Читать книгу Once Upon A Christmas - Jennifer Joyce, Darcie Boleyn - Страница 10

Prologue

‘So why did your dad choose to come and live all the way out here? It’s very pretty and all that, but, let’s face it, it’s the back of beyond.’

Five minutes earlier, they had turned off the busy A38 trunk road and now found themselves plunged into a totally different world of narrow winding lanes, woodland, rivers and hills. So far the only other vehicle they had seen had been an ancient tractor pulling a trailer full of sheep.

Holly shook her head in annoyance and glanced across at Julia. ‘I wish I knew for sure. It’s like I’ve been telling you, I know virtually nothing about my dad at all. Mum refused to talk about him. The news that he’d died was the first I’d heard of him for over twenty-five years.’

Julia still couldn’t get her head round that. ‘But surely you must have known if he was dead or alive?’

Holly shook her head. ‘No idea at all. I haven’t seen or heard from him since he left. And, don’t forget, I was only seven when that happened. I barely remember him at all. He could have been anywhere, alive or dead.’

Still puzzled, Julia arched her back and did her best to straighten her legs. ‘I love your car to bits, Hol, but bloody hell, it’s uncomfortable. I feel as if my backbone’s about to come out through the top of my skull. Any chance of stretching my legs? Apart from anything else, I’m dying for a pee.’

They had been driving non-stop for over four hours. Holly pressed back against the steering wheel and stretched her back. ‘Now that’s a thought, Jules. And a hot drink would be a good idea too. The next service station I find, I’ll pull over. Coffee and a comfort break coming up.’

Twenty minutes later, they still hadn’t found a petrol station. Holly’s old Porsche was loving the twisting, turning road that snaked up and down like a rollercoaster through an ever changing patchwork of fields, woods and open moorland. The road was getting steadily narrower and the warning light on the dashboard was now reminding Holly that it might have been prudent to fill up with fuel before heading out into the wilds of Dartmoor. Beside her, Julia was squirming around in the passenger seat. ‘Do something, Hol, I’m really getting desperate now.’

Then, miraculously, they came down a steep hill to a ridiculously narrow humpbacked granite bridge and spotted a sign on the right advertising, Last fuel before the Moor. Holly pulled in and drew up in front of one of only two pumps. As a gesture towards the festive season, a Christmas tree had been planted rather incongruously in a rusty oil can. The wind had removed most of the decorations, but a lone glass ball remained lodged in the middle of it, looking rather forlorn. Holly climbed out of the car, feeling a frozen blast of air on her neck as she did so. She reached back inside and grabbed a coat. She was zipping it up when an old man appeared. He was wearing ancient overalls, apparently held together by the oil and paint stains that covered them like camouflage, the military impression heightened by the khaki-coloured woolly hat on his head. He limped across to her, his eyes alternating between the bright red car and her long legs. Clearly, he was fascinated by what he saw.

‘Morning, miss. Come far, have us?’ His accent was deepest Devonshire and the wind whipping round her ears didn’t help comprehension, but Holly nodded and grunted, and he appeared satisfied. He ran his hand along the sleek wing of the car, nodding quietly to himself, before looking up. ‘Fill her up for you, my sweetheart?’

‘Yes, please, and is there a toilet we could use? And maybe somewhere we could get a cup of coffee?’

‘No coffee, I’m afraid, my lover, but you’ve got the Fisherman’s Rest two miles up the road. They’ll give you coffee. The toilet’s round the side of the building.’ He pointed vaguely behind him and left it to Julia to locate what proved to be an unexpectedly modern loo.

While the old man filled the car with fuel, Holly flicked the engine cover up and checked the coolant level. It was reassuringly normal and there were no unexpected oil leaks to be seen either. Her hard work the previous evening had clearly been worthwhile to ensure the thirty-year-old car made it all the way to Devon without mishap.

‘Do you want me to do that for you, sweetheart?’ The old man had finished refuelling and was hovering alongside her, clearly fascinated to see a girl looking at an engine. Holly, reassured that all was well, stood up and slammed the cover shut, wiping her hands on a tissue.

‘No, thanks. I thought I might have a coolant leak last week and I was just checking. But it all looks fine.’

‘You know your way round cars, then?’

