Rosemary

An unexpected Christmas gift takes the Dears by surprise

My little sister Deborah just happened to be passing the other day and thought she might drop in, an event that could not have been more suspicious if she had climbed over the back wall wearing a stocking mask and carrying a large bag marked ‘Swag’.

It took two cups of coffee – proper stuff from a cafetière, my sister has no truck with instant – and four digestive biscuits before I managed to prise the reason for this visit from her reluctant lips.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ she asked. ‘Anything special?’

As it happens, we aren’t. All of the family are off doing their own thing this year, and it would be rather a treat to spend it at Deb’s place.

Deb, as regular readers will know, is one of those women who has fallen on good times after a divorce. The former Mr Deb, an accountant who did a lot of work in the Middle East, seems to have kept custody of the hard work, while my sister took sole possession of a large house and plenty of cash. She has never looked back. For a start, she can now afford people to do that for her.

Her house has a huge garden, one of those places that needs peacocks to set if off properly. In winter, with the benefit of a bit of snow, the house and garden look as if they are auditioning for the John Lewis Christmas campaign. Actually, John Lewis might be pitching it a bit low – do Fortnum & Mason stoop to television?

Yes, that’s what I was looking forward to when the bombshell announcement came. ‘Because if you’re not doing anything special,’ said Deb, ‘I thought we might come over for a couple of days.’

Even as my hopes of log fires and roast dinners were being dashed, one word rather leapt out at me. ‘We?’ I said. ‘Me and Graham,’ said Deb. ‘Graham?’ I said. ‘Who is this Graham?’ ‘He’s my latest,’ said Deb, suggesting with a wink that I might already be two or three chaps out of date. ‘You’ll love him. He is such a character.’

Is there any phrase more likely to strike terror into the Christmas hostess than ‘He is such a character.’ It’s right up there with ‘Let me show you this really amusing video on YouTube’ and ‘If you have a couple of hours to spare, put the kettle on and I’ll tell you about my back trouble.’

There are two ways of celebrating Christmas. You can gauge which of these you prefer by the way you answer the inevitable question: ‘How was your Christmas?’

The conventional reply is: ‘Oh, very quiet.’ If your tone of voice suggests a subtext of punching the air in triumph then you would enjoy Christmas at

Dear Towers. We are ‘Oh, very quiet’ sort of people. The festive season here is time for a quiet sherry, a family walk, and a chance to escape the hurly-burly of everyday life (or at least what passes for hurly-burly at our age).

And then there are folk who like a proper knees-up. These are the sort of people who put a marquee in the garden at the slightest excuse, who hire a band and let off fireworks.

Reporting that they have had a quiet Christmas is a mark of shame. Christmas, for them, is a time of over-indulgence, a time for looking in the mirror on Boxing Day morning and discovering why you are feeling a bit peaky – it’s because you are now the colour of eggnog.

Back to Graham, though. ‘How did you meet?’ I wondered.

‘The usual way,’ she said. ‘Online dating. It’s what everybody does now. He said he had a good sense of humour and he was absolutely right. Oh, and he’s an estate agent.’ ‘Is that good?’ ‘Of course it’s good. As Graham says, it means he knows a valuable old property like me when he sees it. Even though I might be in need of some renovation.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He sounds a character all right.’

That evening, I broke the news to Mr Dear.

‘Debs for Christmas? Lovely,’ he said. ‘That’ll make a nice change.’

‘She’s bringing her latest chap – he’s called Graham.’

‘Well, it’ll be good to meet him.’ ‘Apparently he has a sense of humour.’ ‘I see.’

‘Debs tells me that he’s a bit of a character.’

Mr Dear put down his book, took off his spectacles and wiped them. He put his spectacles back on, tucked the handkerchief into his pocket, and pulled at his ear for a moment. This is often a sign that he is thinking.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Here, they’ll be gone by New

Year, won’t they?’

‘She’s one of those women who has fallen on good times’