Frank Derrick's Holiday of a Lifetime Read Free

impressions it could sometimes be as star studded as the red carpet on Oscar night in the living room. Michael Caine, Humphrey Bogart, James Stewart, Sean Connery and Roger Moore could all be there. Most of the time, though, the carpet wasn’t red; it was cream-coloured, more freshly so underneath the armchair and sideboard. And it was just Frank and his poker-winning-faced cat Bill – which hadn’t seemed such a daft name for a cat when Ben was still alive – eating their individual dinners for one in front of the TV.
    Frank stepped over the DVDs and walked into the hall and down the stairs, with Bill following behind, weaving between Frank’s legs to undertake and overtake and almost trip him up.
    At the bottom of the stairs Frank picked up the day’s post. The junk mail was plentiful at this time of year and it all had a seasonal theme. Thermal underwear catalogues, warm cardigans and fleece pyjamas, Christmas stocking-filler gift ideas, bed-socks, anti-slip over-shoes and SAD lights. At some point in his life Frank had neglected to tick a box on an order form and now everybody had his address. There was another free pack of charity Christmas cards that he had no one to send to and a leaflet from the Government containing helpful but often contradictory tips for surviving the winter. ‘Keep moving’, ‘stay in one room’, ‘wear a hat in bed’, ‘eat a hot meal’, ‘keep your spirits up’, etc. He put the leaflet and the Christmas cards on the bottom stair and picked up an envelope. It had a US stamp and was addressed to Frank in Laura’s handwriting. He opened the envelope and took out a greetings card. ‘Happy Thanksgiving’, the card said above a cartoon picture of a smiling turkey with surely little to be smiling about or giving thanks to at this time of year. The card was signed ‘Beth and Laura’, both names in Laura’s handwriting.
    When Beth had announced that she was moving to Los Angeles ten years ago, she had reassured Frank that it was only twelve hours away. She would be back to see him soon and often. She would telephone at least once a week, write regular letters and, when Frank had set up his computer account at the library, they could exchange emails and eventually they would even be able to talk face to face over the Internet via webcams. Beth had joked that Frank would probably see more of her than he had when she was living just fifty miles away and he would soon be sick of the sight of her. She’d said that it took longer to travel to Scotland or Cornwall than to Los Angeles and Frank had joined in by making his own joke about how it would probably be cheaper too, because he didn’t want his daughter to feel guilty about going to live so far away.
    Frank knew that the flight to England might only take twelve hours but there would be a two-hour journey through heavy LA traffic to the airport and another few hours for check-in and security, a couple more hours in customs, passport control and waiting by the baggage carousel at Heathrow, plus three or four hours in a taxi or on delayed, overcrowded and dirty trains and rail-replacement buses from Heathrow to Fullwind to take into account. By the time they arrived they’d be exhausted and jetlagged and it would be almost time to leave again. And Frank knew that the plane ticket wasn’t really cheaper than a train to Scotland or Cornwall. He knew all of this but he didn’t want to hold Beth back. He didn’t want to be her anchor.
    For her first six months in America Beth was a tourist. She sent Frank postcards and letters folded around photographs of her, Laura and Jimmy at Disneyland and Universal Studios, window shopping on Rodeo Drive or posing with their hands and feet in the cement prints of the stars outside the Chinese Theatre. She sent Frank a picture of them cycling along the beach at Santa Monica, with the sun glistening on the Pacific behind them, the water the same vivid blue as the sky so that it was difficult to be