For the perfect Christmas…

When career-girl Holly Brice learns that her estranged father has died, she decides to take a trip down memory lane and find out about the man she never knew. Arriving in the sleepy little Dartmoor village, she’s shocked to discover that she’s inherited the cosy little cottage she remembers so fondly, a whole load of money – and her father’s adorable dog, too!

Head to snow-covered Devon!

And as the first snowflakes begin to fall and Holly bumps into her gorgeous neighbour, Jack Nelson, life gets even more complicated! Men have always been off the cards for high-flying Holly, but there’s something about mysterious writer Jack that has her re-thinking her three-date rule…

A fabulous, feel-good festive read, perfect for fans of Debbie Johnson and Carole Matthews.

Also by T A Williams:

Dirty Minds The Room on the Second Floor When Alice Met Danny What Happens in Tuscany… What Happens in Cornwall…

What Happens at Christmas…

T A Williams

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Trevor Williams 2015

Trevor Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474045865

Version date: 2018-07-23

TREVOR WILLIAMS

lives in Devon with his Italian wife. He lived and worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the best-known language schools in the UK. He has taught people from all over the world, among them Arab princes, Brazilian beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, live fish and alligator. A Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat him in return. He has written historical novels, humorous books and thrillers. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing. You can follow him on Twitter, @TAWilliamsBooks, find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TrevorWilliamsBooks or visit his website: www.tawilliamsbooks.com.

With thanks to my lovely editor, Charlotte Mursell

To Mariangela and Christina with love

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

Day Nine

Day Ten

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

‘So why did your dad choose to come and live all the way out here? It’s very pretty and all that, but, let’s face it, it’s the back of beyond.’

Five minutes earlier, they had turned off the busy A38 trunk road and now found themselves plunged into a totally different world of narrow winding lanes, woodland, rivers and hills. So far the only other vehicle they had seen had been an ancient tractor pulling a trailer full of sheep.

Holly shook her head in annoyance and glanced across at Julia. ‘I wish I knew for sure. It’s like I’ve been telling you, I know virtually nothing about my dad at all. Mum refused to talk about him. The news that he’d died was the first I’d heard of him for over twenty-five years.’

Julia still couldn’t get her head round that. ‘But surely you must have known if he was dead or alive?’

Holly shook her head. ‘No idea at all. I haven’t seen or heard from him since he left. And, don’t forget, I was only seven when that happened. I barely remember him at all. He could have been anywhere, alive or dead.’

Still puzzled, Julia arched her back and did her best to straighten her legs. ‘I love your car to bits, Hol, but bloody hell, it’s uncomfortable. I feel as if my backbone’s about to come out through the top of my skull. Any chance of stretching my legs? Apart from anything else, I’m dying for a pee.’

They had been driving non-stop for over four hours. Holly pressed back against the steering wheel and stretched her back. ‘Now that’s a thought, Jules. And a hot drink would be a good idea too. The next service station I find, I’ll pull over. Coffee and a comfort break coming up.’

Twenty minutes later, they still hadn’t found a petrol station. Holly’s old Porsche was loving the twisting, turning road that snaked up and down like a rollercoaster through an ever changing patchwork of fields, woods and open moorland. The road was getting steadily narrower and the warning light on the dashboard was now reminding Holly that it might have been prudent to fill up with fuel before heading out into the wilds of Dartmoor. Beside her, Julia was squirming around in the passenger seat. ‘Do something, Hol, I’m really getting desperate now.’

Then, miraculously, they came down a steep hill to a ridiculously narrow humpbacked granite bridge and spotted a sign on the right advertising, Last fuel before the Moor. Holly pulled in and drew up in front of one of only two pumps. As a gesture towards the festive season, a Christmas tree had been planted rather incongruously in a rusty oil can. The wind had removed most of the decorations, but a lone glass ball remained lodged in the middle of it, looking rather forlorn. Holly climbed out of the car, feeling a frozen blast of air on her neck as she did so. She reached back inside and grabbed a coat. She was zipping it up when an old man appeared. He was wearing ancient overalls, apparently held together by the oil and paint stains that covered them like camouflage, the military impression heightened by the khaki-coloured woolly hat on his head. He limped across to her, his eyes alternating between the bright red car and her long legs. Clearly, he was fascinated by what he saw.

‘Morning, miss. Come far, have us?’ His accent was deepest Devonshire and the wind whipping round her ears didn’t help comprehension, but Holly nodded and grunted, and he appeared satisfied. He ran his hand along the sleek wing of the car, nodding quietly to himself, before looking up. ‘Fill her up for you, my sweetheart?’

‘Yes, please, and is there a toilet we could use? And maybe somewhere we could get a cup of coffee?’

‘No coffee, I’m afraid, my lover, but you’ve got the Fisherman’s Rest two miles up the road. They’ll give you coffee. The toilet’s round the side of the building.’ He pointed vaguely behind him and left it to Julia to locate what proved to be an unexpectedly modern loo.

While the old man filled the car with fuel, Holly flicked the engine cover up and checked the coolant level. It was reassuringly normal and there were no unexpected oil leaks to be seen either. Her hard work the previous evening had clearly been worthwhile to ensure the thirty-year-old car made it all the way to Devon without mishap.

