What Happens At Christmas... (15 page)

‘That sounds lovely, Justin.' She had a pretty good idea what, or rather who, would be the main topic of conversation – but the idea of an evening out was appealing, even if they did end up talking about his wife. She enjoyed his company and if she could help by letting him talk things through, so be it. He and his father had been good friends of her father after all. ‘I'm out for lunch today, so dinner as well might be a bit much. How about tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow's fine. If you haven't already been, I thought I could maybe take you to the Bricklayer's Arms. In spite of the name, it's one of the best places round here for seafood, if that appeals. Otherwise there's a really good Indian restaurant in Moreton or the Duck and Grouse down the road on the way to Exeter. You choose.'

‘The seafood place sounds great.'

‘Excellent. I'll pick you up around seven-thirty tomorrow. That all right?'

‘Terrific. See you tomorrow, Justin.'

‘Bye.'

Holly put the phone down, glad to have spoken to him and pleased about the dinner invitation, although she was a little fearful that it might turn into a marriage guidance session. She wasn't able to dwell on it as her head was still spinning from what she had learnt on the internet a few minutes earlier. She decided to resume reading her father's letters, in the hope that these would give her more information. She went through to the sitting room and opened the box on the coffee table. As she did so, there was a familiar clicking sound as Stirling came through to join her, and the thought occurred to her that he might need to have his nails clipped. Did that mean a trip to the vet, or were there beauty salons for dogs? She rather thought there were, but her canine expertise was still at a basic level. As he slumped down on the rug by the fireplace and resumed his nap, Holly vowed to check when she had time, but for now, her father's letters were totally absorbing.

She picked up the next envelope in the row and immediately noticed that it felt thicker than the others. Her pulse quickened as she unfolded five handwritten sheets. This one was dated April 10
^th
2000; a week before her eighteenth birthday. It started as ever with the words
My Dearest Holly,
but they were followed by a first paragraph that soon had her sitting bolt upright as she read what he had to say.

Now that you have reached the age of majority, it's time for you to know the full circumstances surrounding our separation. It's a story that does me no credit. There can be no doubt that I behaved appallingly towards your mother and, by extension, to you, Holly. All I can do is to tell you the truth of what happened in the hope that, even if you cannot forgive me, you will at least understand me.

The telephone in the kitchen started ringing, so she reluctantly set down the letter and went through to answer it.

‘Yes, hello.'

‘Is that Holly Brice?' It was a woman's voice, but unfamiliar to her.

‘Yes. Can I help?'

‘Holly my dear, my name's Melissa Michelmore. I met you the other night in the Five Bells. My husband was celebrating his retirement… His name's Bertie.'

‘Of course. I remember. He very kindly gave me a glass of champagne.' So Marge Simpson was in fact called Melissa.

‘I only found out afterwards that you're George's daughter. We all knew him very well, you know. Lovely, lovely man. It's a bit short notice, but with Christmas coming up at the end of the week, there's not a lot of time. I was wondering if you might like to come along for a cup of coffee tomorrow morning. I only live just a few minutes up the road from you. There are one or two other ladies from the village who would love to meet you. Could you come?'

Holly groaned inwardly. She remembered her mother's coffee mornings with a procession of ladies coming in, sitting around, eating biscuits, and exchanging gossip. Her problem was that her mind was so taken up with the discovery of her father's second wife and his letter, she couldn't think of an excuse. Weakly, she accepted.

‘Oh, lovely. Say about half past ten? We're in Honeysuckle Cottage, just beyond the green. It's a white house with a big oak tree by the gate. You can't miss it.'

As Holly put the phone down, it immediately started ringing again and Holly snorted. What had Marge Simpson forgotten, she wondered? But it wasn't her. It was the plumber with good news. The new boiler had arrived and would be fitted tomorrow. She thanked him and hurried back to the lounge. The dog was fast asleep, dreaming of something that involved him making little yelping noises while his legs trod water vainly in mid-air. Holly sat back down again, picked up the letter and read it with great attention and growing fascination.

