The Woman at the Window Read Online Free Page A

It’s like consciousness really. Whoever defined that? All we can do is give it time and hope for the best.’
    Sitting alone in her father’s study and staring at the view that she believed belonged to him, Rhian Mai was visited by her own flash of inspiration. She would take a copy of her father’s first book, Hesgyn Harvest , on her next visit. He would be sure to recognise his own verses. They were so memorable. Catrin Dodd was delighted at the idea. It was a sign that henceforward Rhian Mai would be capable of initiative. She arrived at the hospital clutching the book in one hand and Catrin Dodd’s arm in the other. When the stiff door of the side ward opened they discovered Gwilym Hesgyn already had a visitor. Lord Parry of Penhesgyn had been provided with a chair and sat holding the patient’s emaciated hand in both his own. A rigid diagonal smile was fixed on Gwilym Hesgyn’s face. They could see Lord Parry’s eyes were watering.
    â€˜He recognised me,’ Lord Parry said. ‘Straight away. No trouble at all.’

The Woman at the Window

THE woman in black stood at the drawing-room window of the Old Rectory, contemplating the landscape. What she saw, as far as she knew, could not think or feel but it endured the passage of the seasons more successfully than she did. Spring would arrive with renewed strength, disturbing the soil. She raised a hand to her neck and smoothed her cheek as if to disperse a pressure on her skin. In the middle-distance she could see the white sails of a windmill, recently refurbished to attract tourists, show above the undulating hedges and, further to the north, four turbines of the wind farm to which her late husband had taken such exception. ‘Damn them,’ he said. ‘Ruining my skyline.’ Now they were as much part of the view from the drawing-room window as the thin glimpse of the Irish Sea beyond them.
    Even as she stared a stranger appeared, opening the road gate. He walked silently along the sweep of gravel drive towards the house. He wore a black coat and hat and walked with a seemly hesitation in his step, like a man about to attend a funeral. His solemn figure contrasted with the rows of daffodils in full bloom that glistened in the fitful sunlight. She could see her husband’s cat, Bella, padding down the drive to greet the visitor. She had been lost in thought for so long she had forgotten to feed her. The stranger was pleased to kneel and stroke the luxurious fur of the appealing creature. Before she could issue any warning the man had been scratched and bitten for his pains.
    When she opened the door she was confronted by a middle-aged visitor with a craggy face and a row of ingratiating small teeth. He was nursing a small wound on his left hand before raising his hat.
    â€˜That frightful cat,’ she said. ‘She can be so vicious when she’s not fed. My fault I suppose. I forget to feed her.’
    He bowed awkwardly and hung on to the hat he was not used to wearing.
    â€˜Mrs Picton?’
    There could have been some doubt. She nodded.
    â€˜Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course. I know it’s a fortnight late. But I heard nothing you see. I was out of touch in the middle of nowhere. In Sicily actually. But I felt I had to pay my respects. Please accept my deepest sympathy.’
    She murmured her thanks but as he spoke it was clear she had no idea who her visitor might be. Perhaps because of his dark clothes and sparse grey hair he could have been an old- fashioned bank manager or a headmaster who had taken early retirement.
    â€˜Anwyl,’ he said. ‘Elwyn Anwyl.You could say I was Huw’s oldest friend. One of them anyway. He was always very popular. I was his first partner anyway. It feels awful to have missed his funeral. So I had to come.’
    The widow pointed to the wounds on his hand.
    â€˜Better put something on them,’ she said. ‘You never know where that blessed