What Happens At Christmas... Page 11

  Holly did as instructed and found herself directed to the website of a large wine merchant in London. To her amazement, she found that this very same wine was on sale for over nine hundred pounds per case of six. She looked up in awe. This meant they were drinking a bottle of wine worth a hundred and fifty pounds. Mr Redgrave watched the expression on her face and then raised the stakes. He pointed across to the bottle of red wine she had brought up from the cellar. It was still standing where she had set it down on the Welsh dresser. He peered at the label.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that’s another bottle from the cellar?’ Holly nodded. ‘Just for your amusement, and mine, check the price of that one.’

  Holly typed the name of the wine into the search box. Within seconds she got a big surprise. Grand Vin de Chateau Latour 2009 was priced at seven hundred and seventy pounds. She squinted at the screen and got an even greater shock when she saw that this was the price for just one bottle. She looked up at Mr Redgrave in awe. A bottle of wine worth almost eight hundred pounds! He grinned at her.

  ‘Probably just as well you chose to open the cheaper one first. I’d hang onto the Chateau Latour if I were you. 2009 was a very good year and the price should continue to rise.’ He raised his glass once more. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Holly took another mouthful of the wine, feeling slightly debauched to be drinking such expensive wine. She also felt a bit silly. ‘Thank you so much for spelling that out to me, Mr Redgrave.’

  ‘Howard, please. Can’t say I’ve ever liked the name very much, but it’s better than the others.’ Seeing the expression on her face, he went on to explain. ‘I was christened Horatio Howard Trafalgar Redgrave for my sins. The old man had a thing about English naval heroes. My younger brother’s called Walter Raleigh Redgrave, poor sod. We all call him Wally. So, I’m stuck with Howard, but it could be worse.’ He took another sip of wine, an expression of rapture on his face. Holly found she was smiling across the table at him. He was good company and he had been a close friend of her father’s. She had an idea.

  ‘Well, now, Howard, can I offer you something to eat with this amazing wine? I was going to open a bag of crisps, but that’s probably not a good idea.’

  Howard shook his head. ‘Taste’s probably a bit too overpowering. Personally, I quite like olives with white wine, but each to his, or her, own.’

  Holly went to the fridge. ‘I’ve got some olives, and how about some Parma ham along with it? Maybe with some pecorino?’ She brought out the ham, cheese and olives and laid them on a wooden board. She cut a few slices of bread and soon they were nibbling the food and chatting. Howard Redgrave was a charming, cultured man and very bright, with a fine sense of humour. He told her he was almost ten years older than her father, which would make him seventy, but he was still very sprightly.

  He had known her father very well and he was able to fill Holly in on his time in Australia, at least as far as her dad’s work was concerned. ‘He got involved in the wine business. He was an engineer, but I imagine you know that already. He was one of the first people to advocate using stainless steel vats and he told me he had a few patents in his name. But he soon moved on from the mechanics of winemaking to selling the stuff. He started by importing European wines into Australia and then, as Australian wines became more popular, he started exporting them to Europe and beyond. He sold his company six, maybe seven years ago, just before he came back here. As far as I’m aware, the company’s still doing well. GWB’s the name.’

  George William Brice. Holly resolved to check it on the internet. By the time they had finished the bottle of wine, Holly knew her father and his friend a lot better, although she was no closer to knowing why her father and her mother had split up. At nine o’clock, Howard glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘That was delightful, Holly, absolutely delightful. Now, I wonder if I might trouble you to let me use your telephone. I wasn’t expecting to drink half a bottle of wine so I’ll get somebody to come and pick me up.’

  Holly handed him the phone. ‘I’ve got to take Stirling out for a walk now anyway.’

  ‘Then we can walk together, my dear.’ Howard dialled a number. He was brief and to the point. ‘Evening, Geoffrey. Could you come and pick me up from the green at Brookford, please? Ten minutes. Thank you.’ Clearly, the taxi firm knew him well. He put the phone down and tapped the envelope on the table. ‘And I’m counting on you for Saturday. You will come, now, won’t you?’

  Holly nodded and then a thought occurred to her. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten, Howard. My best friend, Julia, is coming to stay on Friday. She’ll be here on Saturday night. I’d really better stay with her.’

  ‘Is she anything like as ravishing as you are?’

  Holly had never been called ravishing before. ‘I’m sure you’ll find she’s far prettier than me.’

  Howard gave her a grin. ‘I find that hard to believe. And you absolutely must bring her. The more the merrier.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, if that isn’t going to cause problems for you. How many people are you expecting?’

  ‘I’m not totally sure. Somewhere in the region of a hundred, maybe a few more.’ Seeing Holly’s expression he smiled. ‘Anyway, that’s the party sorted out. Now, I have to repay tonight’s hospitality. Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, but surely you’ll be too busy getting ready for your party.’