Holly grinned at him. ‘I’m an engineer. Classic cars are my hobby.’

‘Well I never.’ He was still standing there looking awestruck when she emerged from the loo in her turn. By now, Holly had got over this almost inevitable reaction from most people she met when she told them what she did. In fact, she worked in insurance, but her engineering degree was essential for the type of work she did, and the old Porsche was her pride and joy.

The Fisherman’s Rest was just over another quaint little bridge, before the road started to climb steeply out of the trees towards the barren moorland. It was a long white building, with a grey slate roof. Picnic tables dotted the garden that sloped gently down to the edge of the fast-running moorland river, no doubt teeming with trout. Holly shivered. Today was certainly no day for sitting around in the garden. She checked her watch as she pulled into the car park. They had made a very early start from London, in the vain hope of getting round the South Circular before the worst of the traffic, and it was now eleven-thirty. A sign outside the pub indicated that it was open all day but, nevertheless, the door was locked and they had to bang on the heavy knocker for some time before a man appeared. He was lanky, stooped, and gloomy-looking, and he bore an uncommon resemblance to Boris Karloff.

‘Hello, any chance of a coffee?’ The man’s initially uncommunicative face turned to a welcoming, if slightly creepy, smile when he saw Holly’s long blonde hair and the length of Julia’s skirt. He stepped to one side and they both felt his eyes on them as they filed in.

Holly waited until he had disappeared behind the bar. ‘What’s that film? Deliverance? He’s a bit creepy, don’t you think, Jules?’ She picked a table near the door just in case.

‘Not really.’ Julia sounded quite relaxed. ‘The Docklands Light Railway on a Monday morning’s full of far more sinister characters than him.’ She looked around at the selection of stuffed trout, horse brasses, pewter tankards and framed prints of animals that dotted the walls. ‘The décor’s a bit different, though. I’ll give you that.’ Fairy lights and fake snow on the windows did their best to give the place a Christmassy feel, although the overall impression was still rather depressing. In a way, this suited Holly’s mood. As if sensing how she felt, Julia returned to the topic they had been kicking around for the past three days, ever since Holly had got the letter from the solicitor.

‘And this house he’s left you; was that where he was living?’

Holly shrugged her shoulders. ‘I imagine so, but I really don’t know. All I can remember was my mum telling me he’d gone to Australia. Presumably he came back.’

‘Yes, but why come back here to Dartmoor?’ Julia was still puzzled.

Holly had been thinking hard about this. ‘I’ve got a feeling the house was in his family – you know, passed down from generation to generation. I’ve got a few childhood memories of coming to Dartmoor for holidays with my mum and dad when I was a little kid and I can vaguely remember us staying in a sort of L-shaped house, but maybe I dreamt it. I may be totally wrong, but I seem to recall a house with a stream going past it, and ducks wandering about, but who knows?’ Her eyes focused on a very dusty stuffed duck, incongruously sitting on a shelf beside the dartboard. From the state of its feathers, it was clear that it, too, had often been a target.

‘And your mum didn’t talk about him at all?’

‘I told you; his name was never mentioned. And I mean never.’

Julia shook her head in disbelief and pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders. The fire in the fireplace was smoking, but no flames could be seen and it was decidedly chilly in the pub. Fortunately at that moment the lugubrious barman arrived with their coffee and, unexpectedly, two slices of fruit cake. As he set the tray down, he mumbled, ‘Christmas special,’ before wandering off. The two girls looked at each other and did their best not to burst out laughing.

After a while, Julia tried again. ‘Surely you could have asked her when you were grown up?’

Holly tasted the coffee and found it very hot and remarkably good. ‘I know, and I should have done. Anyway, I kept putting off asking her and then, of course, she died and that was that. For all I knew, I’d lost both my parents.’ She took another sip of the hot coffee. ‘Now, I know I have.’

She picked up a piece of cake and studied it suspiciously. It was solid and heavy, a deep brown colour, and studded with black bits, presumably raisins. She risked a bite. Despite appearances, it was excellent, but it didn’t cheer her up.

Julia did her best to lighten the mood. ‘Do you think the landlord’s put the drugs in the coffee or the cake? Maybe I should wait until you’ve eaten yours before I have mine.’