‘Do you want me to do that for you, sweetheart?’ The old man had finished refuelling and was hovering alongside her, clearly fascinated to see a girl looking at an engine. Holly, reassured that all was well, stood up and slammed the cover shut, wiping her hands on a tissue.

‘No, thanks. I thought I might have a coolant leak last week and I was just checking. But it all looks fine.’

‘You know your way round cars, then?’

Holly grinned at him. ‘I’m an engineer. Classic cars are my hobby.’

‘Well I never.’ He was still standing there looking awestruck when she emerged from the loo in her turn. By now, Holly had got over this almost inevitable reaction from most people she met when she told them what she did. In fact, she worked in insurance, but her engineering degree was essential for the type of work she did, and the old Porsche was her pride and joy.

The Fisherman’s Rest was just over another quaint little bridge, before the road started to climb steeply out of the trees towards the barren moorland. It was a long white building, with a grey slate roof. Picnic tables dotted the garden that sloped gently down to the edge of the fast-running moorland river, no doubt teeming with trout. Holly shivered. Today was certainly no day for sitting around in the garden. She checked her watch as she pulled into the car park. They had made a very early start from London, in the vain hope of getting round the South Circular before the worst of the traffic, and it was now eleven-thirty. A sign outside the pub indicated that it was open all day but, nevertheless, the door was locked and they had to bang on the heavy knocker for some time before a man appeared. He was lanky, stooped, and gloomy-looking, and he bore an uncommon resemblance to Boris Karloff.

‘Hello, any chance of a coffee?’ The man’s initially uncommunicative face turned to a welcoming, if slightly creepy, smile when he saw Holly’s long blonde hair and the length of Julia’s skirt. He stepped to one side and they both felt his eyes on them as they filed in.

Holly waited until he had disappeared behind the bar. ‘What’s that film? Deliverance? He’s a bit creepy, don’t you think, Jules?’ She picked a table near the door just in case.

‘Not really.’ Julia sounded quite relaxed. ‘The Docklands Light Railway on a Monday morning’s full of far more sinister characters than him.’ She looked around at the selection of stuffed trout, horse brasses, pewter tankards and framed prints of animals that dotted the walls. ‘The décor’s a bit different, though. I’ll give you that.’ Fairy lights and fake snow on the windows did their best to give the place a Christmassy feel, although the overall impression was still rather depressing. In a way, this suited Holly’s mood. As if sensing how she felt, Julia returned to the topic they had been kicking around for the past three days, ever since Holly had got the letter from the solicitor.

‘And this house he’s left you; was that where he was living?’

Holly shrugged her shoulders. ‘I imagine so, but I really don’t know. All I can remember was my mum telling me he’d gone to Australia. Presumably he came back.’

‘Yes, but why come back here to Dartmoor?’ Julia was still puzzled.

Holly had been thinking hard about this. ‘I’ve got a feeling the house was in his family – you know, passed down from generation to generation. I’ve got a few childhood memories of coming to Dartmoor for holidays with my mum and dad when I was a little kid and I can vaguely remember us staying in a sort of L-shaped house, but maybe I dreamt it. I may be totally wrong, but I seem to recall a house with a stream going past it, and ducks wandering about, but who knows?’ Her eyes focused on a very dusty stuffed duck, incongruously sitting on a shelf beside the dartboard. From the state of its feathers, it was clear that it, too, had often been a target.

‘And your mum didn’t talk about him at all?’

‘I told you; his name was never mentioned. And I mean never.’

Julia shook her head in disbelief and pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders. The fire in the fireplace was smoking, but no flames could be seen and it was decidedly chilly in the pub. Fortunately at that moment the lugubrious barman arrived with their coffee and, unexpectedly, two slices of fruit cake. As he set the tray down, he mumbled, ‘Christmas special,’ before wandering off. The two girls looked at each other and did their best not to burst out laughing.

After a while, Julia tried again. ‘Surely you could have asked her when you were grown up?’

Holly tasted the coffee and found it very hot and remarkably good. ‘I know, and I should have done. Anyway, I kept putting off asking her and then, of course, she died and that was that. For all I knew, I’d lost both my parents.’ She took another sip of the hot coffee. ‘Now, I know I have.’

She picked up a piece of cake and studied it suspiciously. It was solid and heavy, a deep brown colour, and studded with black bits, presumably raisins. She risked a bite. Despite appearances, it was excellent, but it didn’t cheer her up.

Julia did her best to lighten the mood. ‘Do you think the landlord’s put the drugs in the coffee or the cake? Maybe I should wait until you’ve eaten yours before I have mine.’

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.

Holly pushed the key into the lock and twisted it. It turned remarkably easily and the hinges didn’t even squeak, so her father must have had an oil can, even if he didn’t have a paint brush. She pushed the door fully open and stood on the doorstep, looking inside. It was dark, damp and cold in the house and the air smelt musty. Together, they walked in and began to look around. The front door led straight into the kitchen. It was a large room with an old wood-burner set into a massive granite fireplace, with a neat stack of logs alongside it. It looked very clean and tidy and Holly found herself wondering if this was the work of her father, or if a helpful neighbour had tidied up after his death.

