Judy Leigh - A Grand Old Time - The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018

Published by Avon an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Judy Leigh 2018

Cover illustration © Becky Glass

Cover design © Emma Rogers

Judy Leigh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008269197

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008269203

Version: 2018-01-11

Thanks to Kiran at Keane Kataria and to Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks and her team at Avon, HarperCollins for being incredible and making this novel become real. To the talented MA students and lecturers, Falmouth, class of 2015, and to Sarah and Jim for letting me stay at the villa. To the Totnes writing group – thanks for conversations and creativity. To my early draft readers, Erika, Sarah, Beau, for their warmth and good humour. To Liam and Caitlan for their irrepressible intelligence and energy. To Tony and Kim for wild Sunday lunches. To Big G for all the love and for keeping me grounded. To my Dad, Tosh, and to my own Mammy, my inspiration.

For Irene.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

She bounced up and down on the edge of her bed, still in her nightie. When the creaking stopped, the silence closed in around her. Everyone was asleep in Sheldon Lodge. The room was dim and cramped, so she went over to the window and looked outside at the path that led to the road into Dublin. A bird flitted up and away. A single cloud moved across a square of sky. Evie made a puffing noise through her lips and pulled herself away.

She went back to the bed and picked up the thin paperback lying on the duvet. Season of the Heart . Recommended reading for the ladies at Sheldon Lodge. Evie had never been much of a reader. There was a picture of a milkmaid in russet petticoats on the front cover, sitting in a cornfield. Her hair was the same bleached yellow as the corn and her face was sad. Evie flipped the novel over and read the blurb. Dulcie Jones is thrust into the life of a country maid when her gambling father sells her to pay his debts. But Marcus, the mysterious son of her new master Lord Diamant, has other plans for Dulcie …

Evie threw the book away from her onto the duvet. It was six thirty am.

‘What a lot of shite,’ she muttered to herself, and then she raised her voice: ‘It’s all complete shite.’

Sheldon Lodge offered its usual deaf ear, although she expected Mrs Lofthouse to run in, all wobbling bosoms and waving hands, to tell her to go back to bed and not disturb the other residents. Evie shuffled into her slippers and dressing gown, and snorted through her nostrils. Most of the other residents were disturbed already, well into their eighties and nineties – even the youngest of them at least ten years older than her.

She wandered into the kitchen, listening for Barry the chef who would make her a cup of tea. She could hear him behind the metal shutters, moving around, organising breakfast. She banged her fist softly to call for his attention and waited. No reply.

Evie sat down at the little table with its plastic cloth printed with yellow roses and realised she was in Maud Delaney’s seat. Maud, with her thin hair cropped short, usually spent the day in the chair, humped over the table, her head resting against a cold cup of tea, her eyes covered with her puffy ringed fingers. Maud’s place was next to Annie Armstrong, who gulped air like a fish. Every day Evie wondered if Maud was dead until Slawka and Joe, two of the carers, came to move her with the winch. At least it broke the monotony.

Barry would open the breakfast bar shutters in a minute and Evie would have a hot drink and toast. Even better, there would be someone to talk to. Barry would grumble about his daughter Natalie, who had been arrested for taking recreational drugs at a pop festival in the park, and Evie would discuss the problems of poor hen-pecked Brendan, and they would both laugh and chatter. Then there would be scrambled eggs and more toast and it would be halfway through the morning and the Irish Times would have been delivered in the Day Room. She’d have two cups of coffee and make her little joke, as she did every day, that it would taste a lot nicer with a nip of cognac. Of course, they let her have a glass of red wine with her meals, but somehow it tasted bitter. Like all the sunshine had gone from the grapes.

Evie picked up a pack of playing cards that had been left on the table and she shuffled them. She didn’t know how to play cards, but it was something to do. She sorted through them again and a card poked itself towards her. She took it out. It was the four of hearts.

Evie placed it on the table and smiled.

Four. Her lucky number.

He stared at his face in the mirror. His hair was still auburn, although faded, the curls flecked here and there with grey, and his blue eyes were crinkled around the corners. He lathered his face with shaving soap and smiled at his white-bearded reflection – a paternal face, like Santa Claus. He imagined how it would be to dress as Father Christmas, surrounded by four children. He’d always thought he’d like two of each: two boys who liked football, a sporty girl, maybe a surfer or a swimmer, and then one for Maura. A chirpy cheeky one with Maura’s soft shining eyes.