I thought her parents looked quite mad — they were both dressed as Father Christmas, even down to the white cotton-wool beards, for a start — but in a fun way. Roz is another tall, dark-haired Martland.

Liam, George’s son, brought Old Nan and Richard up to the house at about one, and by arrangement was to call for them again later. I was busy in the kitchen when they arrived and by the time I carried the tray of starters through they were already drinking sherry before the fire, so it was just as well Michael bought some more!

‘Me and Granny made the cheese and pickle hedgehog,’ Jess pointed out proudly. ‘It’s crumbly Lancashire cheese and silver-skin onions, but we had to use half a scrubbed potato to put the sticks in, we haven’t got any grapefruit.’

‘It looks lovely,’ Noël said, as Michael helpfully passed round plates and the red paper napkins covered in reindeer that I’d got from Oriel Comfort’s.

‘Are there carbs in cocktail onions?’ asked Coco doubtfully. She must have spurned the sherry because she was holding a glass of something dark green instead, though I couldn’t imagine what that was. Crème de menthe, maybe? There were all sorts of odds and ends in the drinks cabinet in the dining room.

‘No calories at all, and the cheese is almost fat-free too,’ I lied, and she perked up a bit and selected the cocktail stick with the smallest chunk on it.

‘More sherry, vicar?’ asked Guy, winking at me.

Old Nan, unasked, held out her glass too and smiled at me over the top of it, all blindingly white false teeth and deeply-netted wrinkles. ‘Where on the family tree did you say you came in, dear? I’ve forgotten,’ she said amiably. ‘One of the distant cousins, of course, but which. .?’

‘I’m not a member of the family at all, I’m just looking after the house,’ I told her and she looked at me severely and declared obstinately, ‘Oh yes you are — you can’t fool Old Nan!’

‘She gets confused,’ Becca whispered to me. ‘Just agree with her, it will save lots of trouble.’

‘I’ve brought you a present anyway,’ Old Nan said and, after a quick scrabble in her oversized knitting bag, she pulled out several small tissue-covered parcels and thrust one of them at me. ‘Come and get yours, the rest of you!’

‘What a lovely hat,’ I said, unwrapping a ribbed and bobbled creation in electric blue and candy-pink stripes. ‘Thank you so much!’

Jude unexpectedly plumped down on the sofa next to me, which made a protesting squeak — and I probably did too, because the cushions tilted and practically slid me into his lap.

He examined my gift critically. ‘Actually, I think yours is a tea cosy, because it has a hole each side. Mine’s a hat.’

‘They might be for my ears?’

‘No, because your ears would get frostbite, which would defeat the whole point of wearing a warm hat, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yours is the tea cosy,’ Old Nan said to me.

‘Thank you, I’ll treasure it forever.’

Old Nan liberally distributed her knitted offerings so that everyone, including Michael and Coco, had a hat, scarf or tea cosy — or, in Jess’s case, a knitted mouse with a long yarn tail and whiskers.

‘Of course, Tilda and Noël have already had their real present,’ Old Nan said in a pointed sort of way.

‘Oh yes, the Dundee cake — and I’m afraid we have already eaten it,’ Noël confessed, ‘and very delicious it was too.’

Her wrinkled face dropped with disappointment. ‘All of it?’

‘Yes, but there is a very fine Christmas cake uncut, that Holly has made for us.’

‘Lavishly using the best brandy, the last of the stock my father laid down,’ Jude said darkly.

‘That’s all right, then,’ Old Nan said brightly, then gave Coco, who was sitting next to Michael, a hard stare.

Michael had evinced genuine delight with his magenta-and-pink-striped scarf and wound it round his neck, but Coco was still fingering her lime-green bobble hat with a blank expression. Though actually, her complete repertoire of expressions only seemed to encompass blank or sulky, which didn’t bode well for her acting aspirations.

‘Isn’t that the flibbertigibbet Jude was engaged to last Christmas, the one that ran off with Guy, instead?’ Old Nan asked Becca in a piercing whisper.

‘I didn’t run off with anyone,’ Coco snapped, overhearing. ‘In fact, Guy made all the running!’

Richard smiled benignly around. ‘But now the past is forgiven and forgotten and here we all are together again for Christmas. Coco and Guy are engaged to each other, Nan.’

‘No-one is engaged to anyone,’ Guy said firmly.

‘But then, if you’re not engaged, what is she doing up here?’ demanded Old Nan querulously. ‘I didn’t like her last time!’