When her father was a schoolboy, growing up in Brookford, his first ever girlfriend had been called Lynda. They were inseparable as teenagers until her parents emigrated to Australia, taking Lynda with them. The years went by and they lost contact. In the late seventies, he met Holly's mother and they fell in love, or so he thought. They married, Holly was born, and all was fine until, in 1989, Lynda appeared in Brookford on holiday. As usual, Holly and her parents were having their summer holiday in the village and her father met up with Lynda once more. While they were here, the old passion was rekindled. Unable to separate from her a second time, he broke the news to his wife that he was leaving and he followed Lynda to Australia.

His letter was full of remorse for the appalling way he had treated his wife and daughter. One word he used time and time again was
selfish
. He knew he was acting selfishly, but he was powerless to do otherwise. The other expression he kept using was,
I had to do it
. It was as if he was being compelled to do this by some outside force that was beyond his control. He wrote of the tears streaming down his cheeks as the aircraft took off from Heathrow airport. By this time, tears were once more streaming down Holly's cheeks and she knew she had to get up and do something. Carefully folding the letter, she replaced it in its envelope and returned it to the box. Where, she wondered, was his second wife now?

At twelve o'clock precisely, Holly saw the magnificent old Rolls pull up outside. Seen in the daylight, it was even more beautiful than when she had seen it the night before – its deep indigo blue coachwork polished like a mirror, the chrome gleaming in the last rays of sun escaping from the increasingly cloudy sky. A young man wearing gloves and a flat cap was driving. As she left the house, leaving Stirling with a large biscuit to soften the blow of her departure, the driver held the car door open for her to climb in. Inside it was all red leather and highly polished wood. He gave her a smile.

‘Good morning, Miss. My name's Geoffrey. Mr Redgrave asked me to collect you. It should only take a few minutes, but if you're cold, there's a plaid here.' He indicated a fine tartan blanket resting on the seat beside her. The hood was down and she felt very grand, and just a bit foolish, as they drove majestically through the village. Luckily, she didn't see a soul.

Geoffrey the driver was right. To Holly's surprise, five minutes later, he turned into the entrance of the Castle hotel and drove her up to the front door. Howard Redgrave was waiting for her on the step.

‘Holly, how terribly good of you to come.'

She went over to him and kissed him on both cheeks. Glancing round, she lowered her voice. ‘Howard, this place costs a fortune. We could have gone to the Five Bells.'

For some reason, the old man thought this hilarious. He led her up to the door and ushered her in, leading her across the entrance hall, past the Christmas tree, to an unmarked door. A porter bowed respectfully as they walked inside.

‘Welcome to my humble abode.' Howard was grinning mischievously. She must have looked blank. ‘So you really didn't know that I own this place?' She shook her head in amazement. If she had thought to open the envelope he had brought with the invitation to the Christmas Ball, she would have seen where he lived. But it was still propped up against the toaster where she had left it. While she was still staring around blankly, the porter relieved her of her jacket and withdrew.

‘Come in, come in.' Howard waved her into a magnificent lounge. The room was large and comfortable. The windows looked out onto a private garden and the walls of the room were hung with oil paintings of distinguished-looking gentlemen.

‘Your ancestors, Howard?'

He turned and grinned at her. ‘We were too poor to have oil paintings, or ancestors. I come from very humble origins. No, most of the paintings and furniture came with the house.'

Surprised, Holly caught his eye. ‘Forgive me for being personal, Howard, but I totally had you pegged for a member of the upper crust, some kind of aristocrat. Surely that's what you are, what with your father's love of English war heroes – and, be honest, your accent isn't exactly Del Boy, is it?'

The old man stepped a bit closer and lowered his voice. ‘Not many people know this, but I told your dad, so I can tell you. My father was valet, chauffeur and wartime batman to his Lordship who owned this place. His Lordship was a very good and a very generous man and he paid for us boys to go to a very posh school. That's where the accent came from.' He grinned again. ‘No, I'm common as muck, me.'

‘Well you could have fooled me. In fact, you did fool me. So you ended up buying the place from his Lordship?'