There was a draught of cold wind as the front door opened. A tall man came in, ducking his head as he did so, turning to push the door closed behind him. He glanced across at their table, hesitated, and then went over to the bar, where the Boris Karloff look-alike was stacking glasses on the shelves. The two men exchanged a few words and then Holly saw the barman point a finger in their direction.

Holly winked across the table at Julia and set down her coffee. ‘We’ve got company.’

The newcomer approached with a smile on his face. He was a good-looking man, probably a few years older than them, probably in his mid-thirties, maybe even nudging forty. He had a fine head of thick brown hair that parted in the middle of his forehead and he was dressed immaculately in a dark suit, white shirt and what might have been a regimental tie.

‘Good morning, ladies. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering if you’re the owners of the red 911 outside?’

Julia motioned across the table with her thumb. ‘She is.’

Holly looked up. ‘Yes, the car’s mine. Is there a problem?’ She had a sudden horrible thought that he had come in to say he’d scratched it. She had bought the Porsche three years earlier as a very extravagant thirtieth birthday present to herself and she absolutely loved it, but matching the paint on a car almost as old as she was wasn’t going to be easy.

‘No, not at all; well, at least, not for you. For me, maybe.’ Seeing her expression he went on to explain. ‘It’s a Carrera Coupé, isn’t it? With the 3.2 litre engine?’

‘Built in 1984 and only done fifty thousand miles. Never raced or rallied. One careful lady owner for the last three years.’ Holly gave him a smile. ‘Why, do you want to buy her? If so, I’m afraid the answer’s no. Greta’s not for sale.’

His face fell. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. I’ve been looking for a good one for quite a while now, but they’re like hens’ teeth.’ Remembering his manners, he introduced himself. ‘I’m sorry, my name’s Justin Grosvenor. I live just a bit further up on the moor from here.’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Would you mind awfully if I left you my card. Just in case you ever change your mind?’

Holly took the card from him and smiled back. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have a very long wait, Mr Grosvenor.’

‘Well, nothing ventured as they say. Now, do please excuse me for bothering you, and enjoy the rest of your day.’ He smiled at them both and went back out through the door.

‘Forget everything I’ve ever said about you being a petrolhead and car nerd. That is one handsome looking man.’ Julia was impressed. She glanced out of the window just in time to see him reversing out of the car park. ‘And that’s quite some car he’s driving.’ Holly followed her gaze and just caught a glimpse of the glossy silver shape as it accelerated away.

‘A brand new Range Rover, no less. A bit too big for my taste, but rather nice all the same – and useful up here when it snows.’ Holly was impressed as well, but she felt pretty sure it was for the car. Julia had no such illusions.

‘And I was criticising you for wasting your bonus money on a lump of tin. Clearly, that’s what I’ve got to do – save like hell until I can buy a flashy car, and then gorgeous looking men like him will be giving me their phone numbers all the time.’

Holly gave her a grin. ‘To be honest, he’s the first half-decent looking man who’s ever come up to me to talk about cars. Mostly, it’s chaps like our friend back at the petrol station, but with a bit less charisma. Here, do you want this one’s card?’ Absently, she studied it. ‘Grosvenor Financial Services. That sounds about right. You don’t get a lot of teachers or nurses driving new Range Rovers.’ She read his name and address and did a double-take. ‘That’s spooky. His address is Brookford. The Grange, Brookford.’ She looked up in surprise. ‘That’s where we’re going, Jules. That’s where my dad’s house is.’

The village of Brookford was only seven or eight miles up the road, but it took a while to get there, even in a Porsche. After leaving the pub, they had to cross a cattle grid that shook the car to its chassis, and then they were up on the open moor. Hills covered in dead ferns and yellow grass reached off in all directions, some capped with granite outcrops, sculpted into grotesque shapes by the power of the wind. Hardy black cattle and weather-beaten Dartmoor ponies dotted the hills and wandered across the road, and Holly had to slow to walking speed at every blind bend.

As they drove along, Julia was still mulling over what Holly had told her in the pub. ‘How can you not hear from your dad for so long?’

