led to a wall covered in bougainvillea.

They greeted Rosamund. ‘Such a beautiful afternoon.'

She nodded graciously. They may have been curious about the visitor. Rosamund had no intention of introducing Raymond to anyone in his present emotional state. The way of life in a residential home had to be a stately ceremony, otherwise the entire fabric would fall to pieces.

‘I think we ought to keep quiet about it,' she said. ‘After all I have to go on living here. A place like this can easily be reduced to a hive of gossip. Especially among the staff.'

‘I'm sorry.'

Raymond emerged from the depths to become aware of his sister's displeasure and distress.

‘It's such a shame you've been upset in this way. It's most unfortunate.'

Raymond apologised again.

‘I was so looking forward to talking to you about family matters.'

‘Yes of course.'

He straightened up making a visible attempt to pull himself together. Here and now, the sunlight and shade they shared in this moment in time made it the only moment that mattered; that demanded his whole attention. Brother and sister were bound together in family matters.

‘Glanaber,' he said. ‘I wouldn't do anything without consulting you, Ros.'

‘There's something I haven't told you about before. I was hoping to ask you to help.'

‘Well of course, Ros, of course.' 

‘Dear Victor wrote an autobiography.'

‘Did he really?'

Raymond struggled to display genuine interest. Victor had never been dear to him and it must be at least thirteen years since he died. There had been times when he treated Raymond with open contempt, ‘the man's buried up to his neck in candy-floss' – and between Victor and Sybil there had been passages of snarling open warfare, the memory of which still distressed him. But de mortuis nihil nisi bonum or words to that effect. It was quite possible he had a lot to justify.

‘I never told you about it and I was never sure whether he meant it for publication. Perhaps not. When he was writing it there were all those books pouring out about spies and the third and the fourth and the fifth man. He said if he did get it published it would be trampled to death in the stampede. In his own way you know Victor was a very cultured man. He gave up a lot to put the family business back on its feet.'

Raymond bowed his long neck. It could have been a gesture of repentance, although as far as he could recall, Victor gave up nothing and gained a lot.

‘I brought it with me here. I told the director about it. He was very charming and helpful. He always is. But he does have a habit of disappearing. I was hoping to introduce you. Anyway he had a friend in publishing and he got him to read it. I parted with it for months and then eventually back it came with a note saying it was very interesting although it needed polishing because Victor's literary style wasn't very good; but it would never get published because Victor was not famous enough. I was really hurt.'

‘Yes, of course. Of course you were.'

‘As though the sacrifices of little people didn't count. And Victor made enormous sacrifices.'

Even when he first heard the account all of forty years ago it had been difficult to disentangle fact from fantasy. It may have been true that he had collaborated with an Austrian Nazi official to get both his aunts, who were half Jewish, visas to travel to Switzerland and safety. But had he really slipped into Yugoslavia to join the Partisans and had he really blown up a bridge with a couple of German tanks on it? Sybil was always scathingly sceptical. But Sybil was dead and gone and Rosamund was sitting in front of him alive with intentions. ‘What I thought was…' Rosamund said. ‘You have a fine command of English. I don't know whether the idea appeals to you at all. If you could edit it, I would get it privately printed. There are those small, specialised fine arts people who could produce a very limited edition. Say a hundred copies.'

He was touched by her eagerness. There were after all deep reservoirs of residual affection between them that had been buried deep in the sand of the intervening years. For a moment he had a glimpse of his big sister suggesting a new game they could play along the foreshore at Traeth Coch.

‘You could have Glanaber,' she said. ‘Set yourself up there for a few months. Peace and quiet. Nice and warm. Do you think you could do it?'

Raymond summoned up all his resources of goodwill. 

‘Yes of course, Ros,' he said. ‘Of course I'll do it.'

The Garden Cottage

‘OF course I look old,' Sir Robin said, fingering his long smoky beard. ‘I am old. But nobody is born old. Nobody is young forever either. Except in legends. That's why we like myths and legends so much.'

The married couple were soothed, made at ease, and even quietly flattered by the close attention the old gentleman was paying them. He was tall and very thin and showing off a little but he was entitled to do so as he paced in his own sprightly fashion around his own kitchen. They knew more about him than he could possibly know about them; but even then what they knew was very little, and Anna, a native so to speak, was especially eager to learn more. Her husband, Idris, was pleased to be in the cool. Outside, as they walked, they had been overtaken by the sudden heat of early summer and he had been uncomfortable in unsuitable city clothes. The collar and tie were still too tight and his best course was to sit still and listen politely in the cool of the large kitchen. 

‘Myths and legends precede stories. I'm quite sure of that. To my own satisfaction anyway. Just as stories precede fiction. And why is that?'

He paused just long enough to sense that they were equally interested in the question. He could see the couple were smiling at each other in a way that suggested they were still pleased in what they saw after twenty-five years of marriage.

‘As with everything else,' Sir Robin said, ‘the answer is in ourselves not in our stars. If I may say so, you both look supremely blessed in each other. You saw all the flowers in the cottage garden blazing away. And you stopped to admire them, who wouldn't? But why today, I wonder? More tea perhaps?'

He was a significant figure from the past, Sir Robin Williams Price the last, the very last of the Williams Prices of Plas Gilwern, making them welcome in the kitchen extension of the Gardener's Cottage, which, with all its modernised conveniences and flourishing garden, was what he had left. The lane they had walked down led to the Home Farm which he had sold long ago in a vain attempt to balance the books. The Plas itself was now an upmarket old people's home, approached from the west side of the park, which was also no longer his.

