by T A Williams
Amanda shook her head. ‘I’ll think about it, but I probably won’t go. I might meet my husband and that could be so awkward, especially with all the village gossips listening in. Anyway, thanks for listening. It’s been good to talk. Your dad was a great listener, too, you know. It must be in your genes.’
Justin had said the same thing the previous evening. Yet again, Holly was struck by the similarities between her father and herself. ‘Did you know him well?’
‘He and Justin’s father were great friends and we often joined them for lunch or dinner. Yes, I knew him well and I liked him a lot.’
Holly had a thought. ‘Was it you by any chance who put the lilies on his grave?’
Amanda shook her head. ‘No, that was Susan. I’m doing the flowers next week. I’m going to give him roses.’
Holly raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re taking it in turns?’
Amanda nodded. ‘There are a few of us. We thought it would be nice if we did something to remember him. Your dad was awfully kind and generous; I’m sure you’ve been told that already.’ Seeing the expression on Holly’s face, she laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. ‘He really was a lovely man, you know.’
As Holly walked back to Brook Cottage, she reflected on what Amanda had said about her father. So he had been a good listener. Certainly today she had done a fair bit of listening herself; first to Justin and then to his estranged wife. Maybe, she thought with a wry smile, she should consider giving up engineering and becoming a marriage guidance counsellor. But at least there was no doubt about the fact that she was getting more and more involved with the people of the village.
Stirling was very pleased to see her, particularly when Holly prepared his lunch and gave it to him. Holly’s attempts at decoration had definitely given the place more of a Christmassy feel, although she fully intended taking the farmer up on his offer of some more greenery. More importantly, Stirling appeared to have accepted the presence of a tree in his home territory without feeling the need to pee on it. Holly gave a little sigh of relief. Although she still had a lot to learn about dogs, she had already worked out that he liked trees.
The dog drank noisily out of his water bowl and then trotted over to the back door, indicating with his paw that he would like to go out. Holly followed him out into the garden and waited as he did a leisurely circuit of the trees and bushes, cocking his leg at strategic points along the way. While he was doing his tour of inspection, she wiped a few dead leaves off the Porsche and straightened a wing mirror. Satisfied, she decided a walk would be a very good thing.
She changed into jeans and boots and the two of them went for a long walk, ending up at Bob Cookson’s farm. He loaded her down with holly and ivy and insisted upon giving her a big bunch of mistletoe as well. There was a strange sunset that day. The grey sky had cleared slightly and the solid cloud cover was starting to break up. As the sun dropped out of sight, it reflected up onto the underside of the clouds, turning them orange and yellow. The orange glow reflected in Stirling’s eyes, giving him a supernatural look, and memories of the Hound of the Baskervilles came to mind. She half expected to hear a distant howl drifting across the moors. Instead, all she heard was the usual evening cacophony from the rookery behind the church, as the birds settled down for the night, and a few muted clucking noises from the ducks as the dog padded past.
Back home, she set about adding the finishing touches to the Christmas decorations. By six o’clock she finally pronounced herself satisfied with the result. She had even managed to attach a few bows to Stirling’s basket, but she had few illusions as to how long they might last if he decided to investigate them. Finally, she hung the big bunch of mistletoe from the main beam in the middle of the room.
She made herself a cup of tea and went through to the lounge. There was an open fireplace there that she had never used. The fireplace itself was massive, like the one in the kitchen, with a heavy granite mantelpiece supported on stone pillars. In the middle of the hearth was a smoke-blackened metal fire basket. She decided to try it out, in preparation for the arrival of Julia and her boyfriend tomorrow. She crumpled up some old newspaper, added some kindling from a wicker basket to one side of the fireplace, and balanced a couple of small logs on top. She took one of the matches Jack had given her that first night and set it alight. The chimney drew very well and within a few minutes she had a fine fire burning in the grate, hissing and crackling as the dry wood caught. The noise brought Stirling through and he settled himself alongside the sofa, his nose towards the flames.