Holly slowed down as a very shaggy sheep crossed the road ahead of them. Three other sheep behind it hesitated until the Porsche was almost upon them before deciding to follow the leader. Holly jammed on the brakes and stopped. ‘After you, please…’ She glanced across at Julia. ‘I know it sounds insane, but that’s the way it was. He buggered off way back then, dumping his wife and his little daughter.’ Holly could hear the catch in her voice and she knew Julia would pick it up. She cleared her throat and did her best to sound more like her normal, pragmatic self. ‘And that’s the last we heard from him. The miserable sod just went off and left us.’ She had to clear her throat again. ‘Mum wouldn’t hear his name mentioned in the house. So, for all I knew, he could have been alive, dead, abducted by aliens, God knows what. But one thing’s for sure, he couldn’t be bothered to stay in touch.’

After a couple of miles, they turned off the main road, bumped over another cattle grid and found themselves on a tiny, narrow lane that snaked along between hedges so high that from time to time the branches met across the middle of the road, giving the illusion of driving through a tunnel. They only met four other vehicles, but each time Holly had to back up until she found a wide enough spot for the two cars to squeeze past each other. The last straw was a Land Rover pulling a trailer full of logs. This time, there was no suitable passing place so she ended up backing into the entrance to a field and heard sinister scraping sounds from underneath the Porsche as she did so.

At least the driver of the Land Rover was courteous enough to stop and lean out of his window to ask if everything was okay. He had a scruffy beard and his hair had clearly not been near a barber for a good few weeks. He was wearing a tattered body warmer over a lumberjack shirt, both of which showed signs of wear and tear, although the body underneath looked fit and hard. To the surprise of both girls, he was another very good-looking man. Holly heard what could have been a predatory growl from the seat alongside her and struggled to repress a giggle. She wound down the window, looked out and gave him a friendly smile.

‘I’m sure it’s all right, thanks. The car’s just a bit low and there must have been a rock in the way.’

He nodded, then made a suggestion. ‘Well, look, I’ll drive on so you can pull out, but I’ll wait until you give me a wave before I drive off, just in case you need help.’ His accent was indefinable, certainly English, but hard to pinpoint; certainly not broad Devonshire like the petrol pump man. With that, he put the battered vehicle into gear and drove forward until the trailer had passed their nose and Holly was able to inch her way back out onto the road. There were no further sinister noises, so she waved her arm out of the window and heard him toot his horn in reply before resuming his journey.

‘Bloody hell, Hol, there must be something in the water out here.’ Julia was rapidly revising her opinion of rural Devon. ‘That’s two in twenty minutes. You don’t get that kind of result even in central London.’

‘Don’t worry, by the law of averages, the next two men will be Neanderthals.’

In fact, they saw nobody else for the next three miles as they drove alongside a rather fine looking golf course, enclosed within high stone walls which were punctuated from time to time by gates with stags on top of the arches. Presumably this had been a former stately home. The next man they saw was the postmaster at Brookford and he was neither drop dead gorgeous nor the Missing Link. Instead, he was a pleasant man, probably in his late fifties, with an expanding waistline and a receding hairline. Clearly the post office also served as general store to the village and Holly had to pick her way between bags of crisps and toilet rolls to get to the counter. She introduced herself to him, as instructed by the solicitor.

‘Good morning, my name’s Holly Brice. I’ve come to pick up a key.’ The man’s face broke into a broad smile and he immediately reached through the glass partition to shake her hand.

‘Holly, Holly, how very good to meet you. Your dad often used to talk about you.’ His expression darkened. ‘How very sad he wasn’t able to see you before he died.’

Holly was taken aback. She had been reaching for her driving licence to prove her identity, but to find somebody familiar with her father – and who even recognised her name – was unexpected and a bit overwhelming. She took a deep breath and blinked rapidly, not trusting herself to speak. Luckily, Julia saw what was happening and stepped in.

‘Holly’s only just learned of her father’s death. They weren’t in contact, you see.’ Holly pulled out a tissue and blew her nose, surreptitiously running the back of her hand across her eyes. She gave Julia a grateful look, before returning her attention to the postmaster.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I’ve arrived too late.’

‘Well, better late than never. Here you are, I’ve got the key to your dad’s house for you.’ He reached under the counter and came up with a small envelope and passed it across to her. ‘Are you going to be staying there tonight?’

