The Holiday Home. Fern Britton
been catching up with Greg. He poured them each a large glass of Scotch and motioned for Greg to sit in one of the two armchairs.
‘So, my boy. The business is looking in excellent shape.’
Greg stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Yes, we’ve had a good first half of the year and the Japanese are meeting the delivery dates on the new apps, which I believe will increase our turnover significantly over the next twenty-four months.’
They discussed markets, initiatives and overheads for a while, and then Henry said, ‘You know, my old father wouldn’t recognise the company now. He would have hated all these virtual games. His mantra was always “Nothing can beat the fun—”’
Greg finished it off for him: ‘“—of a family sitting round the table playing Ludo.”’
Henry looked at him in surprise. ‘Have I mentioned that before?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Well, you’ve been with the company … ooh, how many years is it?’
‘Coming up for twenty-two.’
‘Twenty-two years. My goodness! And look at you now: managing director.’
Every year Greg and Henry had this discussion. Greg had joined the company as a graduate trainee. His excellent degree in business and marketing meant he’d been marked out as management potential, but he’d had the nous to ingratiate himself with his colleagues and bosses, getting noticed as the lad who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty sweeping the shop floor or making a good impression on visiting VIPs. Within a few months, Henry had begun grooming him for bigger things.
Henry liked to have Greg as his eyes and ears among the workers. Greg never pulled any punches. He told Henry who was good, who needed help and who was just plain useless. He also persuaded Henry to make improvements to staff working conditions by loosening up the rosters, smartening up the canteen and improving holiday leave. None of this did him any harm with his workmates or with Henry. One summer he’d received an invitation to a private barbecue at Henry and Dorothy’s house. He could still remember how hard he’d tried not to flirt with Connie. She was almost eighteen and reminded him, in certain lights, of a young Brigitte Bardot.
‘I’ll tell you honestly, Greg,’ Henry said now, ‘I didn’t think you were good enough for Connie when you asked me if you could marry her. But you’ve been a marvellous addition to the family and the company. Cheers!’ They raised their glasses to each other.
Greg had heard this speech many times before.
‘I am lucky to have her and Abi and a job with a company I’m so proud of.’ This answer always achieved a satisfactory end to the conversation. Henry grinned over his empty glass. ‘Get me another of these and let’s see how we’re doing against the West Indies, shall we?’
Henry enjoyed male company. He was fond of his sons-in-law. Both so different, but decent husbands to his girls. He heard the front door open and Francis’s voice called out, ‘Helloo.’
‘Come in, my boy, come in,’ Henry roared. Francis appeared in the sitting room.
‘Hi. Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not at all, old boy. Get yourself a glass of Scotch and sit down.’
Greg shifted his legs so that Francis could get past him to the drinks tray.
‘How are the women?’ Greg asked sardonically.
‘Fine. All having their cup of tea and chatting nicely.’
‘How do you put up with them?’ asked Greg.
Francis looked bemused. ‘I like them. I like women. Between us three, we’ve done pretty well.’
Greg was about to say something horribly misogynistic when it struck him that it might upset his father-in-law. Coughing, he replied, ‘Quite so. Very lucky indeed. Women. God bless them.’ And he raised his glass in salute.
On the television the England team were fielding like demons and the West Indies were falling apart. None of the men found it necessary to talk. This was the pleasure of being a man.
Henry must have dozed off for a moment, because the sound of his wife’s voice woke him with a start.
‘That’s it, boys.’ Dorothy stepped over their sprawled legs and reached for the remote control. ‘I’m turning this off.’
‘We were enjoying that!’ protested Henry.
She sniffed the air. ‘You’ve been enjoying too much whisky – I can smell it. Come on, chop chop. You’ve all got beds to go to.’
The men slowly stood and stretched. Henry shook hands with Greg and Francis and slapped them both on the shoulders. ‘Good to see you, fellas. Sleep well. Sorry about She Who Must Be Obeyed.’
‘I heard that!’ came his wife’s voice from the hallway.
After closing the door on ‘the boys’, Henry went to the kitchen where his wife was making two cups of Ovaltine. ‘Nice lads,’ he said. ‘The girls are happy enough, aren’t they?’
‘I think so.’
‘Lucky fellas to have such good wives.’ He patted her bottom. ‘And I’m lucky to have you.’
She handed him his mug of Ovaltine. ‘Down, boy!’
It was the first morning of the holiday proper. Francis loved this time. He had got up early and gone for a walk on the cliff path. The sun was promising a warm day and as he felt its heat on his muscles, he broke into a gentle jog which felt really good. He was of medium height, slim build and thinning hair. An average-looking man, but with a kind face and expressive eyes. His mouth was regular and he had exceptional teeth. White and even. Flossed every morning. He stopped on a stretch of springy grass and lay on the turf, closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face. The phone in his pocket vibrated, signalling a text message.
Call me! x
It was from Belinda.
Francis looked around, guiltily, and deleted the message. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket he headed for home.
He let himself quietly back into the house and tried to focus on his chores. He emptied the dishwasher, set up a recycling station, emptied the kitchen bin and put the coffee on. Then he sat down with the previous day’s crossword and attempted to put Belinda out of his mind. He almost leapt out of his skin when Jeremy and Abigail appeared with a cheery ‘Morning.’
‘Oh.’ His hands shook as he straightened his reading specs. ‘You made me jump.’
Abigail gave him a squeeze on her way to the fridge, ‘Soz, Unc. Didn’t mean to!’
Jeremy looked at his father. ‘You all right, Dad – feeling OK? You look a bit pale.’
‘Erm, yes.’ Francis laughed self-consciously. ‘Do I? Gosh, no, nothing wrong. Just a tad preoccupied, that’s all.’
‘With what – not worrying about tonight’s dinner, are you? Lentils and broccoli stir-fry or quinoa and broad bean stew? God, please let Aunt Con cook tonight, Dad – we’re wasting away!’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Francis said, aiming a swipe at his son with a tea towel.
Abi swung a large bottle of orange juice towards Jem. ‘Want some?’
‘Yuh. Thanks.’ Jeremy sat at the breakfast table, expecting his cousin to sort it out for him.
‘Can I cook you some scrambled eggs?’ his father asked.
‘Nah. Abi, get me some crunchy nut cornflakes, would you?’
‘What