‘Lovely old table, Hol.’ Julia ran her hand across the smooth wooden top of a huge table that occupied the centre of the room. A dozen people would have no trouble sitting down to dinner around it. She went over to the front window and opened it, letting fresh air and more light flood in. Then she crossed to the window over the sink and opened that one as well, so as to give a through draught. They both looked out into the back garden that was bigger than they had imagined. There was parking for several cars and a long lawn, dotted with shrubs and trees, all enclosed by an ancient drystone wall. Even now, in midwinter, it looked charming.

They continued their tour of the house and Holly found it fascinating and not too emotional for her, right up to the moment they climbed the stairs and she found herself in her father’s bedroom. Beside his bed, in a silver frame, was a photo she recognised. Her mother had a copy underneath the sheet of glass covering her coffee table, along with other pictures of her daughter at different stages of her childhood right up to graduation day. The picture was of Holly and she knew it had been taken at her seventh birthday party. She was smiling at the camera, holding a dolly and looking very proud in her floral dress with ribbons in her hair. Then Holly noticed that this photo was not the same as the one in her mother’s house, because in this one there was a tall man beside her. He was slim, with light brown hair that was beginning to recede and he was holding her hand. His eyes were not on the camera, but on his daughter, and he was smiling every bit as proudly as she was.

This was the first image of her father Holly had seen for twenty-five years and, as she looked at it, so the floodgates very nearly broke once more and she found herself overwhelmed by memory after memory. Of course she remembered him. She remembered playing tennis with him in the back garden, splashing about at some beach or other with him while she tentatively learnt to swim, sitting on his knee while he read stories to her, and many more. Now, seeing his face, the memories all came flooding back. She sank down on the edge of the bed and tried to speak.

‘Jules, it’s him. That’s my dad.’ She found she couldn’t say anything else. She was determined not to break down and cry her eyes out again, but it was far from easy. She turned away and focused out of the window, across the garden to the old church. Beyond the church tower, the open moorland stretched upwards into the distance.

‘The post office sells milk.’ Julia turned on her heel and disappeared, leaving Holly to her thoughts. The significance of Julia’s words did not emerge for another ten minutes, when Holly heard the sound of Julia’s shoes on the stairs and found a cup of steaming hot tea being thrust into her hand. By this time she had regained some sort of normality. She returned her eyes to the room and gave Julia a weak smile.

‘Thanks, Jules. You’re a star.’

‘And, before you ask, I washed the mugs thoroughly before using them. All right?’ Holly nodded. Her love – Julia had been known to refer to it as a fixation – of cleanliness was well known to all her friends. The story of her being caught in flagrante, vacuuming the floor of her office, had long since become a part of the folklore of the company where she worked. That, and her addiction to expensive shoes.

‘Thanks Jules.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a sip of tea. ‘Mmh, that’s good.’ She looked up, still trying to come to terms with the emotions this place aroused in her. ‘It probably isn’t going to make any sense to you, but I realise I’ve spent twenty-five years of my life hating the man and now, suddenly, I remember how much I used to love him. He was my dad and I really, really loved him. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling. He went off and left us, after all, so he’s the bad guy in all this, but somehow I’m beginning to feel regret.’ She looked Julia in the eye. ‘Have I been unfair to him, Jules?’

‘You say he’s the bad guy, but he never did anything to harm you, did he?’ Holly could see that Julia was picking her words carefully. ‘I mean, did he at least pay maintenance, or whatever it’s called?’

Holly nodded. ‘As far as I know, money wasn’t the problem. He paid what he had to pay. And you’re right; he never did me any harm, unless you count just disappearing and never reappearing as doing harm. Thinking about him now brings it all back. I cried and cried and cried when he left.’ She rubbed her eyes with the back of a hand. ‘I don’t think I ever got over it really.’

‘It must have been awful for you, and don’t forget your mum. She must have been gutted when he went off, whatever the circumstances, so it’s inevitable that you should have grown up feeling the same way as her about him. Anyway, they’re both gone now, so there’s nothing more you can do. Maybe the solicitor will be able to shed some light on what happened.’

Holly arrived at the offices of Friar, Sutcliffe and Inglis a few minutes after four o’clock. Rather unwisely, she had taken a different road back from Brookford to Exeter and this had turned out to be even narrower and more tortuous than the route they had followed that morning. She left Julia in the car to sort out a parking ticket and ran the few hundred yards to the building where her father’s solicitor was housed. By the time she got there, she was rather regretting wearing her rather nice Alexander McQueen heels. A couple of times she almost turned her ankle over on the cobbles around Exeter’s old cathedral.

She was ushered into the presence of Mr Inglis, still desperately trying to cool down after the stress of the journey. He gave her a welcoming smile and waved her to a seat.

‘Miss Brice, how very good to meet you at last.’

‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I’m afraid I misjudged how long it would take me to get back here from Brookford.’

Mr Inglis waved away her apologies. ‘Devon roads can be a bit hard going, I’m afraid.’ He pointed to a folder on the desk before him. ‘I’m sorry it took so long to inform you of your father’s death. We had a bit of chasing around to do in order to find you. It would appear that all contact between you and him was severed many years ago.’