Holly shook her head. ‘No, we’re just taking a quick look at the house this afternoon and then we’ve got to go to the solicitor’s in Exeter to do all the paperwork.’ She glanced across the empty shop to the shop window. ‘Erm, could you tell me which one it is, please?’

‘Brook Cottage. You can just see the corner of it down there.’ They followed the line of his pointing arm. A bit of grey stone wall and a few bushes were just visible. ‘It’s down by the stream; you can’t miss it.’ At the mention of the stream, the two girls exchanged glances. A stream with ducks maybe?

Holly thanked him and they went back outside, pulling their jackets more tightly around them as they did so. The wind was positively Arctic. They crossed the road and walked down the side of what was presumably the village green. It was a patch of grass the size of a very small football pitch, surrounded by massive trees, with cottages looking onto it from all four sides. Most of the houses were built of granite, with thatched roofs. A few had slate roofs and a few were rendered and painted white. No two houses were the same and it was a very picturesque little spot, very much the chocolate box image of a traditional Devon village. In the far corner of the green, a sign hanging from a gibbet indicated the presence of a pub, but it was too far off to read the name.

‘So that’s it, then. A pub and a sort of general store post office. And that’s your lot. Somehow, I don’t see us doing a lot of shopping this afternoon.’ Holly kept looking round, feeling the stirrings of recognition.

‘Still, at least there’s somewhere to buy a pint of milk or a bar of chocolate without having to drive to the next town. God knows how far away that is. Mind you…’ Julia was still thinking about Justin Grosvenor from the pub. ‘Of course, if some kind man were to offer me a lift in his Range Rover, I wouldn’t mind spending a bit of time out here. I wouldn’t mind at all.’

Brook Cottage was remarkable for two reasons; first, for being built in a sort of L-shape and second, for making Holly cry when she saw it. As they rounded the corner and the house was revealed, she stopped dead, reached out to the stone wall beside her for support and burst into tears. Julia came over to comfort her. She stretched her arm round Holly’s shoulders and held her until the sobbing stopped. Then she located a clean tissue and passed it across without a word. After a few minutes, Holly began to get a grip once more. She turned towards Julia. ‘I’m so sorry, Jules. This isn’t like me. It’s just that this is it. This is the place I remember. Look – the ducks…’

Sure enough, three mallard ducks were sitting on the bank of the stream. Even when Julia took a few steps towards them, they didn’t appear too worried. The two male ducks did a bit of quacking and one got up, but they didn’t seem in any hurry to move. Holly stood looking at them for several minutes while she composed herself. Finally, she turned to Julia. ‘Sorry, Jules, I really don’t know why I’m being so emotional.’

Julia grabbed her by the arm and turned her so they were looking directly at each other. ‘Holly, he was your dad. It’s perfectly normal to be emotional.’ Holly nodded mutely. ‘In fact, it would be strange if you weren’t.’

Holly was beginning to realise by this time just why the tears had started. The sight of the house had awakened not only memories of summer holidays as a little girl, but also memories of her father. As she had leant against the stone wall, trying to stop crying, she had suddenly remembered something. Into her mind had come an image of a little blonde-haired girl balancing on top of the stone wall, while her father stood with outstretched arms, ready to catch her if she fell and her mother looked on anxiously from behind. Holly was laughing, he was smiling, enjoying a moment together that would remain with them for the rest of their lives. As the tears poured down Holly’s cheeks, she realised she had loved her father very dearly back then. Very dearly indeed.

Seeing her looking more composed, Julia pointed at the garden gate. ‘Now, come on, let’s check out the house. It looks absolutely sweet and ever so ancient.’

Brook Cottage occupied one half of a long stone building. The roof was slate and the walls were granite, half covered by creepers and ivy. There was a small garden in front of the house and a driveway that led down the side, presumably to a parking area or garage and a back garden. They walked across to the front door. Above it, the date 1756 had been carved into the stone lintel. Like the window frames, the door badly needed a coat of paint, but it looked pretty solid all the same. A waist-high stone wall divided the rather overgrown garden from next door’s much tidier one. That house looked very similar, but in much better condition, with fresh paintwork. There were lace curtains on the neighbours’ windows and no sign of the occupants.

