Once Upon A Christmas. Jennifer Joyce

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