Holly nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Anyway, you’re here now and, as I said to you when we spoke on the telephone the other day, you are the main beneficiary of your father’s will. Would you like me to read it to you?’

Holly sat back and listened as the lawyer read the words written by her father. It was short and clear. The sum of £25,000 was left to Force Cancer Support Centre, £25,000 to a Mrs Diana Edworthy and the rest to Holly. When he reached the part where her father left everything else to his beloved and sorely missed daughter, she found herself wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes.

‘So you are now the owner of his house in Brookford, the contents of the house, garden and cellar, and the sum of £15,439.67 currently remaining in his bank account. We have to apply for probate, so I’m afraid that amount will be reduced in due course after payment of duties, taxes and my firm’s fees. However, more significant, from your point of view, is the fact that you are the sole beneficiary of a trust fund set up by your father. You may be interested to see the current state of the fund.’

He removed a sheet from the folder and passed it across the desk to her. She took it absently, still doing her best to control the emotion aroused by the words of his will. She glanced down at the figures and her eyes came to rest on the bottom line. It took a few moments for it to sink in and then her head jerked back up towards the solicitor, her mouth open in amazement. He was smiling indulgently.

‘A very useful legacy, wouldn’t you say?’

Holly nodded mutely and returned her eyes to the printout. The trust fund set up by her father for her benefit currently held a total of £2,238,366. She was not surprised to see the sheet of paper begin to shake. She lowered her hand until it was resting on her thigh, struggling to comprehend the enormity of this news and its implications for her whole life. The lawyer continued.

‘I will have to check the exact nature of the fund to see what the inheritance tax implications might be. I ran it across a colleague who has more experience of financial matters, and his initial reaction was that it looks pretty watertight. We will have to seek a ruling from the Revenue, so you had better be prepared to lose a proportion of this in tax.’ He gave her another smile. ‘It would still leave a tidy sum even if you do have a tax bill to pay.’

Holly blinked, set the paper down on the desktop, and took a deep breath. ‘But how on earth did he manage to save all that money? It’s a fortune.’

‘He told me he had a very successful company during his years in Australia. He sold up before coming back to the UK. I imagine this money is the proceeds of that sale.’

‘What sort of company, Mr Inglis?’ She gave him an apologetic look. ‘You see, I know next to nothing about him.’

‘I can imagine. Certainly, when he spoke of you, he was similarly ignorant of where you were and what you were doing. As far as I can remember, I believe he told me he was involved with the wine trade.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘I met him on a number of occasions so I had the opportunity to get to know him quite well.’ He caught Holly’s eye. ‘He was a fine man, your father.’

‘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 what 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.

It was immediately apparent that he knew his way around the house and that he instantly recognised it as his home. He set off on a tour of inspection, nostrils flared, that took him through every room downstairs. He hesitated before venturing upstairs, so Holly decided to try imposing a bit of discipline. As he placed a large paw on the first step, she put on her sternest voice and gave him his orders. ‘No, Stirling! Not upstairs!’ She was heartened, and surprised, to see him step back and turn away from the staircase. As her first experience of dog training, it was at least slightly more auspicious than the dog walking.

She placed his big wicker basket on the flagstones to one side of the fireplace, where she thought she could see marks on the floor made by a basket. No sooner was it down than the dog climbed into it and flopped down, his chin resting on the edge, his huge brown eyes trained on her every move. Feeling rather self-conscious, she set about emptying the bag of toys and filling his water bowl. She placed it on the floor near the back door and waved at him. ‘Water?’ He gave no sign of interest. She placed his empty food bowl beside it and that got him excited enough to sit upright but, once he had established that it was empty, he slumped back down again. She went over to the sink and washed her hands, still very apprehensive about her ability to take care of an animal that probably weighed at least half what she did.

She was just washing Mrs Edworthy’s teacup when her phone rang. It was Julia.

‘Hi, Jules, how’s things?’

‘I’m fine. Scott’s asked me to go to the opera with him tonight.’ Scott was Julia’s latest and very recent conquest. Holly had yet to meet him, but she definitely got the impression that her friend was rather keen on him.

‘The opera? That sounds exciting. What’re you going to see?’

‘La Traviata, the inside of a couple of glasses of champagne, and his bedroom ceiling hopefully. Not necessarily in that order. What about you?’

Holly proceeded to tell Julia all about her unexpected guest. If she had been expecting sympathy, she didn’t get it.

‘I knew you’d settle down with some big hunky male one of these days. Two legs, four legs, who cares?’

‘Somehow, I don’t think this particular relationship is going to stand the test of time.’

‘So what’s new, Miss Three-dates-and-you’re-out?’

‘I’m not quite that bad.’

‘Well, you try counting them.’ Julia then proceeded to reel off the last half dozen men Holly had been out with. Grudgingly, Holly had to admit that her friend might have a point. None of them had lasted more than a few dates before Holly had been taking giant steps in the opposite direction. She had often tried to work out just why she had this aversion to serious commitment. Somehow she had a feeling her mother and father’s split might have more than a little to do with it. That, and the fact that most of the boys she had dated up to now had turned out to be remarkably superficial and pretty stupid. She heard the triumph in Julia’s voice. ‘What is it about you and relationships?’

