The Holiday Home

21


‘Storms are still battering the Eastern Seaboard of the United States,’ said the breakfast television newscaster. ‘Several hundred families have been evacuated from their homes after a second night without electricity. This report from our Washington correspondent …’

Henry and Dorothy watched the footage of distraught householders, looking on helplessly as their houses and possessions were swept away by the raging torrent.

‘They should be grateful they don’t have Merlin as their plumber,’ said Dorothy. ‘Poor devils.’

‘They keep promising us a hooley blowing in on this side of the Atlantic, but we’ve been lucky so far.’

Dorothy smiled at him. ‘It’s been a pretty good summer, hasn’t it? Apart from the flood next door and the various injuries sustained by the boys.’

Henry chuckled. ‘Bloody useless, the lot of them. Still, they have got the house back in order. And the moron Merlin should be finished by the end of today.’

‘Are you really going to make the kids pay?’

Dorothy and Henry always referred to their grown-up daughters as ‘the kids’.

‘Well, I might chip in. I’ll nip over later and take a look at what kind of job Merlin’s made of it.’

‘He’ll know you’re checking up on him.’

‘I have a plan.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m taking the iPad – that way I can pretend that I need the kids to help me with it.’

‘Very good, Sherlock.’

‘I want an email address. Where do you get one from?’

Dorothy gave a dry laugh. ‘How should I know? Ask Jem or Abi. They’ve got good brains on them. They’ll get you one.’

*

‘Hey, Poppa!’ Abi had reached the cliff-path gate and was letting herself into the garden.

‘Hello. How was work today?’

‘Knackering!’

He ruffled her sun-streaked and untidy hair. ‘Poor old you.’ He kissed her and she nestled herself into his warm, navy-jumpered chest.

When he let her go, she put her hand in her shorts pocket and pulled out a wodge of folded notes. ‘Pearl’s paid me, though.’

‘Good stuff. Shall we run away to Penzance and catch a boat to Spain? Don’t tell Granny.’

Laughing, they arrived at the French windows just as Greg and Merlin emerged from the kitchen, the latter carrying his tool bag.

‘I’ll put the invoice through the door as soon as I’ve worked it out,’ Merlin was saying, shaking Greg’s hand.

‘Thank you for everything, old man. Obviously, if you can sharpen your pencil, I’d be grateful. I can pay cash, if you like.’

At that moment he noticed Henry. ‘Oh, hello, Henry. Merlin’s finished. Done a great job. The roof, new boiler and pipework. All excellent.’

Henry gave Merlin a long look then slowly said, ‘It had better be good. And the price had better reflect the ridiculously generous cash payment my wife gave you the other day.’

Merlin outstared Henry. ‘Oh yes. I always do a good job for the price.’

Greg, eager to get Merlin off the premises, clapped him on the back. ‘Well, thanks again, old man. Don’t forget, if cash helps …’ He winked. ‘I’m off to have a hot bath. Ha ha ha.’ He laughed insincerely and steered Merlin to his van.

Henry’s gimlet eyes followed them.

‘You don’t like him, do you, Poppa?’ said Abi.

‘I’ll like him a lot more once I’ve checked his work and found it satisfactory.’

Henry took his time checking all the upstairs taps for leaks and loos for flushes. Then he turned on all the radiators and checked the boiler’s thermostat.

Greg dogged him. ‘It’s OK. Merlin’s done a good job.’

Henry refrained from passing judgement. ‘While the heating comes on, I’m just going to make sure the outdoor cellar room is dry.’

He pushed open the heavy old door and stepped into the ancient, cold store room. The flood had left behind a smell of damp, but other than that the floor was dry enough. He opened the door that led to the underground cave and flicked on the lights. The steps were a bit slippery, but nothing out of the ordinary. He climbed down them and into the natural boathouse beneath. The tide was low and the Dorothy was resting on the shingle. Shrouded in her cover, he knew she was perfectly dry.

Tomorrow morning, weather permitting, he would take her out. Maybe get Dorothy to make a picnic.

Which reminded him. He must get one of the grandchildren to set his iPad up. Internet, email, Skype, apps – he wanted the lot.

Back inside Atlantic House, the radiators were warming up nicely. Greg was looking pleased with himself.

‘Good as new,’ he told Henry. ‘All the rads are toasty warm.’

Henry felt the radiator in the hall and had to agree it felt fine. ‘OK, let’s see what the bill is.’

Greg turned away from Henry and threw his eyes to heaven while walking back into the kitchen. Henry followed him.

Jeremy was home from work and pouring himself a cold drink. ‘Why’s it so hot in here?’

‘The heating’s fixed and your grandfather and I are checking it. I’ll turn it down now.’

‘Good. Hey, Poppa.’

‘Jem, just the fellow! I need your help with my iPad …’

*

‘There you are, Poppa. All sorted.’

‘Marvellous! Would you mind showing me again how I send an email.’

Patiently, Jem showed him again.

‘And my email address is …?’

‘I’ll write it down for you, here.’ Jeremy [email protected]. ‘I’ve connected you to the company email system so you’ll get all the messages that Dad gets.’

‘Excellent. Will you send me my first email?’

Jeremy tapped out a message on his phone and within a few seconds Henry’s iPad went ‘ping’. Following Jem’s step-by-step instructions, he managed to open and read the message:

Hi Poppa. Here is your first mail. Love Jem.

‘That’s wonderful, my boy. Your grandmother will be amazed that I’ve joined the twenty-first century, at last.’

*

As he carried the laptop over to The Bungalow, Henry heard a succession of pings. He couldn’t wait to read them.

Settling himself in the conservatory with the first Scotch of the evening, he opened them up. They were all addressed to Greg. Assuming this was something to do with sharing online access with the entire Carew company, Henry opened the first one with interest.

It was an invite addressed to Greg, for a corporate golf day in the autumn. He read three or four emails from the sales and marketing team, all reporting positive interest and figures. Next was an email from Greg’s secretary, Janie, with the subject heading ‘Bloomers’. He clicked on it. It took him only a few lines to realise that his son-in-law was cheating on his daughter.

For a moment Henry sat, unmoving, absorbing the ramifications. His instinct was to go next door, grab Greg by the throat and sling him out. His second was to keep this to himself until he’d thought it through.

He poured himself another whisky. Greg had a good marriage and a loving wife in Connie. Didn’t he? Henry clenched his fist, fighting the urge to march over there and smash it into Greg’s face.

Henry was no stranger to the misery of an unhappy marriage, but he’d hoped his daughters would never have to go through what he’d endured. How could Greg do this to Connie and Abi?

Much as he hated Greg at that moment, preying on his mind was the knowledge that he hadn’t exactly been a model husband himself.