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