‘It’ll happen, Jules. I just wasn’t expecting the next one to be a big hairy thing with bad breath.’

‘Are you talking about that Irish boy, Finn or Findlay or whatever his name was?’

‘No, I’m talking about this hairy monster here.’ She turned towards the dog, or rather, to where the dog had been. The basket was empty. ‘Jules, I’d better call you back. Stirling’s disappeared. I’d just better go and see where he is. There’s a grand’s worth of shoes on the floor upstairs. If he decides to start chewing them, this relationship might just stop before it’s begun.’

She dropped the phone down on the table and hunted for the dog. It didn’t take long. She found him upstairs in her father’s bedroom. She was about to give him a rocket when she saw what he was doing. He had somehow found an old jumper belonging to her dad and had rolled himself into it. He was lying on it, his head on his paws, a woollen sleeve across his front legs, his eyes staring mournfully up at her. Immediately, her irritation left her and she knelt on the floor beside him.

‘You know who that belonged to, don’t you?’ The very tip of his tail began to wag uncertainly. ‘That was your dad’s jumper. My dad’s jumper.’ Her voice gave her away. She was feeling in her pocket for a tissue when she felt a touch on her leg. Stirling had crawled across the floor to her and laid a large, heavy paw on her thigh, as much as to say, ‘I understand, and I share your pain.’ She found herself stroking his head as she snuffled to herself. Somehow, the presence of the dog was very comforting. He had, after all, belonged to her dad. He had loved the young dog just as he had loved her, and he had left them both all alone. She hugged the dog to her and cried some more.

After a good while, she glanced out of the window. It was five o’clock and it was now pitch dark outside. Mrs Edworthy hadn’t specified when Stirling had last done his ‘business’, so, for safety’s sake, she decided to take him for a walk around the village. It was bitterly cold by now and she didn’t see another soul, unless you counted a black cat who took off like a thunderbolt as soon as it glimpsed the dog. Stirling gave token chase for a few feet and then returned to Holly’s side when she called. She was impressed.

Holly decided to go to the pub for a meal that night. Following Mrs Edworthy’s instructions, she fed the dog before she went out and made sure that his water bowl was full. She even left the television on for him. It was a documentary about Arctic wolves, which struck her as particularly appropriate.

The pub was called the Five Bells. It was set back from the village green and approached across a patio area that would most probably have been delightful on a warm summer evening. On a freezing midwinter evening on the other hand, it was far from inviting. Holly headed for the front door and pushed it open with her shoulder. A smell of wood smoke and blessed warmth greeted her. The ceilings were terribly low and she found herself ducking as she passed under some of the dark timber beams. There was a restaurant area to the left, while a sign to the right pointed to the bar. She chose the bar.

It proved to be a good choice. There was a fine fire blazing in a huge granite fireplace, even bigger than the one in her dad’s kitchen. The room was warm and cosy and there were a couple of spare tables. She dumped her jacket on the one nearest to the fire and went over to the bar. The carpet was predominantly red, with a complex pattern, no doubt designed to hide stains. The bar itself was made of the same dark wood as the beams and it looked as if it had been there for centuries. A row of taps and beer engines along the counter indicated how many beers they had on draught. Not really a beer drinker, Holly avoided the Dartmoor Jail Ale and the ice cold super strength lager and asked the barmaid for a glass of white wine and the menu.

She returned to her table and sat down. After a mouthful of wine, she raised her eyes and surveyed the other customers in there with her. A group of men drinking pints over at one end of the bar looked and sounded like locals, while three tables were occupied by couples, presumably out for a romantic evening. It was, after all, a Friday night. The landlord had made a lazy effort at celebrating Christmas by wrapping some tinsel round the horns of a stag, whose glass eyes stared out blindly from his moth-eaten face hanging over the middle of the fireplace. A token bunch of mistletoe suspended at the far end of the room was low enough to graze the heads of most people who walked past.

Holly checked the menu, looking for something light like Parma ham or some sushi, but most of the food on offer was traditional rural English; pies, pasties and sausage and mash. After a few minutes’ thought, she decided to go for River Teign mussels. After placing her order, she sat down to reflect on the day and wonder whether the dog was chewing up anything of value in her absence. She had had a long drive that morning and an emotionally wearing afternoon and, before long, she felt her eyelids droop. As her chin touched her chest, she jerked her head up guiltily and glanced round to see if she was being observed.

She was.

Standing at the bar was a tall figure she remembered. He detected recognition in her expression and crossed the room to greet her, ducking as he passed under the main beam.

‘Good evening. I didn’t know you were a local.’

Holly had a good memory for names. ‘Good evening, Mr Grosvenor. I wondered if I might meet you here.’ This sounded a bit too flirty, so she hastily qualified it. ‘I saw from your card that you live here in Brookford.’

‘It’s Justin, please. And I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’

‘My name’s Holly, Holly Brice. My father used to live here.’

Justin Grosvenor’s face broke into an even broader smile. ‘So you’re George’s daughter. Well I never. He talked an awful lot about you, you know?’

