me. It’s just that this is it. This is the place I remember. Look – the ducks…’
Sure enough, three mallard ducks were sitting on the bank of the stream. Even when Julia took a few steps towards them, they didn’t appear too worried. The two male ducks did a bit of quacking and one got up, but they didn’t seem in any hurry to move. Holly stood looking at them for several minutes while she composed herself. Finally, she turned to Julia. ‘Sorry, Jules, I really don’t know why I’m being so emotional.’
Julia grabbed her by the arm and turned her so they were looking directly at each other. ‘Holly, he was your dad. It’s perfectly normal to be emotional.’ Holly nodded mutely. ‘In fact, it would be strange if you weren’t.’
Holly was beginning to realise by this time just why the tears had started. The sight of the house had awakened not only memories of summer holidays as a little girl, but also memories of her father. As she had leant against the stone wall, trying to stop crying, she had suddenly remembered something. Into her mind had come an image of a little blonde-haired girl balancing on top of the stone wall, while her father stood with outstretched arms, ready to catch her if she fell and her mother looked on anxiously from behind. Holly was laughing, he was smiling, enjoying a moment together that would remain with them for the rest of their lives. As the tears poured down Holly’s cheeks, she realised she had loved her father very dearly back then. Very dearly indeed.
Seeing her looking more composed, Julia pointed at the garden gate. ‘Now, come on, let’s check out the house. It looks absolutely sweet and ever so ancient.’
Brook Cottage occupied one half of a long stone building. The roof was slate and the walls were granite, half covered by creepers and ivy. There was a small garden in front of the house and a driveway that led down the side, presumably to a parking area or garage and a back garden. They walked across to the front door. Above it, the date 1756 had been carved into the stone lintel. Like the window frames, the door badly needed a coat of paint, but it looked pretty solid all the same. A waist-high stone wall divided the rather overgrown garden from next door’s much tidier one. That house looked very similar, but in much better condition, with fresh paintwork. There were lace curtains on the neighbours’ windows and no sign of the occupants.
Holly pushed the key into the lock and twisted it. It turned remarkably easily and the hinges didn’t even squeak, so her father must have had an oil can, even if he didn’t have a paint brush. She pushed the door fully open and stood on the doorstep, looking inside. It was dark, damp and cold in the house and the air smelt musty. Together, they walked in and began to look around. The front door led straight into the kitchen. It was a large room with an old wood-burner set into a massive granite fireplace, with a neat stack of logs alongside it. It looked very clean and tidy and Holly found herself wondering if this was the work of her father, or if a helpful neighbour had tidied up after his death.
‘Lovely old table, Hol.’ Julia ran her hand across the smooth wooden top of a huge table that occupied the centre of the room. A dozen people would have no trouble sitting down to dinner around it. She went over to the front window and opened it, letting fresh air and more light flood in. Then she crossed to the window over the sink and opened that one as well, so as to give a through draught. They both looked out into the back garden that was bigger than they had imagined. There was parking for several cars and a long lawn, dotted with shrubs and trees, all enclosed by an ancient drystone wall. Even now, in midwinter, it looked charming.
They continued their tour of the house and Holly found it fascinating and not too emotional for her, right up to the moment they climbed the stairs and she found herself in her father’s bedroom. Beside his bed, in a silver frame, was a photo she recognised. Her mother had a copy underneath the sheet of glass covering her coffee table, along with other pictures of her daughter at different stages of her childhood right up to graduation day. The picture was of Holly and she knew it had been taken at her seventh birthday party. She was smiling at the camera, holding a dolly and looking very proud in her floral dress with ribbons in her hair. Then Holly noticed that this photo was not the same as the one in her mother’s house, because in this one there was a tall man beside her. He was slim, with light brown hair that was beginning to recede and he was holding her hand. His eyes were not on the camera, but on his daughter, and he was smiling every bit as proudly as she was.
This was the first image of her father Holly had seen for twenty-five years and, as she looked at it, so the floodgates very nearly broke once more and she found herself overwhelmed by memory after memory. Of course she remembered him. She remembered playing tennis with him in the back garden, splashing about at some beach or other with him while she tentatively learnt to swim, sitting on his knee while he read stories to her, and many more. Now, seeing his face, the memories all came flooding back. She sank down on the edge of the bed and tried to speak.
‘Jules, it’s him. That’s my dad.’ She found she couldn’t say anything else. She was determined not to break down and cry her eyes out again, but it was far from easy. She turned away and focused out of the window, across the garden to the old church. Beyond the church tower, the open moorland stretched upwards into the distance.
‘The post office sells milk.’ Julia turned on her heel and disappeared, leaving Holly to her thoughts. The significance of Julia’s words did not emerge for another ten minutes, when Holly heard the sound of Julia’s shoes on the stairs and found a cup of steaming hot tea being thrust into her hand. By this time she had regained some sort of normality. She returned her eyes to the room and gave Julia a weak smile.
‘Thanks, Jules. You’re a star.’
‘And, before you ask, I washed the mugs thoroughly before using them. All right?’ Holly nodded. Her love – Julia had been known to refer to it as a fixation – of cleanliness was well known to all her friends. The story of her being caught in flagrante, vacuuming the floor of her office, had long since become a part of the folklore of the company where she worked. That, and her addiction to expensive shoes.
‘Thanks Jules.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a sip of tea. ‘Mmh, that’s good.’ She looked up, still trying to come to terms with the emotions this place aroused in her. ‘It probably isn’t going to make any sense to you, but I realise I’ve spent twenty-five years of my life hating the man and now, suddenly, I remember how much I used to love him. He was my dad and I really, really loved him. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling. He went off and left us, after all, so he’s the bad guy in all this, but somehow I’m beginning to feel regret.’ She looked Julia in the eye. ‘Have I been unfair to him, Jules?’
‘You say he’s the bad guy, but he never did anything to harm you, did he?’ Holly could see that Julia was picking her words carefully. ‘I mean, did he at least pay maintenance, or whatever it’s called?’
Holly nodded. ‘As far as I know, money wasn’t the problem. He paid what he had to pay. And you’re right; he never did me any harm, unless you count just disappearing and never reappearing as doing harm. Thinking about him now brings it all back. I cried and cried and cried when he left.’ She rubbed her eyes with the back of a hand. ‘I don’t think I ever got over it really.’
‘It must have been awful for you, and don’t forget your mum. She must have been gutted when he went off, whatever the circumstances, so it’s inevitable that you should have grown up feeling the same way as her about him. Anyway, they’re both gone now, so there’s nothing more you can do. Maybe the solicitor will be able to shed some light on what happened.’
Holly arrived at the offices of Friar, Sutcliffe and Inglis a few minutes after four o’clock. Rather unwisely, she had taken a different road back from Brookford to Exeter and this had turned out to be even narrower and more tortuous than the route they had followed that morning. She left Julia in the car to sort out a parking ticket and ran the few hundred yards to the building where her father’s solicitor was housed. By the time she got there, she was rather regretting wearing her rather nice Alexander McQueen heels. A couple of times she almost turned her ankle over on the cobbles around Exeter’s old cathedral.
She was ushered into the presence of Mr Inglis, still desperately trying to cool down