The couple glanced at each other shyly; deciding which of them should speak first. Idris had the protruding belly that went with good food and a sedentary occupation. His hair was thin but he still had a charming smile and was wont to tuck in his stomach and mutter it was time he took up squash again. Anna was dark with dimples and, as her husband would say, still a marvellously good-looking woman.

‘It's an anniversary,' she said at last. ‘Anniversary of the day we first met.'

‘Well there you are!'

Sir Robin beamed, a tall, thin, bearded figure with a teapot in his large hands. They had to be cheered by the way he looked pleased for them.

‘You are legend, you are history! That is delightful. You mean you met here? On this very spot?'

‘My great aunt lived here, Mrs Hughes. The head gardener's wife. That must have been in your father's time, I expect?'

Anna was hesitant because of the smoky beard. Sprightly as he was, could their host be even older than he looked? And how much of the old days would he wish to be reminded of?

‘Old Mrs Hughes,' he said, ‘well I never. Such a wonderful old woman. I remember her well, I'm ashamed to say. Ashamed, I suppose that's the word. Old Hughes went for the best part of a year unpaid. It was his idea. He said they could live on the produce since they paid no rent. This was in the early thirties when things were really bad. A wonderful man, Old Hughes. And she was a wonderful woman.'

Anna was encouraged by the warmth of his recollection. She could be proud of her ancient relatives. In their day they had been staunch, loyal and proud.

‘I used to bring her eggs and butter and cakes,' she said. ‘From Bronant, our farm. And at this time of the year I would leave loaded with flowers.'

‘Bronant,' he said. ‘Freehold. Very good farm.' Then he pointed playfully at Idris.

‘And one fine day, your prince arrived? Did he?'

After a slight hesitation Idris decided to enter into the spirit of the occasion. It was a bit odd, but after all it could be part of what they came for. A kind of celebration.

‘I was on holiday at Home Farm.'

‘Well I never. The Harvey Joneses was it?'

‘John Harvey Jones was my uncle. Or at least my mother's first cousin.'

‘But you weren't a local boy, were you? A young city gent enjoying his hols in the country?'

Sir Robin pressed his unexpected guests to take more tea and cakes.

‘I saw this lovely girl wobbling along on her bike, her arm full of flowers!'

‘So of course you had to help. And that was the beginning of it all. What an enchanting story. And you are still… how shall I put it? You must tell me all!'

He popped the best part of a scone in his mouth, and such was his eagerness to hear their story, he didn't bother to close it as he chewed. His long teeth looked rather loose and he covered his mouth with his hand. The happy couple looked at each other and made polite allowances. Once he had the masticating process under control, Sir Robin pressed on with his enquiries.

‘The path of true love never did run smooth, or did it? Obviously it did. Here you are. In the selfsame cottage looking blissfully happy. It was meant to happen. Like a legend. Therefore it was ordained. And we have to be grateful. But grateful to whom? Or even to what? You know that is a question that has bothered me all my life. I've always felt everything that ever happened to me was more or less my own fault. But in the case of other people, better people? Maybe you can provide an answer? That would be wonderful. Tell me all.'

His enthusiasm was enough to cool and curb Idris, who began to look uncomfortable.

‘There isn't really all that much to tell.'

Anna responded more positively. This was after all Sir Robin, the last of the Williams Prices of Plas Gilwern, only the most notable family for miles around, taking an interest. 

‘Oh, but yes there is,' she said. ‘You've no idea, Sir Robin.'

‘Robin will do,' the knight said amiably.

Anna took a deep breath and smiled to show she was greatly encouraged.

‘It wasn't all romance. Far from it. Idris had a hard struggle. Really hard. His father worked on the railway. Killed in an awful accident. His mother kept a corner shop in Hounslow, but the Asians arrived from Uganda and put her out of business. Idris had to leave school and work in Sainsbury's filling shelves. My parents didn't want me to have anything to do with him. But he went to night school and the manager recommended him to the Midland and he worked his way up and now he's deputy regional director of securities and investments in Wales and the South West. We live in Cardiff.'

‘But that's wonderful,' Sir Robin said. ‘You must be proud of him.'

‘Oh, I am.'

Menopause or no, the slight flush was becoming. This was the young girl loaded with flowers, the same disarming smile and peerless skin. All the same Idris resented having his career squeezed into one breathless squawk in front of what was, at least as far he was concerned, a complete stranger.

‘I should have met him years ago,' Sir Robin was saying. ‘Nothing I needed more in those days than an intelligent banker. I'm afraid our local man was a bigger idiot than I was, which is saying something.'

Or was he? Idris took a professional glimpse into the past and saw an embarrassed bank manager trying to cope with a fractious would-be country gentleman with more pretensions than money; an historic relic with dwindling assets. It could have been a mistake to call at the gardener's cottage. Anna's ancient aunt was long deceased and the hedgerows on either side of the narrow road that led down to the beach had been shorn down to what he called ‘suburban proportions'. This wasn't the delightful countryside he had explored when staying at the Home Farm. There were hedges then that were slightly uneven, and when he borrowed a cousin's bike to go out to meet Anna, they cast enticing shadows across the road on a day like this and added mystery and adventure to their secret trips as well as concealment. You never knew when the foreshore would come into view, or whether the tide was in or out. Now, on a blazing day like this, you could see too much, the landscape was too exposed and there was no shade anywhere, which was why Anna insisted on calling at the cottage to ask for a glass of water and now they were exposed to this.