by T A Williams
‘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?’
Day One
Friday
‘Hello again, Holly. Have you come to stay this time?’ Mr Trimble, the postmaster, had a good memory for faces and names.
‘Hello, Mr Trimble. No, seeing as it’s Christmas, I’ve taken a couple of weeks’ leave and I’m here to go through my father’s things and to get the house cleaned up before putting it on the market.’
‘It’s Donny. Everybody calls me Donny. Oh, what a pity. Sorry to hear you’re thinking of selling the house. We need some new young blood in the village.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There are an awful lot of folk here who won’t see seventy again.’ He gave her a little smile. ‘Your dad was one of the younger ones. What was he? Barely sixty, I bet.’
‘Yes, that’s right. He was sixty last February.’ Over the past couple of weeks, Holly had been studying the documents the solicitor had given her and had been learning quite a bit more about her father as a result. There was still so much more to learn so, as she was the only customer in the shop, she took advantage of Mr Trimble’s willingness to chat. ‘Did you know him well, Donny?’
‘Yes, pretty well. We used to play tennis together. He was really good. Told me he’d picked it up over in Australia, but the way he played, I reckon he must have started as a youngster.’ Holly nodded to herself, the image of her father tapping a tennis ball across a low net in the back garden clear in her mind.
‘Are there tennis courts here in the village, then?’ Considering that there can’t have been more than forty or fifty houses altogether, it sounded remarkable.
Donny smiled. ‘Sort of. There’s a good court up at the Grange and a scruffy one in Bob Cookson’s field when he remembers to mow it. He’s the local farmer and you’re bound to bump into him sooner or later. His tractors are always blocking the road and spreading manure where they shouldn’t. He plays as well, but none of us were as good as George, your dad.’
‘What sort of man was he, Donny?’ Holly hesitated. ‘You see – he and my mum split up when I was little and I hardly know anything about him.’
‘I know. He talked about you a lot, you know.’ Now it was his turn to hesitate. ‘I think he felt very sad, maybe bitter, about that.’
‘Did he ever say why they broke up?’ For a fraction of a second, it looked as if Donny might know something, but he shook his head.
‘Can’t say I remember him talking about that.’ He hastily changed the subject. ‘But what I can tell you is that your dad was a real gent. He was kind, friendly and very generous. And of course his family’s from here, but presumably you already know that.’
Holly shook her head. ‘I wondered if the house might have been in the family, but I had no idea really.’
Donny did a bit of mental
arithmetic. ‘You’ve got to be the fourth generation of Brices to live there. I just about remember his dad. His name was George as well. He died when I was a little boy. And I’m sure Old George said his father had lived there before him. Anyway, what’s not in doubt is that your dad was a well-respected man. Quite a few of us went to the service at the crematorium in Exeter and most of the village turned up for the burial of his ashes here.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Far corner of the churchyard, just past the big yew tree. You can’t miss it. The headstone’s been ordered, but I don’t think it’s arrived yet. Last I saw, there was just a wooden marker.’ The bell at the door tinkled and an old lady walked in, pulling a bag on wheels. Holly decided to leave Donny to it. She thanked him, paid for her bottle of milk, and walked back down to Brook Cottage.
She glanced up at the sky. The village was set in a dip between two hills and, as a result, it was a lot more sheltered than up on the open moorland. The downside of this position was that there was very little visible advance warning of approaching bad weather. For the moment the sky was clear, but she knew that could change in the space of a few minutes. That morning, driving down from London, she had gone through torrential rain all the way to Exeter. Since then, the sky had cleared, but the temperature had started to drop like a stone. Mind you, she thought to herself, it was December sixteenth after all. The shortest day would be upon them soon.
Inside the house it was definitely feeling warmer. She had managed to get the central heating to work, after a struggle. She felt fairly sure that if she hadn’t had an interest in mechanical things, she would never have managed. As it was, the boiler was noisy and a bit smelly, but at least it was working, and all the radiators were now hot. She closed the door behind her and filled the kettle. It was just starting to boil when she heard a ring at the door. She went across and opened it. It was the old lady she had seen five minutes before in the shop.
‘Holly? Holly Brice?’
‘Yes, I’m Holly.’
‘I’m Diana Edworthy. I live in the cottage with the willow tree, just along the road. I wanted to talk to you about George… your father.’ She was bracing herself against the door frame and Holly could see that she wasn’t too steady on her feet.
Holly remembered the wording of her father’s will. ‘You’re the lady who looked after my father?’ The old lady nodded and Holly moved backwards. ‘Would you like to come in and sit down?’ She glanced back into the kitchen. ‘I’m just making tea, if you’d like a cup.’
‘That would be lovely, my dear. Very kind.’ Mrs Edworthy hobbled into the kitchen and made for a fine carver chair with strong arms. Leaning heavily on them, she lowered herself down and gave a sigh of relief. ‘That’s better. They’re supposed to be giving me a new hip, but goodness only knows when that’ll be.’
Holly dropped a couple of teabags into the pot and poured in the hot water. Then she turned back to Mrs Edworthy, glad of the opportunity to talk to her. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. The solicitor told me you looked after my father in his last few months.’ She saw a slight nod from the old lady. ‘I can’t thank you enough for doing that. It was really good of you.’
‘It was the very least I could do. He was always so very good to me.’ She raised her eyes. ‘My Wilfred was George’s cousin, and after he died, your dad helped me a lot.’ She shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. ‘And then he went and left me all that money. He didn’t need to do that.’
Holly reached out and touched the old lady’s hand on the table top. ‘He must have been very fond of you. And thank you again. You know the family history, I’m sure. I’ve only just found out about his death so I couldn’t be with him at the end, but it’s comforting for me to know that he was well looked after.’ She poured two mugs of tea. ‘Do you take sugar? I expect there’s some in here somewhere.’