Holly looked round, conscious that she still hadn’t finished clearing her father’s things in the study upstairs. The lounge and the rest of the downstairs were fairly ordered now, with a pile for the charity shop heaped behind the sofa, but there was still a lot of clutter upstairs. Before starting on this, however, she turned her attention to her father’s last remaining letter in the box sitting on the coffee table. She pulled out the envelope and settled down on the sofa, her feet resting on the dog. He grunted and stretched but made no objection.
It felt strange to realise that her father had only written this letter little more than a couple of months before. He had quite probably sat in this same room, on this same sofa, writing to the daughter he no longer knew. She took a deep breath, opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. As she read it through, she found she could now picture him so much more graphically than before. Since seeing the photos Howard had shown her and finding occasional pictures of him here in the house, she at last had an accurate image of his face. From things people had said and from the very contents of his house, she knew him so much better. And, she reflected with a wry smile, the large dog who was acting as a footstool for her at the moment was her closest remaining contact with him.
She read the letter twice. It had been handwritten, as had all the others, but this time his handwriting was noticeably weaker. It was dated only a matter of weeks before his death so he can’t in fact have been writing it here. He would most likely already have been in Exeter, in a hospital bed. It wasn’t a long letter and it didn’t dwell upon his forthcoming death. In many ways it was positive, rather than negative. He told her how well he was being looked after, how many friends had made the journey into Exeter to see him, and he wished her health and happiness for the future. The final lines were the ones that brought the tears to her eyes once more.
I often wonder if you will ever read these letters. If you do, my dearest Holly, I hope you may be able to find it in your heart to forgive me for what I have done. I did what I did for love, but I realise now just how selfish my love made me. I am very sorry. So very sorry.
Your ever loving father
George
Holly slumped over on her side, cradling her head in her hands, and wept. A few seconds later she felt a movement and then Stirling was up on the sofa beside her. He flopped down and rested his head on her shoulder, the warmth of his body reaching through her jumper. Gradually she regained control of her emotions and turned her head towards him. The big brown eyes met hers, the flickering flames from the fireplace reflecting back at her. He studied her gravely until she stopped crying. Only then did he decide his job was done and he let his head subside onto his front paws and he stretched, pressing his back legs against hers as he did so.
‘Stirling, you are the very best dog in the world.’
He grunted contentedly. He already knew that.
Some time later, the doorbell rang. She got up from the sofa, shooing the dog down onto the floor as she did so. She went through to the kitchen, desperately trying to tidy her rumpled clothes and tousled hair, realising that, once again, she had a jumper that smelt of dog. She opened the door to find Jack with a big bouquet of flowers.
‘They were delivered earlier, but you were out, so they brought them round to my house, but then I had to play squash, so I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get them to you.’ He gave her a smile. ‘Sorry, they’re not from me. Must be from another admirer.’ As
he handed the flowers to her, he must have noticed her red-rimmed eyes. His expression immediately changed to one of concern. ‘Are you all right? You look awful.’ He reached down to scratch Stirling’s ears as the big dog realised who was at the door and came to say hello.
‘Awful? You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself. Come on in.’
‘I’d better not. Shouldn’t you be phoning your admirer to thank him for the flowers?’ He was smiling, but she could see he wasn’t fully at his ease. She rather liked that.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him in, closing the door behind her. ‘Come in. I need to talk to somebody, and you’ll do.’
‘Put like that, I don’t have much choice, do I?’
She went over to the fridge and brought out a bottle of Prosecco. ‘Drink?’ She glanced back over her shoulder to where he and the dog were wrestling on the floor. He looked up.
‘Only if you’re drinking.’
‘I most definitely am.’ Holly washed the dog smell off her hands, opened the bottle and filled two glasses. By this time, Jack had extricated himself from the dog and was washing his own hands at the sink. He came back over to her.
‘When I used the word awful, I was referring to your mood. You’re as alluring as ever, but you look sad. Want to talk about it?’ Just for a moment, he rested his hand on her shoulder.
