The House at Greenacres

by The House at Greenacres (retail) (epub)

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m sure it will be fine.’

  ‘I’ll get the kettle on, then bring your suitcase up from the car.’

  Holly took the car seat from him and walked through the kitchen and the dining room. She smiled at some of the mourners who’d come for the wake but gestured at Luke in his car seat to let them know that she needed to take him upstairs. She suspected that more people would arrive within the hour, having stopped off at home or even the pub first, and that some would already be in the cosy lounge.

  Entering the house had been an assault on her senses as familiar sights, smells and sounds rushed to greet her, but she’d tried to maintain her composure for her grandmother’s sake, although when Granny had made the comment about Luke taking Grandpa’s place in the household, she had struggled not to break down completely.

  The big old house hadn’t changed a bit in the months she’d been away, but then she hadn’t expected it to be any different. The same aroma of woodsmoke and baking hung in the air, the house still creaked and groaned as the wind moved around it outside and sneaked through the gaps around the white sash windows, and the decor hadn’t altered since Holly had first entered the house in her mother’s arms, fresh from hospital – she’d seen the photographs to prove it. Only… it was different now, because Grandpa was gone. His deep voice used to echo through the hallways, his loud laugh bounced up the stairs, and his anger caused the floorboards to vibrate when he unleashed it. Which wasn’t often, thankfully, but he had been a strict man with old-fashioned values, as well as unrelenting in his pursuit of what he believed was the right way to raise a family and conduct his business.

  Holly had grown up well aware of these facts. She had loved him – how could she not, when he had such a good heart? – but she had also feared him, and the idea of letting him down. The fact that she had been conceived before her parents married had been a family secret, as if it was something to be ashamed of, but Holly had been aware of it from an early age. She’d heard her mum and grandpa arguing one day, Grandpa ranting about his daughter disappointing him. Her mum’s reply had been sharp and quick: she had given him a beautiful granddaughter; how could he claim to be disappointed with that? Holly had loved to hear her mum debate with people. She had been so intelligent and articulate, and even Grandpa had been forced – on more than one occasion – to swallow his words. Holly didn’t think she was as brave as her mum had been, which was one of the reasons why she’d run away. She hated conflict, and in that way, she was more like her dad than her mum. Bruce tended to bite his tongue and walk away rather than get involved in an altercation, but Holly found that just as admirable; sometimes it took more strength of character to walk away than to stand and fight. Her parents had been so different and yet so perfectly matched, and she loved them both dearly.

  If only her mum hadn’t passed away when she was so young. Too young to lose her. Too young to know how to cope with saying goodbye.

  She climbed the stairs, then turned left and walked along the wooden floorboards of the corridor, passing the closed door of her dad’s bedroom and the door to the right that led to one of the two family bathrooms. At the other end of the landing, directly opposite Holly’s room, was her grandparents’ bedroom, and next to it, their bathroom.

  She turned the handle and pushed at her bedroom door, expecting it to groan on its hinges as it swung inwards, but it didn’t make a sound. Another thing to thank her dad for, no doubt – he’d had the foresight to oil the hinges in order to avoid them disturbing her son.

  She set Luke’s car seat down on the floor at the end of the double bed. Her room was as she’d left it, a mixture of teenager and twenty-something, with band stickers all over her built-in wardrobe doors – from Madonna to Whitney to Bryan Adams – and posters on the walls featuring Leo and Kate in that iconic pose from Titanic, and Sarah Michelle Gellar in her classic Buffy the Vampire Slayer stance. The shelves on the wall still held her books, and she gazed at their spines, reading the familiar titles: Pride and Prejudice, Salem’s Lot, volumes on business law that she’d bought back in her teens when she was considering a career in that direction. She shook her head at her younger self, at the naïve girl she’d been before her mum had died, before life had changed for ever.

