Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch - Fern Britton

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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 wrote[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.

       22

      Henry hadn’t slept a wink. All night he’d been tossing and turning, trying to decide what to do. Should he confront Greg? Tell Connie? Upset Abi before her birthday? Early the next morning he got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. His slippers made track marks in the dewy grass as he walked across the garden to Atlantic House. He managed to catch Jem before he went to work.

      ‘Ah, Jem. Just the chap. I appear to be picking up your Uncle Greg’s emails on my iPad and I wonder if you could show me how to stop that?’

      Jeremy, swallowing a large glass of orange juice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

      ‘Yeah, no worries, Poppa. Can it wait till tonight? You can delete anything you don’t want.’ He grabbed his bag and packed lunch. ‘Drag the arrow to the dustbin icon and left click.’ He gave his grandfather a quick hug. ‘Laters.’

      Back in the solitude of his bedroom, Henry did as instructed and removed the incriminating email, along with all the others addressed to Greg.

      Then he snapped closed the iPad cover and hid it in his wardrobe.

      Dorothy was still in the shower. He didn’t want to face her until he’d come up with a solution to the Greg problem, so he slipped out of the house to go and get the boat ready.

      As he walked across the lawn to the fortified door that led to the cave, he saw Greg and Connie waving to him from the kitchen. Greg was looking pleased with himself, standing there with his arm draped round Connie. It was all Henry could do to stop himself running over there to confront his philandering cheat of a son-in-law. His hand clenched into a tight fist as he imagined landing a punch that would wipe that smirk off Greg’s face. Instead he smiled grimly and walked on.

      Opening the door into the old stone room, now used as a store for household detritus, he took in the familiar smell of sea damp and the sound of the water lapping at the bottom of the rough flight of rock steps ahead of him. He often thought of the young girl who had died down here. Such a tragedy. How would any parent recover from that? A painful stab of loss made him catch his breath, and he was aware of a lump forming in his throat. God, what was this? He put his hand out to the damp wall to steady himself. Tears stung his eyes and he swallowed hard. He fumbled for an old stool and sat on it. He told himself that what was past was past. He had Dorothy and Connie and Pru. He was blessed. But what should he do with the knowledge he had about Greg? If he told Connie, it would kill her marriage. Could he do that to her? He didn’t know. He hoped the answer would come to him. Standing up, he switched on the boathouse lights and descended the steps to the cave.

      The Dorothy was resting in her hammock hoist, suspended above the water. He checked the boat’s bottom and twin propellers and ran his hand along the sleek curves of the hull. Satisfied that everything was in good order, he lowered the hoist and eased the boat into the rising tide.

      Forty-five minutes later, he was putting away his cleaning cloths and thinking about turning on the engine, when he saw Dorothy enter the cave with Belinda. Belinda was carrying a large cool box.

      ‘Hi, Poppa.’ She waved to him. ‘Dorothy asked if I’d like to join your little cruise, so the least I could do was to pack a picnic.’

      ‘Well, you are very welcome, my dear.’ He got off the boat and stepped on to the rock floor that doubled as a harbour wall. ‘Let me help you aboard.’

      The women got themselves settled and Henry gave them each a life jacket, untied the ropes securing the boat to the wall and turned on the engine. The deeply pleasing throb bounced around the cave.

      ‘OK, girls, duck your heads as we go out. The ceiling is a bit low.’ Henry confidently manoeuvred his pride and joy round

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