Holly nodded, loving the feel of him against her. ‘I’ve lit the fire in the other room. Want to come through?’
They went into the lounge and Holly added a log to the fire. The red embers were throwing out a lot of heat and she peeled off her jumper before sitting on the sofa. The dog came through with them, took a look at the sofa, decided against it and flopped onto the floor in front of the fire. Although there was space alongside Holly, Jack settled into an old leather armchair directly opposite her. He picked up his glass. ‘You’ve heard the world’s running out of Prosecco?’
Holly managed a smile and raised her hand. ‘Guilty as charged. I was at Melissa and Bertie’s house for drinks today and I started on the Prosecco there.’ She waved her glass in his direction and took a mouthful. It was cold, it was fizzy and it was refreshing. She picked up her father’s letter and handed it across to Jack. ‘Written only a week or so before he died.’
She sat and stared into the fire as he read her father’s letter. After a few minutes, he folded it and handed it back to her. ‘So, do you?’ His voice was low.
‘Do I what?’
‘Do you forgive him?’
‘Of course I do, Jack. He was my dad.’ She took another sip of wine.
‘He’d be very glad to hear you say that.’ There was emotion in his voice too, now. She kept forgetting that they had been close friends. ‘It’s just such a shame he wasn’t able to hear it during his lifetime.’
Holly dropped her head. ‘I know, Jack. I know.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes before he decided to change the subject. ‘I like the Christmas decorations. Now all you need is Santa Claus and a stocking full of presents.’
Holly looked up and smiled. ‘I’m buying myself a present tomorrow. I have to go into Exeter to pick Julia up. You know, my raven-haired lesbian lover? Well, it appears that Howard’s Christmas Ball necessitates a long dress, so that’s what I’ll be getting for Christmas.’ She glanced across at him. ‘Have you got a dinner jacket?’
He nodded. ‘A tux is essential in Hollywood. There’s a black tie event almost every week if you want to get involved in that sort of thing. Yes, I’ve got one, though I don’t use it very often here in Devon.’ A thought struck him. ‘By the way, how are you getting to the ball? The traditional pumpkin coach pulled by magic mice, or something more prosaic?’
‘It depends whether you consider an eighty-year-old Rolls Royce to be prosaic. It certainly beats the crap out of a pumpkin as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Howard’s sending the Roller, eh? You’ve definitely made a conquest there. So, the bouquet of flowers is from him, maybe?’ Holly felt sure she could detect more than casual interest behind the question, even if he was doing his best to sound nonchalant. She found herself grinning.
‘No, they’re from Justin.’ She was delighted to notice a flicker of something cross his face. Could it maybe even be jealousy, she asked herself? She savoured the moment for a few seconds before owning up. ‘You may not realise it, but you are currently in the presence of the self-appointed marriage guidance counsellor to the inhabitants of Brookford.’
He wasn’t even pretending to look nonchalant now. ‘You’re what?’
‘Are you a betting man, Jack Nelson?’
‘I’ve been known to play the occasional game of poker.’ He caught her eye. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m prepared to bet that Justin and his wife will be back together again before too long. What odds would you give me on that happening?’
‘I won’t place any bets – but if you can make that happen, there’ll be a lot of people in the village who’ll owe you, starting with Justin.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Definitely not. We marriage guidance professionals have our code of ethics, you know.’ She finished her wine. ‘There’s more left in the bottle. Hang on and I’ll go and get it.’
Jack stood up. ‘Not for me, thanks. I’ve got to get back to the work in progress.’
Holly smiled at him. ‘Of course, the screenplay. So, how did things work out for your slutty heroine? Has she been suitably punished for sleeping with the wrong guy?’
‘I’ve been a bit stuck on that one, but an idea’s just come to me now. Prince Charming thinks she slept with the bad guy because he saw them together, but it turns out she didn’t after all. So all’s well and the good guy still loves her.’
‘He does?’ Now it was her turn to try, and fail, to sound nonchalant.
