What Happens At Christmas... (2 page)

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.