  Growing up, Holly had been filled with a zest for adventure that her mum had nurtured, and had believed she’d travel far and become a successful lawyer. But when her mum died, it was as though the spark in Holly was doused, and the idea of straying from Greenacres suddenly seemed terrifying. It was, she knew now, a perfectly natural reaction to her loss, but at the time, she had thought fear would rule her life. Time had helped her to overcome her grief, of course, but she had never been the same. Her plans to go away to university to study business law – which she aimed to use to help her family and other small businesses – were abandoned. She sat her GCSEs and A levels, achieved good grades and had unconditional offers from three universities – in London, Bath and Cardiff – but when it came down to choosing one, she decided not to go.

  Her dad and grandmother had tried to encourage her to leave and experience a different life, to expand her horizons, but her grandpa had been happy to keep her close. He’d told her once, not long after she’d declined all three universities, that he was glad she’d stayed at Greenacres. He’d lost his daughter and didn’t want to lose his granddaughter. Holly had been happy to have his approval, as it made her decision feel justified. Instead of leaving, she had focused on running the shop at Greenacres and helping out in the vineyard, on being a good daughter and granddaughter and on enjoying a simple life near the village of Penhallow Sands. It had taken something big to make her leave her childhood home, and when she had made the decision to go, she hadn’t known if she would ever return.

  The large bay window in Holly’s bedroom overlooked the rear garden and the fields that lay beyond. It was a beautiful view and one that she had spent hours gazing at. Her heart fluttered as she looked at it now. Eight months away and such a lot had happened in the meantime; the view was the same, but the family had changed. It would never be the same again.

  This room had seen so much as Holly grew into a woman: tears, anger and laughter, excitement and love. She flopped onto the bed and ran her hands over the patchwork bedspread that her mum and granny had made for her before she was born. Soft and worn, it had been a constant in her life even when other things had changed. She’d wrapped it around her to keep warm on frosty nights, sobbed into it when she’d been grounded as a young teenager for going night swimming with a group of friends, and later on, when she’d lost her mum. Then, last year, when she’d known that she’d lost Rich too. The bedspread had stayed here when she’d left, almost as if it were waiting for her to return. It might only be a blanket, but her mum had helped make it, and had done so with love for the child that was growing in her belly. Holly knew now how it was to love a child, and how awful it would be to have to leave the world before that child was fully grown.

  The fluttering in her chest grew into a pain so red hot that she gasped and sat upright. She couldn’t do this at the moment, didn’t have time to grieve for her mum right now. She was home and she had a responsibility to be there for her granny and her dad. Today of all days. But coming home with her own child made her wish more than ever that her mother was here to greet them. Mum would have loved Luke, and knowing that she would never see him was devastating.

  She stood up and walked around to the cot that her dad had placed on the other side of the bed. It was pine, with a drop-down side, crafted by her talented grandfather. She’d heard the story numerous times about how Grandpa had worked late into the night in the weeks before she was born. He’d been determined to get the finish right, to ensure that no rough edges remained to hurt his precious grandchild when she arrived. The beautiful elaborate carvings on the outside of the cot were of vines and grapes, representative of the business that he would one day pass on to the Morton heir. Grandpa had been dedicated to his family,
expecting no less of everyone else than he did of himself. Whether he had expected to have more grandchildren after Holly was something he never mentioned; Holly knew that her parents had wanted more children but it had never happened. So she had remained an only child, adored and showered with love and attention.

  The cot was already made up with a new mattress, a clean fitted sheet and soft wool blankets. Holly lifted Luke gently from his car seat and laid him on the bed. She removed his jacket and deftly changed his nappy, holding her breath when his eyelids flickered open and a frown passed over his smooth forehead, worried that she’d wake him. When he was dressed again, she placed him in the cot and covered him with a blanket. She watched as he tried to settle himself, but the smells and the mattress were unfamiliar, so she fetched his soft bunny from the car seat and tucked it in next to him, knowing it would be of comfort.

  There was a quiet knock at the open door and her dad came in.

