Once Upon A Christmas. Jennifer Joyce

– 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 10^th 2000; a week before her eighteenth birthday. It started as ever with the words My Dearest Holly, but they were followed by a first paragraph that soon had her sitting bolt upright as she read what he had to say.

       Now that you have reached the age of majority, it’s time for you to know the full circumstances surrounding our separation. It’s a story that does me no credit. There can be no doubt that I behaved appallingly towards your mother and, by extension, to you, Holly. All I can do is to tell you the truth of what happened in the hope that, even if you cannot forgive me, you will at least understand me.

      The telephone in the kitchen started ringing, so she reluctantly set down the letter and went through to answer it.

      ‘Yes, hello.’

      ‘Is that Holly Brice?’ It was a woman’s voice, but unfamiliar to her.

      ‘Yes. Can I help?’

      ‘Holly my dear, my name’s Melissa Michelmore. I met you the other night in the Five Bells. My husband was celebrating his retirement… His name’s Bertie.’

      ‘Of course. I remember. He very kindly gave me a glass of champagne.’ So Marge Simpson was in fact called Melissa.

      ‘I