Howard nodded. ‘When he died twenty years ago, it was put up for sale. I managed to get it at auction so it sort of stayed in the family after all. Now, let's have a drink.'

A bottle of champagne lay in a silver bucket on top of a grand piano, a crisp white linen cloth laid across its neck. Howard went over to open it.

‘In honour of your father, I've dug out a bottle of the '85. You know he had a nose for fine wines and he told me this was one of the best. Thought I'd better lay down a few dozen.' Holly saw that the label was Dom Perignon and she could only guess at how much a thirty-year-old bottle of champagne might be worth. He poured two glasses and passed one across to her. He glanced down at a piece of paper beside the champagne bucket. ‘I asked Gaston to print out the tasting notes off the internet. They say this wine has,
an aromatic, almost herbaceous nose with greengage and honeysuckle – very complex. Palate is rich and fresh with notes of grass, apple and honey. This is a big, flamboyant champagne.
Let's see if they've got it right, shall we? Here's to you, Holly.'

‘And to you, Howard, and thanks for having me.' They touched glasses and then sipped the wine. It was a rich golden colour and tasted wonderful, even if Holly's taste buds couldn't catch a whiff of honeysuckle or greengage. They sat down on an enormous sofa by the fireplace where two massive logs glowed as they kept the room temperature high. Holly slipped off her jumper and laid it on the back of the sofa. ‘It's wonderfully warm in here.'

‘Too warm for your dad.' Howard spotted Holly's interest. ‘He and I used to spend a lot of time together. Every time he came round here in winter he'd complain that it was too hot. Kept taking off his jacket and trying to open the windows. Strange really, seeing as he'd spent most of his life in Australia.'

‘So, what did you talk about, Howard?' As ever, Holly was keen to learn as much as she could about her father.

‘Oh, the usual, you know. Cricket, wine, investments, women; that sort of thing.'

‘Talking of women, I spoke to Mr Cookson the farmer this morning and he told me the ladies all loved my dad. Was that so?'

‘Yes, they all loved him.' Howard was looking into the fireplace.

Holly took a deep breath. ‘But what about his wife, Howard? His Australian wife, the one he met as a child and never stopped loving?' Both of them heard the emotion in her voice.

His head turned towards her. ‘I wondered if you knew the whole story.' He sounded relieved that she knew the truth. She nodded.

‘I only found out a few hours ago. Did he tell you about the letters he wrote to me?' Howard shook his head, so she explained, observing his reaction as she revealed the contents of the cardboard box.

He gazed at her in awe. ‘That's truly amazing.' He paused for reflection. ‘But it's the sort of thing I can imagine him doing. He was a complex man, your father, and he could be stubborn when he wanted.' He caught her eye. ‘And have you read them all?' Holly shook her head.

‘I've got as far as the year 2000. In fact, when I get home this evening, I plan to carry on. What I now need to know is what happened to his second wife.' She hesitated. ‘Do you know, Howard? Is she still alive? Have I got a stepmother, or whatever she is, over there in Australia?'

Howard dropped his head and kept his eyes fixed on the logs in the fireplace as he answered. ‘She's dead, Holly. She died in 2008 I think. It was after her death that he decided to sell up and come back here.'

Holly digested the news. ‘How did he handle it?'

Howard looked up. ‘She died while they were both living in Australia. I wasn't over there, so I can't tell you how he reacted initially. But, by the time he moved back over here a few months had already passed and he was coping. As far as the outside world was concerned, he grieved and then moved on. But he never did move on; not really.' Holly met his eyes. ‘I know it's bound to be difficult for you to hear, but she was his one true love. Her death was a crippling blow for him. I'm no doctor, but I've asked myself many times whether the cancer that killed him was born when she died.'

‘So he sold his business and came back to Devon after her death? And there was nobody else in his life from then on?'

‘Just you, Holly. Just you.'

It was a while before either of them spoke again. Finally, Holly carried on with her original query. ‘So the ladies here all liked him, but was there maybe one lady in particular? I see there are fresh flowers on his grave.'