Holly nodded. ‘I’m beginning to get the picture. He was well-known in the village.’

‘Well-known and well-loved. He and my father were very close and he often came round to our house.’ Justin Grosvenor caught her eye. ‘He was very generous and always ready to help out. Why, there’s even the George Brice pavilion down at the cricket field. He put up the money to build that.’

‘There’s a cricket field? I only just learnt today that there are tennis courts. I wouldn’t have thought there’d be a flat enough field for cricket.’ Underneath the bland conversation, Holly found herself yet again having to come to terms with the fact that the awful man who had blighted her mother’s life as well as her own maybe wasn’t the foul monster she had been led to believe.

‘I’ve got the only court worth playing on up at my house. You’d be very welcome any time if you fancy a game. Mind you, if you’re even half as good as your father, the rest of us wouldn’t stand a chance.’ Holly could sense his eyes on her, checking her out. She was glad she had chosen to put on a smart top, recently purchased in the pre-Christmas sales. He was more casually dressed than the last time she had seen him, wearing a check shirt and heavy green jumper, a tweed outdoor jacket hanging over his arm. He looked more like a member of the landed gentry than a financial adviser. A very good-looking member of the landed gentry. In many ways he reminded her of a number of the men she had dated over the past few years; good-looking, well-heeled and well-spoken. Somehow she always seemed to gravitate towards alpha males. It was just a pity that none of them had turned out to be as alpha as she had hoped so far; indeed, some falling far short of the definition. What about Justin Grosvenor, she wondered to herself, but then noticed a heavy gold ring on his finger. She was unsurprised. Now that she had reached her thirties, she was increasingly finding that the good ones were already taken.

He glanced down at her half-empty glass. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘What is that you’re drinking? It looks a bit suspicious to me. Sure they haven’t watered it down?’

She grinned. ‘It’s rather nice, actually. It’s a Pinot Grigio; they’re always very pale. Anyway, thanks for the offer, but I’ve had a long drive and a pretty stressful day today, so I think I’ll go onto water when I finish this or I’ll fall over. And, besides, I’ve got a guest back at the house waiting for me and I’d better stay sober in case he causes trouble.’ Seeing the expression on Justin’s face, she explained about Stirling the dog. He, too, was a well-known local character.

‘You should have brought him. It’s funny; your dad always used to sit at this table, too, and Stirling would sprawl out in front of the fire. Next time, do bring him. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll just get you a glass of mineral water.’

‘Tap water’s fine. I imagine it’s rather good out here, not like the stuff that comes out of the taps where I live.’

While he went off to get her water, a girl arrived with her mussels in a big enamel pot. She lifted off the lid and placed it, upside down, on the table top alongside the pot to take the discarded shells. It was all steaming like a geyser. ‘Be careful. It’s all very hot.’ To Holly’s surprise, she also set down a bowl of chips. The mussels smelt wonderful and Holly realised she was feeling very hungry. The last food she had eaten had been an apple in the car on the way down the A303.

‘That smells terrific.’ Justin put a glass of water down beside her and commented. ‘I must buy you a drink more often. You’re very cheap to run.’

Holly shook her head. ‘You’d be wrong there. I have a very expensive habit when it comes to wine normally. Sancerre, Menetou Salon, Chablis; I love them all, and if they’re a premier cru or, even better, a grand cru, then I’m in heaven.’

Justin looked impressed. ‘That settles it then. You’ll have to come over to my place some time soon. I’ve got some excellent whites for you to taste. Mind you, your dad was the expert on wines. He and my father used to vie with each other to see who could come up with the best one every Christmas. He would have appreciated your shared interest.’

Holly nodded. There was so much she had to learn about her dad and it felt rather good to discover something they had in common. She wondered whether he had shared her interest in classic cars and found herself smiling; finding he had stashed an old Bentley in a garage somewhere would be nice.

Justin smiled back at her and then glanced at his watch. ‘Well, don’t let your mussels get cold. I must dash. I look forward to seeing you again, Holly.’

‘Me, too.’ He gave her a little wave, turned and left the bar.

Holly reached into the pot and pulled out the first mussel. It was excellent. As she ate, she found herself mulling over the events of the last week, from the unbelievable news that she was now a millionaire, to the unexpected discovery that she was responsible for a dog, and a particularly large one. She took another mouthful of wine and remembered what the solicitor had said the previous week. She had inherited her father’s house and the contents of his cellar. Her dad had been in the wine business and Justin had said that her father was a wine expert, so she really would have to seek out the cellar. Maybe there might be a few bottles of good Sancerre in there.

And what about Justin? Was he married or was he available? And, if he was available, was she interested? And, if so, would he last the test of time? Julia had been right about the way all Holly’s men tended to disappear after only a few dates. And she knew that this was down to her. Was it just because her standards were too high, or was there more to it than that? In a moment of honest self-analysis, she had to accept that the one thing lacking in all of the brief relationships she had had up till now had been love. With one or two, she had believed she had found it, but it hadn’t lasted. She found herself smiling weakly as she considered that the way she had hugged the Labrador on her father’s bedroom floor had been the closest she had come to a spontaneous expression of love for years. She found herself wondering, if Justin was available and if he became another of her men, how long would he last?