Holly pushed the key into the lock and twisted it. It turned remarkably easily and the hinges didn’t even squeak, so her father must have had an oil can, even if he didn’t have a paint brush. She pushed the door fully open and stood on the doorstep, looking inside. It was dark, damp and cold in the house and the air smelt musty. Together, they walked in and began to look around. The front door led straight into the kitchen. It was a large room with an old wood-burner set into a massive granite fireplace, with a neat stack of logs alongside it. It looked very clean and tidy and Holly found herself wondering if this was the work of her father, or if a helpful neighbour had tidied up after his death.

‘Lovely old table, Hol.’ Julia ran her hand across the smooth wooden top of a huge table that occupied the centre of the room. A dozen people would have no trouble sitting down to dinner around it. She went over to the front window and opened it, letting fresh air and more light flood in. Then she crossed to the window over the sink and opened that one as well, so as to give a through draught. They both looked out into the back garden that was bigger than they had imagined. There was parking for several cars and a long lawn, dotted with shrubs and trees, all enclosed by an ancient drystone wall. Even now, in midwinter, it looked charming.

They continued their tour of the house and Holly found it fascinating and not too emotional for her, right up to the moment they climbed the stairs and she found herself in her father’s bedroom. Beside his bed, in a silver frame, was a photo she recognised. Her mother had a copy underneath the sheet of glass covering her coffee table, along with other pictures of her daughter at different stages of her childhood right up to graduation day. The picture was of Holly and she knew it had been taken at her seventh birthday party. She was smiling at the camera, holding a dolly and looking very proud in her floral dress with ribbons in her hair. Then Holly noticed that this photo was not the same as the one in her mother’s house, because in this one there was a tall man beside her. He was slim, with light brown hair that was beginning to recede and he was holding her hand. His eyes were not on the camera, but on his daughter, and he was smiling every bit as proudly as she was.

This was the first image of her father Holly had seen for twenty-five years and, as she looked at it, so the floodgates very nearly broke once more and she found herself overwhelmed by memory after memory. Of course she remembered him. She remembered playing tennis with him in the back garden, splashing about at some beach or other with him while she tentatively learnt to swim, sitting on his knee while he read stories to her, and many more. Now, seeing his face, the memories all came flooding back. She sank down on the edge of the bed and tried to speak.

‘Jules, it’s him. That’s my dad.’ She found she couldn’t say anything else. She was determined not to break down and cry her eyes out again, but it was far from easy. She turned away and focused out of the window, across the garden to the old church. Beyond the church tower, the open moorland stretched upwards into the distance.

‘The post office sells milk.’ Julia turned on her heel and disappeared, leaving Holly to her thoughts. The significance of Julia’s words did not emerge for another ten minutes, when Holly heard the sound of Julia’s shoes on the stairs and found a cup of steaming hot tea being thrust into her hand. By this time she had regained some sort of normality. She returned her eyes to the room and gave Julia a weak smile.

‘Thanks, Jules. You’re a star.’

‘And, before you ask, I washed the mugs thoroughly before using them. All right?’ Holly nodded. Her love – Julia had been known to refer to it as a fixation – of cleanliness was well known to all her friends. The story of her being caught in flagrante, vacuuming the floor of her office, had long since become a part of the folklore of the company where she worked. That, and her addiction to expensive shoes.

‘Thanks Jules.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a sip of tea. ‘Mmh, that’s good.’ She looked up, still trying to come to terms with the emotions this place aroused in her. ‘It probably isn’t going to make any sense to you, but I realise I’ve spent twenty-five years of my life hating the man and now, suddenly, I remember how much I used to love him. He was my dad and I really, really loved him. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling. He went off and left us, after all, so he’s the bad guy in all this, but somehow I’m beginning to feel regret.’ She looked Julia in the eye. ‘Have I been unfair to him, Jules?’

‘You say he’s the bad guy, but he never did anything to harm you, did he?’ Holly could see that Julia was picking her words carefully. ‘I mean, did he at least pay maintenance, or whatever it’s called?’

Holly nodded. ‘As far as I know, money wasn’t the problem. He paid what he had to pay. And you’re right; he never did me any harm, unless you count just disappearing and never reappearing as doing harm. Thinking about him now brings it all back. I cried and cried and cried when he left.’ She rubbed her eyes with the back of a hand. ‘I don’t think I ever got over it really.’