  ‘No, no no. I’ve got people for that. How about I send a car for you at twelve. That way we can have a glass of fizz and I’ll give you the guided tour first. All right?’

  Holly, Howard and the dog walked up the lane to the green together. She slipped her hand through his arm and found she really liked this very young at heart septuagenarian. As they reached the green, Howard’s car arrived. Holly stopped dead in awe and turned towards the old man.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘If you think it’s an old Rolls Royce, you would be right.’

  ‘I was actually thinking it looks like a pre-war Rolls Royce Phantom. I’ve only ever seen one of those and that was at a classic car auction. I can’t remember how much it went for, but it was lots.’

  ‘It is indeed a Phantom, built in 1934. Fancy you recognising it! How remarkable. Holly Brice, you’re a girl of many parts. A demain.’ He leant forward and she kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Excellent.’ He climbed into the magnificent old car and Holly stood in silent admiration as it pulled away. She looked down at the dog.

  ‘That, Stirling, is the way to travel.’

  Day Five

  Tuesday

  Next morning, after a long walk on the moor with Stirling, it was full daylight by the time they came back down the path by the churchyard. The sky was clear, but clouds were building on the horizon and there was a bitterly cold wind blowing in from the north. Sight of the church reminded Holly of something she had been meaning to do for some days now. At the end of the wall was the old gate into the lychgate to the churchyard, sheltered underneath a pitched roof. She pushed it open and walked up the narrow path towards the church, the dog trotting happily at her side. Ahead of her was the yew tree mentioned by Donny the postmaster. It was unmistakable, even to a city dweller like herself. It was as high as the Christmas tree at the Castle and the width of an average house. It had no doubt been there for centuries.

  She walked past the tree and immediately saw the row of new grave stones, at the end of which was a plain wooden marker. She stopped in front of it and looked down bleakly at her father’s last resting place. The sign read simply, George William Brice 1955-2015. There was nothing else on the marker, but Holly was surprised to see a fresh bunch of lilies in a pot in front of it. She glanced around. Very few other graves had flowers to be seen. One or two had old wreaths lying beside them, but his was the only one with flowers clearly less than a few days old. It felt very good to know that he was still remembered. Holly crouched down and reached out her hand until it rested on the sign. She wasn’t a religious per
son, but she whispered a little prayer under her breath all the same. Here he was – her father.

  She crouched there for some minutes until she felt the dog’s nose nudging her side. She opened her eyes and turned towards him, suddenly conscious that her face was wet with tears. She stared into the Labrador’s brown eyes and reached out to stroke his head.

  ‘He’s here, Stirling. He’s here.’ A wave of emotion crashed over her as she remembered how deeply she had loved him all those years ago and how, here in his home village, she was beginning to know and love him all over again. If only she had been able to see him and talk to him before his death, there was so much she could have heard from him and so much she could have told him about her life. She sobbed out loud and even the comforting presence of the dog couldn’t make her stop.

  Finally, after a good few minutes, she was disturbed by the sound of an engine. She pulled herself to her feet and did her best to dry her eyes, as a gardener approached with a mower. He paused as he reached her and grunted a greeting. Holly gave him a little smile. ‘Good morning, I don’t suppose you’ve any idea who put the lilies on my father’s grave by any chance?’ Holly realised as she said it that it was probably a silly question. After all, there were scores of graves in the churchyard. To her surprise, he released his hands from the mower and the engine spluttered and died.

  ‘Your father?’ Holly nodded. The man’s weather-beaten face split into a smile. ‘So you’re George’s daughter, are you? I’d heard you were in the village.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. My name’s Cookson, Bob Cookson. I farm around here and some years ago I made the mistake of volunteering to cut the grass in the churchyard from time to time. It shouldn’t need cutting now in December, but it’s been a funny autumn. I thought I’d give it a final trim before the snow comes.’

  ‘Snow?’ Holly shook his hand.

  ‘That’s what they’re saying on the TV this morning.’

  ‘And you believe them? A white Christmas?’ She gave him a smile. ‘Is there any old country lore to support this? You know, sheep lying on their sides or crows flying backwards.’

  He smiled back. ‘I don’t know if it’s country lore, but my dodgy back’s been playing up this morning. You never know, they might be right. I’m going to bring my cattle down from the moor this afternoon just to be on the safe side.’ He remembered her original question. ‘The flowers on your dad’s grave? I couldn’t say, I’m afraid. Could be anybody; he was well-loved around here.’ His smile broadened. ‘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 10th 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, lov
ely 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. Unable to separate from her a second time, he broke the news to his wife that he was leaving and he followed Lynda to Australia.