Having resisted the temptation to have a pudding, Holly returned home soon after finishing her meal, vaguely worried about what the dog might be doing in her absence. There were stars in the sky and it felt like the temperature had already dropped below freezing. She was grateful she didn’t need to drive anywhere for a few days. The Porsche was a lovely car, but on icy roads, she had long since discovered, it was lethal; slipping and sliding about at the lightest touch of the throttle.

She got a surprise as she reached Brook Cottage. It was in complete darkness. She had left the light on in the kitchen for Stirling and now it was off. For one irrational moment she wondered if the dog had found the light switch, but then common sense kicked in and she dismissed the idea. That left the possibility of a power cut or, more scarily, the notion that somebody had got into the house and had deliberately turned off the light. That was not a comfortable thought. She looked around and was disturbed to see lights in the windows of most of the houses, including her next door neighbour. This destroyed the power cut hypothesis and she was left with the notion of a break in or, more probably, some sort of failure of the aged electrics in Brook Cottage itself.

She went up to the door and put the key in the lock. No sooner had she done so, than she heard a volley of barking from inside. This, more than anything else, set her mind at rest. If the dog was barking, it meant he was guarding the house, and so it was fairly safe to say that there wasn’t an intruder in there with him. She turned the key and pushed the door open a crack. ‘Stirling, it’s me. Shut up.’ It probably wasn’t the sort of command that a dog training instructor would have recommended, but it did the job. The barking stopped immediately, to be replaced by little whining sounds. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling off her jacket as she did so. The dog stood up on his hind legs and welcomed her home, his nails no doubt inflicting further damage to her expensive belt. She closed the door behind her and stood there, taking stock, one hand ruffling the big dog’s ears as he continued to produce a series of joyful canine greetings.

‘So what’s happened to the electricity, Stirling?’ She pushed the dog gently to one side and felt her way across to the fireplace. She had a vague feeling that she had seen a box of matches on the mantelpiece. She reached up and ran her hand across the stone shelf, and it was with considerable relief that she located a matchbox. She brought it down, reached inside and felt a handful of matches. She pulled one out and struck it. In the light of the match she checked the contents of the box and her heart sank. Almost all the remaining matches had already been used. There was only one other good one in there. At that moment, the match in her hand burnt down to her fingers and she had to drop it. She and the dog were returned to pitch darkness.

‘Bugger.’

She sat down at the table, the last remaining match in one hand, the box of duds in the other. She racked her brains as to what to do next. She seemed to remember having seen a candle somewhere in the house, but she couldn’t be sure. If she used this last match and still couldn’t find one, then she would be in trouble. At least, she thought with a start, she did know where the main fuse box was. She had had to turn the electricity on and off a few times earlier on when she was persuading the central heating boiler to start working. She got up and felt her way across to the broom cupboard by the back door. Inside, the cover to the fuse box was still hanging open. Muttering a little prayer, she struck the last match and saw that the main power switch had tripped. She grabbed it and pushed it back up again. The lights came on for a split second and then there was a loud bang and the switch flicked off again. Another second later, she felt the match burning her fingers and she had to stamp it out.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.’

She felt her way back into the kitchen. There was no alternative; she had to ask for help. She opened the front door, feeling Stirling slip out past her, and she followed him out of the garden gate. She turned left and walked the few paces to her neighbour’s gate. As she opened it, so the dog pushed past her once again. The moon had not yet risen, but the starlight allowed her to make out the dog’s silhouette in the dark, standing by the door. She followed him over and groped with her fingers until she felt a bell. She pressed it and was rewarded by a ringing sound. A few seconds later, there was the sound of footsteps and the door opened, flooding her and the dog with welcome light.

‘Hello, Stirling. And how are you tonight?’ The man reached down and stroked the dog.

Holly watched Stirling rise up on his back legs to greet the man at the door. With the only light coming from behind him, it was impossible to see the man’s face. He was tall, with longish hair, but she took comfort from the fact that the dog knew and liked him. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m very sorry to bother you, but I’m from the house next door and the electric’s off. I was wondering if you’ve maybe got some matches and a candle I could borrow for tonight.’

‘Of course, do come in.’ The dog, interpreting the invitation as being to him, dropped down onto all fours again and trotted into the house. Holly followed him, hearing the door close behind her. Like with her dad’s house, the door led straight into the kitchen which, while a good bit more modern in layout, was the same size and shape as next door. When she and the dog reached the middle of the room she turned round to face the man and got a surprise.

‘Oh, it’s you.’

He was smiling. ‘I wondered if my new next door neighbour might turn out to be you when I saw there was a rather nice old Porsche in George’s garden. Funnily enough, I saw one of them not so long ago when I was out delivering firewood. Scraped the exhaust on some stones as I recall.’ He held out his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Jack Nelson. Are you George’s daughter by any chance?’

Holly nodded, still surprised at the coincidence that the man with the Land Rover and the trailer full of logs was her next door neighbour. Of course, she told herself, with only about fifty houses in the village, it wasn’t really that unlikely. She shook his hand. ‘Yes, that’s right, I’m Holly. I’m very pleased to meet you again. I’m just sorry to interrupt you. Were you in the middle of something?’ There was an open book, lying on the table.