‘And back at you!’ Coco said rudely.

‘Old Nan is my invited guest,’ Jude pointed out to her, ‘while you are not, so you’d better mind your manners.’

Jess suddenly jumped up, exclaiming, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot — Liam brought a present from his dad for you, Holly! I left it in the hall while I was hanging the coats up.’

She ran to get it and I asked hopefully, ‘Did everybody get one?’

‘No, just you,’ Becca said with a grin.

Jess returned with a long parcel that could only be a stick — and it was, with a beautifully carved ram’s head handle.

‘You are honoured to have one of those,’ Jude said, taking it from me and examining the carving. ‘He’s renowned for them, but he usually sells them and rarely gives one away.’

‘He loves you, he wants to marry you!’ chanted Jess, dancing round me like an evil sprite.

‘No such thing,’ I said with composure, though I might have blushed slightly since they were all staring at me.

‘Then why did he give you a special present?’

‘Jess, don’t tease her,’ Tilda said.

‘But who can blame old George for being smitten?’ asked Guy, raising an eyebrow. ‘He’s a widower you know, Holly, with his own farm — a bit of a catch. You could do worse.’

‘Uncle Jude is a widower, too,’ Jess said, ‘and he’s got Old Place and lots of money because his statues sell for squillions.’

‘That’s a slight exaggeration of my eligibility,’ Jude said, unembarrassed.

‘I didn’t know you’d been married,’ I said, turning to him in surprise.

‘We forget, because it was such a long time ago and she died young, a bit like that film — what was it called?’ said Becca. ‘Love Story, that was the one.’

‘It was nothing like Love Story,’ Jude said shortly, his face going all shuttered, so it was still clearly a painful memory even after all this time.

‘And he isn’t Holly’s suitor, either, so it doesn’t matter, does it?’ said Coco with a brittle laugh. ‘I can’t see why everyone is getting so excited, just because an old farmer has given the cook a walking stick.’

‘He’s not actually all that old, just a bit weathered,’ Becca pointed out. ‘Late forties, at the most.’

‘That is pretty old,’ Jess said. ‘Uncle Jude is only thirty-eight.’

She seemed to think this was a matter for congratulation.

‘And I’m a mere thirty-six,’ Guy said, bestowing one of his ravishing smiles on me, though to no effect: unlike Gran, I wasn’t going to be taken in by a handsome, womanising Martland.

I was sure he didn’t really fancy me, he just probably automatically flirted with any woman around.

‘And I’m a very successful investment banker, too,’ he added as a clincher.

‘Change the B for a W and that’s more like it,’ Jude muttered rudely next to me, surprising me into a snort of laughter.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Guy said. ‘Anyway, you’ll find I’m much more fun than George: he spends most of his days talking to sheep.’

I wasn’t used to this kind of flirting, however insincere, and I didn’t know how to play the game, so it was a relief to escape back into the kitchen.

And I only hoped Jess hadn’t got it into her head to try and matchmake me with her beloved Uncle Jude, because it was an idea doomed by our mutual antipathy from the start!

Noël welcomed us into the dining room with a lively rendering of The Twelve Days of Christmas, accompanying himself on the piano and Tilda joined in the last verse with a brittle and slightly wavery soprano.

And the Christmas dinner, if I may say so myself without sounding too immodest, was cooked to a turn.

The golden-roasted turkey and chipolatas wrapped in bacon, the bread sauce, the crispy roast potatoes and parsnips, the firm, small sprouts from Henry’s garden and good Lancashire gravy so thick you could almost stand a spoon up in it. . all were perfection.

Once everyone was well lubricated with alcohol to a state of reasonable bonhomie, we pulled crackers, shared the mottos and wore the silver cardboard crowns (which, oddly enough, suited Jude best — with his broad brow, thick straight nose and strong jaw, he looked like a rugged prince fresh off the battlefield). Then we set to, and even Coco, with an air of reckless abandon probably engendered by whatever the green drink was she had had earlier, ate at least a teaspoon of everything.

I only hoped it would stay in her system long enough to do her some good, and although I was considering hiding her supply of laxatives when I had an opportunity, I wasn’t sure quite what the effect of going cold turkey on the Fruity-Go would have on her. .

Finally Jude ignited the brandy over the large, domed pudding and carried it into the specially darkened room, the blue flames dancing. Michael brought up the rear, carrying the brandy butter and white sauce.