  ‘Your suitcase,’ he whispered, placing it on the floor next to the car seat. ‘I’ve put the pram base in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be down once he’s settled properly.’

  He nodded, then tiptoed over to the cot and gazed down at Luke. A wave of love swept over Holly. Bruce Dryden was such a big man and yet so gentle; he had been a kind and caring father and she knew she was lucky to have him. He had been her grandfather’s polar opposite in many ways: the calm to his storm on numerous occasions. Holly had never clashed with her father over anything; instead, it had been Grandpa who’d evoked the teenage angst and rebellion in her. It had been Bruce she’d told about her pregnancy, and who’d come to see her and Luke, bringing what he could spare to help them out, offering love and support and trying to encourage Holly to return to the vineyard, though not before she was ready, of course. He had been supportive and never judgemental, understanding and never expectant.

  Now she stepped closer to him and hugged him tight, wanting him to know how precious he was and how grateful she was for his love. When she released him, he kissed her forehead, then quietly left the room.

  Holly pulled the baby monitor from her suitcase. The first one she’d bought had been a video monitor, but then she’d watched a documentary about people who knew how to tune into the unsecured video links and were able to spy on babies and their families. It had scared her into binning it and replacing it with an audio one. Even if someone could hear her and Luke, at least they couldn’t watch them.

  Once the monitor had been plugged in and the receiver tuned, she closed the curtains and left the room, pulling the door behind her. If Luke woke and needed her, she could be with him in seconds, but she had a feeling that the train journey and the busy morning had tired him out, and that he’d sleep for a while.

  * * *

  Rich had been circulating at Henry Morton’s wake for an hour, pouring drinks and directing people to the kitchen and the downstairs toilet, as well as the back door if they wanted somewhere to smoke or vape. He’d been tempted to have a beer but wanted to keep a clear head for when he saw Holly, though her failure to put in an appearance so far had made him start to wonder if she’d actually turn up.

  ‘Wine?’ He held up the bottle of red he was carrying and filled the proffered glasses.

  Moving on, he found himself with his parents, Lucinda and Rex, who were talking to Catherine Bromley, the deputy head teacher of the local primary school. Catherine declined wine, but Rich’s mother held out her glass. His father was drinking coffee, his lips set in a thin line. Rich knew that their own memories would be haunting them right now; how could they not after what they’d been through? And yet they stood there, dressed in their smart black clothes, making polite conversation and refusing to allow their pain to drag them away from showing their respects to a man who’d been a pillar of the warm Cornish community.

  Rich listened to them for a while, glad of the distraction, but when Catherine started talking about league tables and literacy strategies, he tuned out and moved on. She had been in his year at school and she’d been a pleasant girl, but always so serious. As a teenager, she’d preferred to stay home, do her homework and keep her mother company rather than going out or dating anyone. Her mother had been in her forties when she’d had her, and some of the kids had teased her about that, but if it bothered her, she never let on. Rich had found it strange that Catherine didn’t seem to want a social life, but when he’d asked her about it once, she’d replied curtly that she wanted a good career and that she wouldn’t let having fun get in the way of that. He had always admired how single-minded and determined she was, but also wondered if she ever let her hair down.

  He realized that the bottle of wine he was holding was empty, so he returned it to the kitchen and put it with the others for recycling. His shoulders were tight and the tension was spreading through the rest of his body. More than anything he wanted to get out for a walk in the fresh air, but now wasn’t the right time. He’d go later, if he had a chance. This level of tension couldn’t be good for anyone.

  A familiar voice carried through from the dining room, bringing a rush of sensations and emotions that made him breathless: a first kiss in the rain, the taste of bubblegum on her pale pink lips; the swish of her waist-length golden hair as she turned; the feel of her against his naked chest, her skin warm from the sun as they lay on the sand; the pain in his heart that day when she’d turned and walked away…

  Holly was here.

  At last.