‘It must have been awful for you, and don’t forget your mum. She must have been gutted when he went off, whatever the circumstances, so it’s inevitable that you should have grown up feeling the same way as her about him. Anyway, they’re both gone now, so there’s nothing more you can do. Maybe the solicitor will be able to shed some light on what happened.’

Holly arrived at the offices of Friar, Sutcliffe and Inglis a few minutes after four o’clock. Rather unwisely, she had taken a different road back from Brookford to Exeter and this had turned out to be even narrower and more tortuous than the route they had followed that morning. She left Julia in the car to sort out a parking ticket and ran the few hundred yards to the building where her father’s solicitor was housed. By the time she got there, she was rather regretting wearing her rather nice Alexander McQueen heels. A couple of times she almost turned her ankle over on the cobbles around Exeter’s old cathedral.

She was ushered into the presence of Mr Inglis, still desperately trying to cool down after the stress of the journey. He gave her a welcoming smile and waved her to a seat.

‘Miss Brice, how very good to meet you at last.’

‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I’m afraid I misjudged how long it would take me to get back here from Brookford.’

Mr Inglis waved away her apologies. ‘Devon roads can be a bit hard going, I’m afraid.’ He pointed to a folder on the desk before him. ‘I’m sorry it took so long to inform you of your father’s death. We had a bit of chasing around to do in order to find you. It would appear that all contact between you and him was severed many years ago.’

Holly nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Anyway, you’re here now and, as I said to you when we spoke on the telephone the other day, you are the main beneficiary of your father’s will. Would you like me to read it to you?’

Holly sat back and listened as the lawyer read the words written by her father. It was short and clear. The sum of £25,000 was left to Force Cancer Support Centre, £25,000 to a Mrs Diana Edworthy and the rest to Holly. When he reached the part where her father left everything else to his beloved and sorely missed daughter, she found herself wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes.

‘So you are now the owner of his house in Brookford, the contents of the house, garden and cellar, and the sum of £15,439.67 currently remaining in his bank account. We have to apply for probate, so I’m afraid that amount will be reduced in due course after payment of duties, taxes and my firm’s fees. However, more significant, from your point of view, is the fact that you are the sole beneficiary of a trust fund set up by your father. You may be interested to see the current state of the fund.’

He removed a sheet from the folder and passed it across the desk to her. She took it absently, still doing her best to control the emotion aroused by the words of his will. She glanced down at the figures and her eyes came to rest on the bottom line. It took a few moments for it to sink in and then her head jerked back up towards the solicitor, her mouth open in amazement. He was smiling indulgently.

‘A very useful legacy, wouldn’t you say?’

Holly nodded mutely and returned her eyes to the printout. The trust fund set up by her father for her benefit currently held a total of £2,238,366. She was not surprised to see the sheet of paper begin to shake. She lowered her hand until it was resting on her thigh, struggling to comprehend the enormity of this news and its implications for her whole life. The lawyer continued.

‘I will have to check the exact nature of the fund to see what the inheritance tax implications might be. I ran it across a colleague who has more experience of financial matters, and his initial reaction was that it looks pretty watertight. We will have to seek a ruling from the Revenue, so you had better be prepared to lose a proportion of this in tax.’ He gave her another smile. ‘It would still leave a tidy sum even if you do have a tax bill to pay.’

Holly blinked, set the paper down on the desktop, and took a deep breath. ‘But how on earth did he manage to save all that money? It’s a fortune.’

‘He told me he had a very successful company during his years in Australia. He sold up before coming back to the UK. I imagine this money is the proceeds of that sale.’

‘What sort of company, Mr Inglis?’ She gave him an apologetic look. ‘You see, I know next to nothing about him.’

‘I can imagine. Certainly, when he spoke of you, he was similarly ignorant of where you were and what you were doing. As far as I can remember, I believe he told me he was involved with the wine trade.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘I met him on a number of occasions so I had the opportunity to get to know him quite well.’ He caught Holly’s eye. ‘He was a fine man, your father.’

