Once Upon A Christmas. Jennifer Joyce

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