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ He reached over, dropped a sheet of paper onto the book as a bookmark, and flicked it shut. ‘How amazing to meet you, Holly. George, your dad, spoke about you so often, I feel like I know you already.’

‘I’m afraid all I know about you is that you’ve got a Series 3 Land Rover and a trailer.’ She gave him a smile while surreptitiously giving him the once over. He looked as if he was maybe two or three years older than she was, probably in his mid-thirties. His curly black hair was still unruly and long, but he had evidently shaved in the last few days as the beard she had seen the previous week had been replaced by some rather enticing designer stubble. He was wearing what looked suspiciously like the same lumberjack shirt he had been wearing when she had last seen him. It did, however, look as if it had been recently washed, although his toes sticking out of holes in his woolly socks were a dubious fashion statement. But there was no doubt about it; a bit rough round the edges he might be, but he was a good-looking man. Holly found herself wondering what Julia would make of him up close.

‘Amazing… a woman who can tell a series 2 from a series 3 Land Rover. I don’t know what to say.’ There was genuine awe in his voice.

‘Everybody thinks I’m a bit weird, but I’m an engineer, you see, and I’ve got a thing about classic cars.’ She held up her fingers towards him and grinned. ‘Look, short fingernails.’

‘You sound like the person I need to sort out my old Land Rover. Mind you, the trailer wasn’t mine. I was doing a favour for a friend.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘Here, have a seat while I go and get Stirling one of his biscuits.’

Holly sat down as instructed. ‘You keep biscuits especially for the dog?’

‘We’re old pals, him and me. I would have taken him, after George… your father died, but my own dad’s been unwell, and I’ve been driving up and down to Bristol for the last few weeks.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s feeling better now.’ Holly was looking round the room. Although it was a kitchen, the whole place was packed with books. Every available surface appeared to be covered with books or papers and there were writing pads and pens strewn all around. His garden might be tidier than hers, but his kitchen certainly wasn’t.

‘He’s a lot better, thanks. Now, can I get you a coffee or a tea or maybe a glass of wine?’

Holly shook her head. ‘No, thank you, but I’m fine. It’s just that I haven’t got any electricity…’

‘Of course. Right, well I can certainly let you have some candles and matches. Would you like me to come over with you and see if there’s anything I can do?’ He caught her eye and hastily added, ‘I’m not an electrician or anything. I’m just trying to sound as if I can help, really, to be honest. In fact, with your mechanical knowledge, you’re probably better qualified than I am.’

She smiled at him, nodding towards his book. ‘Don’t worry. I can see you’re busy. A couple of candles would be great and maybe if you know of an electrician? My phone’s still working, so I can call from home.’

‘Best if I make the call. We have the good luck to have an electrician living here in Brookford, but he’s in great demand and he might not come out for somebody he doesn’t know. As it happens, he owes me a few favours so, let me call him.’ He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It probably won’t be till tomorrow now. Is that all right with you?’

Holly nodded. ‘Whenever he can.’ She listened as Jack Nelson made the call. The conversation only lasted a few seconds, but the upshot was that the electrician would come round first thing in the morning. Jack put the phone down and went off to find the candles. Curious, Holly took a quick look at the book on the table. It was a fairly hefty tome dealing with the history of the twentieth century, and it was very well thumbed. She looked up hastily as he returned with a packet of candles and a large household box of matches.

‘Here, you can hang onto these for future emergencies. I always keep a stock of them. Two winters ago we had a sort of mini tornado out here and a load of trees were blown down on the power lines. There was no electricity for almost a week and, since then, I always keep some in the house. By the way, your heating won’t work without electricity, but you should find a supply of logs in the store just outside your back door. Anyway, if it gets too cold or if you need anything at all, just come round. Your dad and I got on very well and next door is sort of a second home to me.’ He grinned. ‘And Stirling’s always been my best buddy.’ Holly and the dog stood up. For the first time she noticed that Stirling had positioned himself on the floor beside her. That felt rather good and she gave him a pat on the back. Jack accompanied her to the door, waved away her thanks and repeated to her not to hesitate if she needed anything.

Back home, she lit a few of the candles and set them on old jam jar lids around the kitchen, her mind still on her rather nice neighbour. Although different from her usual choice of man, there was something about him – and not just the fact that he kept a stock of matches and candles for damsels in distress. She opened the wood-burner and piled in some newspapers and kindling from the basket alongside the stove. She added some logs and, before long, had a good fire burning. The room rapidly started to warm up. She looked at her watch. It was only a quarter to ten, but she was beginning to feel really tired. She glanced down at the dog. ‘I suppose it would be too much to ask for me not to have to take you out for a walk?’

The dog’s word recognition skills extended only as far as the final word. He was jumping around in an instant.

‘Bugger.’

She pulled on her jacket, dug out a woolly hat and opened the door. In her pocket, she could feel the packet of little black bags Mrs Edworthy had given her for Stirling’s ‘offerings’, and rather hoped she wouldn’t need to use them. As it turned out, she needed two of them. Clearly, looking after a big, handsome pedigree dog wasn’t all glamour.

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