A White Christmas (Eve) at Crafty Dog Towers

The snow was falling quick but silent, or maybe it was masked by the sound of the be-scaffed and woolly hatted carollers gathered around the large oak doors at the front of Crafty Dog Towers.  The doors were open, warmth and light flooding out , to the apparent delight of the singers.  The lanterns that they carried on poles over their shoulders swung in time to the music, keeping the rhythm as they launched into “Good King Wenceslas”.  The snow about them really was deep and crisp and even!  We hadn’t had a white Christmas here at the Towers for many years but here we were – we only needed Bing Crosby for a complete set.

Princess Gwennie had heard the carollers long before the rest of us and she had run to the doors, waiting for Higgins, the Butler, to open them.  She was standing on the doorstep, smiling and bouncing up and down on her four gangly legs, singing along with the songs.  Unfortunately, she was at a bit of a disadvantage as she neither knew the tunes nor the words but being a happy greyhound youngster that didn’t dampen her incredible enthusiasm one bit!  Still, it made the carollers laugh, and Mrs Crafty Dog and I, as we huddled together between the stone pillars of the porch. Some of the staff had gathered to see what the noise – I mean, the greyhound serenade – was all about.  The kitchen girls, Mrs Granger the Housekeeper, and Higgins were trying to sing along but they were having difficulty following the tune; should they take the mixed voices of the choir or Gwennie’s wavering falsetto howl with a hint of tremolo.

Just as the songs started to fizzle out we heared someone approaching through the hall, joining in with a carol in French, and the baritone with a layer of woodbine induced catarrh, made me realise it was Cook.  She was wheeling the drinks trolley from the drawing room, upon which was precariously perched the best Waterford crystal punch bowl (the one with 32 cups quivering from hooks all around the rim), from which thick steam was rising.  Indeed, as she sped enthusiastically through the Hall it looked like the GWR Swanseashire Castle express heading into Victoria Station, puffing as it went.  At one point everyone gasped as she hit a lump in the best Axminster carpet, and the bowl lurched a good foot off the trolley, but it landed safely and a derailment was narrowly avoided.  In the bowl I could smell steaming mulled cider, made to Cook’s secret family recipe which she guarded fiercely (like she did most things).  We knew it contained an apple eau de vie, and (probably due to her time in Marseille at the HQ of the Legion d’Etranger) a good glug of rum.  At any rate, it warmed the parts most medical embrocations had never even heard of. 

Everyone grabbed a punch cup and Cook sloshed out the hot mugs of the dark liquor to everyone.  An application of the punch warmed the carollers’ vocal cords and, now well lubricated, the singers got a second wind and the carols began again.  Gwennie wagged her tail and I could see she was winding up for the second verse but I coughed and shook my head, and she stopped.  She grinned at me, and then sang along anyway.  The carollers weren’t at all bothered, and after a couple more songs, they wished us a, “Merry Christmas!” striding off, crunching their way through the snow to the strains of, “Once in Royal David’s City”, to the accompaniment of a very happy and exuberant greyhound.

As the staff supped their mulled cider, and told jokes and stories around the raging fire in the Great Hall’s hearth, I put my arm around Mrs Crafty Dog.  “We are lucky to live in such a wonderful place,” I told her.  She nodded. 

And tiny Gwennie added, “God Bless, us, every one!”