THE Christmas Eve parties here were marvellous when Mr and Mrs Tree lived here all the village came.' Mrs Cribb, housekeeper elect, dropped this unsubtle hint as she eased her comfortable bulk back against the AGA and poured another cup of tar-like tea from her equally dark-brown teapot. 'Mr Tree would nip into the kitchen when I wasn't looking and put goodness knows what into my rum punch. Cor, it was strong stuff! The vicar got in a right state one year and fell off the pulpit.'
Maryanne and Joe, the owners of Christmas Hall since May, have, so far, been tiptoeing around the issue of Mrs Cribb, who has resolutely stayed on in her flat like a kindly yet omnipresent squatter long after the deaths of her previous employers and throughout a protracted probate sale, during which she fought a losing battle with cobwebs, rainwater leaks and small creatures running races.
There have been other 'surprises', too, such as the mysterious emergence of a 'footpath' that crosses the drive, the annual 'tradition' of a free-for-all apple-pressing day in the old coach house, the presence of some Houdini-like, rose-destroying Wiltshire Horn sheep whose owner apparently has 'grazing rights' and the parish-council hoo-hah about their proposed heat-source pump.
Maryanne had been envisaging Champagne and Ottolenghi with their best London friends renting a cottage nearby, but Joe, more naturally gregarious and away in the city all week-he has no clue what she has to contend with, the dribbling showers, crackling electrics and curious neighbours -thought a Christmas Eve party would be a cracking idea. 'Darling, it'll be fun. And a great chance to get shot of that case of dodgy red at last.'
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