  * * *

  Holly smiled politely, shook hands and accepted kisses on her cheeks, all the while holding tightly to the baby monitor. She knew from past experience that wakes weren’t easy to get through and had vowed to leave instructions not to hold one when she passed. She wanted to spare her loved ones the awkwardness, the expense and the exhausting rounds of socializing and sharing stories that these events demanded. Losing someone was hard enough without having to put on a show of strength afterwards.

  She knew some people found it helpful, that ultimately it was a celebration of the person’s life, but after losing her mother so young, Holly struggled to deal with anything that reminded her of that awful time. Just when she thought she’d put her loss behind her and was dealing with life well, something would happen and she’d end up grieving all over again. Losing her mum before she’d even turned sixteen had left a huge hole that no one had been able to fill. Her dad, granny and grandpa had tried to help her, and they’d been wonderful, especially as they were dealing with their own grief too, but Holly and her mum had missed out on so much, and nothing could ever change that.

  Since Luke had arrived, death seemed even more terrifying, because he needed her and she wanted to be there for him for as long as possible. Becoming a mum had brought her such joy, but it had also opened up a chasm of vulnerability that hadn’t been there before. Holly was no longer responsible only for herself but also for another tiny human being; she was the most important person in his life right now and she was convinced that no one could ever love him as much as she did. Except, perhaps, for his father…

  ‘Holly.’

  Her name, uttered from between those perfect lips. Sending a shiver up and down her spine. Creating sensations at her core that sent her reeling. The last time she’d seen him had been so dreadful.

  ‘Rich.’

  Their eyes met, and it was all she could do not to throw herself against his chest and sob, then pound it with her fists until she’d released the pain she’d carried for what felt like a lifetime.

  ‘I’m… sorry for your loss, Holly.’

  She licked her lips, gripping the monitor tightly in front of her as if it could protect her from pain. ‘Thank you. I can hardly believe he’s gone.’

  ‘Me neither. It doesn’t seem right somehow. He was always here, and part of me thought he always would be.’ Rich shook his head. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She nodded and followed him through to the kitchen, her heart pounding and her throat tight with emotion.


  ‘Wine?’ he asked, holding up a bottle.

  ‘No thanks. Something else. Not alcohol.’ She pushed her hair behind her ears, aware that he was gazing at it. The last time she’d seen him, it had still been long; she’d had it cut after having Luke. She was used to it now, but it probably looked strange to Rich.

  ‘Lemonade?’

  ‘Please.’

  She placed the baby monitor on the table and watched as he opened two cans, then poured the lemonade into glasses before handing her one.

  ‘Thanks.’ She stared down at her glass, willing the whooshing of blood through her ears to stop, wanting words to come that would not cause hurt or pain, sound bitter or strangled. This wasn’t about her or Rich now; it was about their son and what was best for him.

  ‘How are you?’ Rich asked. ‘You’ve had your hair cut. It suits you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A murmur from the monitor made her pick it up again and watch for the lights that flashed at any noise Luke made.

  ‘Is that a baby monitor?’

  ‘Yes. Luke’s in my room.’

  ‘Luke? That’s the baby’s name?’

  She ran her gaze over his face, but it remained expressionless. Only his eyes betrayed his emotions, his deep, dark eyes.

  Did he know? Had he guessed?

  ‘How… how old is he?’

  ‘Three and a half months.’

  Now Rich frowned, and she knew he was trying to work out if Luke could be his, but she’d left the previous summer not knowing she was twelve weeks pregnant, and Luke had been born early, at thirty-three weeks. Would he ask her, or had he decided that her grandfather’s wake wasn’t the time or place for such an intimate conversation? Or did he have no idea? Did it hurt him that she had a child he might believe wasn’t his? Worse still, what if he didn’t want to find out?

  He raised his glass and sipped his drink, his face etched with uncertainty. ‘Is he… I don’t know how to ask this, really, but… is he mine?’