‘Um, yes, probably. We’ll have to see how the plot develops.’
Holly followed him into the kitchen. He walked across to the room, avoiding the mistletoe en route. But, to her surprise, before he got to the door, he stopped and turned back, a nervous smile on his face. ‘Thanks for the wine. And I didn’t mean you looked awful’
She smiled back. ‘I know.’
‘Have I told you you’re gorgeous?’ There was something more than humour in his voice now. She felt a tightening in her throat.
‘Several times, but please don’t stop.’ She was still doing her best to sound casual.
‘Holly…’ He stopped, searching for words. ‘Holly, you probably think I’m mad.’
‘Well, anybody who jumps into freezing water for fun can’t be totally sane.’ She kept it light, sensing that he was trying to find the courage to tell her something.
He managed a little smile. ‘I really do think you’re gorgeous. I think you’re bright, you’re fun, you’re stunningly different from any other woman I’ve ever met, and you’re very, very desirable.’ Now it was her turn to feel self-conscious. He cleared his throat and reached out to take both her hands in his. She felt him move closer to her and raised her face towards him, her eyes closing in anticipation of his kiss. She felt his lips barely brush against hers and then he pulled back. She opened her eyes and saw the conflict on his face.
‘That was nice, Jack.’ Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
‘Oh Holly, if you only knew…’
‘If I knew what, Jack?’
‘If you knew about me.’ In response to her expression, he managed a little smile. ‘It’s all right; I’m not an escaped convict or anything, but there’s stuff I’ve got to tell you.’
‘No time like the present.’ She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.
There was a long pause and then he let go of her hands. ‘I’m sorry, Holly, but I’m going to need some time. I will tell you, I promise; I just can’t find the words right now.’ His voice was half-choked with emotion. He turned and headed for the door. He seemed to be in a hurry to get out. She took a deep breath
and did her best to sound normal.
‘Take your time, Jack. I’ll be here.’ She smiled at him as he turned back towards her, his hand on the door handle. ‘And thanks for bringing the bouquet of flowers.’
He managed a weak grin this time. ‘Just an old-fashioned romantic, that’s me.’ And he left, closing the door behind him. Holly stood there for a good while, staring at the back of the door, wondering what he was trying to find the courage to tell her. She thought back to the moment his lips had, all too briefly, touched hers and she sighed. She had never, ever, felt like this before about any man. It was disconcerting, yet immensely exciting. That slightest hint of a kiss had been magic. She reached down with her right hand and gripped her pulse. Her heart was racing. Was this what love felt like? She muttered a silent prayer that Jack would find the words that were eluding him and turned her attention to the bouquet.
The flowers were, as she had thought, from Justin. Attached to the cellophane bag was a tiny envelope. Inside was a card with a simple message. With warmest thanks for being a shoulder to cry on. Justin. Holly smiled and looked down at the dog.
‘Don’t you start getting ideas. I’m not sending you flowers, even if you are a damn good listener.’ She considered pouring herself a drop more Prosecco, but decided against it. She found an old cork and stuffed it into the bottle as its own cork had swollen up. Then she replaced it in the fridge and addressed the dog again. ‘But I will give you your food.’ The dog suddenly woke up. The ‘F’ word was as important in his vocabulary as the ‘W’ word.
After feeding the dog and then herself, Holly decided she had better try to do a bit more tidying upstairs. She would wait until the morning to prepare her double bed for Julia and Scott, so she concentrated on the third bedroom that her dad had used as a study. It had been here that she had found the box full of letters. She started sifting through the stuff on the floor on the far side of the room but within five minutes, she stopped dead. To her considerable surprise, underneath a pair of old curtains and some files, there were no fewer than three cardboard boxes, all marked with her name. Taking a paperknife off his desk, she slit the tape on the top one and peered inside. To her amazement, it was full of neatly wrapped Christmas presents. Each present was marked with a little Christmas card, her name, and a year. The one in her hand was 1989, the one directly below it, 1990.