‘Thank you, Mr Inglis.’ Holly was pleased to hear her voice sounding level. ‘Thank you very much. That’s good to hear.’ Inside, her mind was in turmoil. How could it be that the callous, selfish bastard who had abandoned his wife and child all those years ago could have left her such an amazing bequest and be described as a fine man? Somehow, she realised she was going to have to do a lot of rethinking about her father. ‘I’ve got so many questions for you. First and foremost, what did he die of? Presumably it was cancer?’

The solicitor nodded his head. ‘I’m afraid so. A very aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. I remember he told me it was only diagnosed in May and he died on November fifth. I saw him in Brookford in October, when he drafted his will, and he was already bedridden.’

‘And the lady mentioned in his will? Have you any idea who she is?’

‘Yes, indeed. She lives in the village and it was she who looked after your father in his final months. I believe she’s a distant relative of some description.’ Holly nodded, glad that there had been somebody at his side at the end. That reminded her of something else.

‘I was wondering if you knew anything about the burial. When did that take place? Was there a service? Was my father buried in the village?’ The solicitor nodded.

‘Yes, he died in the hospice in Exeter and there was a service at Exeter’s crematorium. I’m sorry we weren’t able to contact you in time. And then, at your father’s request, his ashes were laid to rest in the churchyard at Brookford. Mr Trimble, the postmaster you met today, will be able to give you further information.’

He ran through a list of other matters, obtaining her signature to various documents as he went along. Finally, he handed over a hefty envelope. ‘You should find all the documents you need in here, along with a copy of the will, and a sealed letter written by your father to you. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’

‘Thank you, Mr Inglis, you’ve been very helpful. I think I’ll go off and digest everything you’ve told me.’ Holly walked back to the car, her mind in turmoil. It was as if the cork had blown out of the bottle and her emotions were spraying everywhere. She truly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand she had suddenly become a millionaire, while on the other, she had lost her dad. She retraced her steps to the car and climbed in beside Julia. Her face must have betrayed her inner conflict.

‘What the bloody hell’s happened, Hol? You look like somebody’s just slapped you.’ She sounded concerned.

‘No, Jules, nothing bad. It’s just that he’s left me a load of money and I don’t know what to think any more.’ She glanced down at the envelope clutched in her hand. ‘The man said there’s a letter in here from my dad.’

Holly reached in for the letter. It was in a sealed white envelope and it contained two handwritten sheets of paper.

My dearest Holly,

If you are reading this, it will mean I am dead. I regret so many things in my life and this last regret is just one of many where you are concerned. I wish I had been able to see you again at least once before my death. I have often imagined you as a grown woman, and am sure you are a fine, lovely girl and a credit to any father.

I worked hard throughout my life in Australia and I draw some small consolation from the fact that I have been able to provide for you after my death. And I fear that death will soon be upon me. This cancer continues to resist all efforts to slow its pace and they tell me now I only have weeks, rather than months, before me.

As I reach the end of my life, I realise just how much I have missed watching you grow up and develop into womanhood. I know now I should have done more to locate and contact you, but the distance between us always put me off trying, apart from that one time. And, to be honest, I have been afraid to try again. It is inevitable that your mother will have poisoned you against me. It would have broken my heart to have had to face rejection by you, Holly, so I chose to remember you as you were; a dear, sweet, loving daughter. It is only now that I realise how cowardly I have been. I should have risked your hatred and made another effort.

I hope at least you will enjoy the house and enjoy my legacy. Stephen Inglis is a good man and a fine solicitor. You can trust him to look after your affairs. Be assured, my dearest Holly, I never stopped loving you, even if I fear you were probably made to stop loving me.

From the father you never had to the daughter I always missed. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my cowardice.

Holly read it through twice. A teardrop ran down her cheek and landed on the page. Reaching for her damp tissue, she handed the letter across to Julia without comment. After she had also read the letter, the two of them sat in the car side by side without speaking for a long while before Holly pulled herself together. ‘There’s one thing that puzzles me. He talks about having tried to contact me one time. To the best of my knowledge, that never happened.’

‘But at least it confirms that he went to Australia, like your mum said.’

Holly nodded. ‘Yes, the solicitor said he owned a company over there, something to do with wine.’ She stretched her legs and straightened her back. ‘I wonder when he came back.’

‘And why?’

‘Yes, and why?’