‘Two spoons please, and the sugar’s in the coronation tin.’ Sure enough, Holly found the battered blue and gold tin to be half full. She took two spoonfuls and stirred the mug before passing it across. ‘You must know this place better than me.’
Mrs Edworthy nodded. ‘I certainly know where most things are.’ She picked up her tea and sipped it, even though it was boiling hot. ‘So, Holly, tell me all about you. I was trying to work it out. You must be in your thirties now?’
Holly nodded. ‘Yes, I’m thirty-three.’
‘Thirty-three, right. So, where do you live, what do you do? George and I often wondered that.’
They chatted for half an hour before Mrs Edworthy looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I must go off home now. Stirling’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. Now, are you quite sure you’ll be able to take him? You see, I’m off tomorrow to my boy’s for Christmas. I would have taken Stirling with me otherwise. He’s such a dear, but Stephen’s house isn’t very big and they’ve got the cat, you see. When Donny told me you’d arrived, I thought that’s perfect.’
Holly was a bit bewildered. She helped Mrs Edworthy to her feet and ensured that her wheelie bag was to hand. ‘Erm, Mrs Edworthy, who’s Stirling?’
The old lady looked up in surprise. ‘Why, he’s your dad’s dog, that’s who he is.’
Stirling the dog was a large, very friendly, black Labrador. As soon as Mrs Edworthy opened the door, he came bouncing out, almost knocking the old lady over in his eagerness to greet them.
‘No, Stirling. Down boy.’ Mrs Edworthy steadied herself against the wall and turned to Holly. ‘He’s ever so friendly, but he’s a youngster, you see. Your dad only got him a year back. He’s little more than a puppy really and he’s got so much energy. I can’t take him for much in the way of walks these days, so it’s just lovely that you’ve come when you did.’ She lowered her voice uncomfortably. ‘And I can’t bend down any more to pick up his… you know, offerings.’ Holly grinned in spite of herself. ‘But you’re young and you’ll be able to take him out all right. There are lots of lovely walks around the village and for a young girl like you, you can be up on the moor in half an hour. Now, let me collect his things for you.’
As the old lady pottered about, fetching the dog’s bed, his food bowl, which inspired considerable interest on the part of the dog, and all the other bits and pieces, Holly’s mind was racing. She knew nothing at all about dogs. The only pet she had had while growing up was a fat old tabby cat, and her only contacts with dogs had been at a few friends’ houses. And she had absolutely no experience of such a big dog. True, he really did look friendly, but what, she wondered, would he be like if he decided he didn’t want to be friendly? There were a lot of teeth in that mouth.
‘Why don’t you take his bed and his bag of food over to your house now, and then you can come back for him in a minute?’ Mrs Edworthy was still producing rubber toys, tennis balls and other bits of canine bric a brac.
Holly did as instructed, all the while wondering just how on earth she was going to cope with looking after a huge great animal like Stirling. She did, however, concede that Stirling was a rather fine name, particularly for somebody like herself with an interest in classic sports cars. She dumped the stuff in the kitchen and returned for the dog. Mrs Edworthy was just dropping the last toy into a big bag. When Stirling spotted Holly, he insisted on standing up on his hind legs and making a fuss of her. As he did so, his claws scratched some serious marks across her very expensive Marc Jacobs belt, but she gritted her teeth and smiled at him. ‘Good dog, Stirling.’
Mrs Edworthy looked up with a smile. ‘You’ll love him. I’ll be sorry to lose him, to tell the truth, but it’s so much better for him to be with somebody younger and more active.’ Holly didn’t have the heart to tell her that there was no way she would be able to look after a big dog in her London flat – apart from the fact that she was at work nine or ten hours a day most days. Anyway, for the moment she just had to grin and bear it.
Before leaving with her unwanted house guest, she managed to find out how often the dog needed to eat, how much and wha
t his meals consisted of, as well as how often he needed to do what Mrs Edworthy euphemistically described as ‘his business’. At last she ran out of questions so she headed for the door. She hesitated, her hand on the door handle.
‘What about a lead? Do I need to put him on a lead?’
‘Oh, dearie me, his lead. I’d clean forgotten. Here it is.’ Mrs Edworthy unhooked a piece of rope from the back of the door and handed it to Holly. The effect upon the dog was electric. He gave a strangled whine of delight and jumped up against Holly, sending her crashing backwards into the door. Mrs Edworthy looked on sympathetically. ‘He gets very excited when he knows he’s going for a walk. Now, you only need to put him on the lead when you’re on the road. Otherwise, just let him run around. Your dad trained him well and he’ll always come back to you. And, best of all, he doesn’t chase sheep.’
Whether or not the dog chased sheep was the least of Holly’s problems at the moment. First, she had to work out the basics of cohabitation with him. She reflected that Stirling would be the very first male with whom she had ever cohabited. In fact, she had studiously avoided any serious relationships up till now, preferring her independence. Now the arrival of seventy pounds of not very sweet-smelling bone and muscle promised to be a serious challenge. But, anyway, for now the die was cast, and she had to make the best of it.
She clipped the rope lead to the dog’s collar, said goodbye to Mrs Edworthy, turned the door handle and then found herself propelled along the road so fast, she almost fell on her face. This time she had chosen more sensible shoes, although they were Kurt Geiger and hadn’t been cheap, and she heard an ominous scratching sound as the dog tugged her past a bush; ironically, a holly bush. Fortunately, seconds later, Stirling screeched to a halt and cocked his leg against a tree in long, leisurely fashion and Holly had time to collect herself, take a firmer grip on the lead and then march him along to Brook Cottage. As her first experience of dog walking, it was not auspicious.
