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СКАЧАТЬ ‘Especially by the ladies. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better get on. There’s a lot of grass to cut.’

      He bent forward to pull the starter cord. The mower sprang into life and he continued on his way between the gravestones, leaving Holly wondering what he had meant by his last remark.

      After breakfast, Holly pulled out her phone and laptop and set about checking up on her father’s business in Australia. There was a surprising amount on the internet about GWB Wines of Sydney and Melbourne. In particular there was a page on the current GWB Wines website entitled George Brice, Founder of GWB Wines.

      From this, Holly learnt that her father had set up in Sydney in a small way at first. As the business grew, he moved heavily into exporting Australian wines to Europe, America and elsewhere. He finally sold out to a consortium made up of his employees in the year 2008. But the most fascinating thing on the page, as far as Holly was concerned, was a good, clear photograph of him, probably taken when he was in his forties. He looked fit, happy and handsome, but, nice as it was to have an image of her father, that wasn’t what really interested Holly. What interested her was the woman at his side and the caption beneath: George Brice and his wife, Lynda.

      Holly sat back and stared at the screen. The woman described as his wife was of medium height, slim and very pretty, probably about the same age as him. She had short blonde hair, not dissimilar to Holly’s mother’s hair, and she was wearing a very smart cream dress that showed off her tan to perfection. She was holding Holly’s father by the hand and gazing up at him with an expression of deep affection.

      The phone started ringing. Holly shook her head in an attempt to clear it before reaching over and picking it up.

      ‘Hello.’

      ‘Hi, Holly, it’s me. I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?’

      Holly’s head cleared. ‘Hi, Justin. It’s good to hear from you. I’m still getting over the mountain of clotted cream I ate at the Castle on Sunday.’

      She heard him laugh. ‘Well, that’s sort of what I was calling about. I don’t suppose you’d be free for dinner some time soon, would you? I so enjoyed our conversation the other day and I’d love to see you again.’

      ‘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. СКАЧАТЬ