For more than a century, The Squid and Teapot has been a small oasis of cheer, brightening the gloom and aura of desolation that pervades much of the small island of Hopeless, Maine.
Following several years of disrepair and bad management, in nineteen-ten the inn found itself in the stewardship of the Lypiatt family. It was, long-time readers may remember, Sebastian Lypiatt who built the ever-popular flushing privy, an annexe painstakingly constructed from the salvaged stones of Oxlynch Hall, an English manor house that had been deconstructed and shipped to Connecticut (it was with these stones, of course, that the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, arrived on Hopeless).
After several generations of Lypiatts, The Squid passed into the hands of their close relatives, Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet, a couple who worked hard to maintain the reputation of hospitality and friendliness. When the Middlestreets retired, just over a year ago, they relinquished care of the inn to newlyweds Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket, and this is where we are today.
“Giving the Tomte a home has had its advantages,” declared Philomena, more to herself than anyone else. “The inn looks better this Christmas Eve than it ever has, and he has really gone overboard with the decorations.”
It was true. The little man had worked tirelessly, mingling elbow-grease with a little bit of enchantment, to make The Squid and Teapot look especially festive.
“And all for a corner of one of the attics, a small bowl of porridge and a drop of beer,” said Rhys. “That’s a good bargain, by anyone’s standards.”
“He keeps saying how much he loves to have a knob of butter with his porridge on Christmas Eve,” said Philomena, worriedly. “I fear that he’s going to be disappointed tonight – I doubt that there’s an ounce of butter on the island.”
“Well he must have gone without when he was with Mr Blomqvist,” said Rhys. “I can’t imagine that the old man had a secret hoard of the stuff stashed away somewhere.”
Philomena pondered this, and then said,
“The Tomte came to Hopeless with Mr Blomqvist, and stayed out of loyalty. He hasn’t got that sort of bond with us. I just hope he isn’t going to be too upset, and decide to leave.”
Despite their young age and limited English, Caitlin and Oswald went to bed that night bursting with excitement. Philomena, remembering the holly-crowned gift bringer of her childhood, had told them all about Father Christmas, in his long green cloak, and the presents that he would bring. Unlike the Tomte, at least the children would not be disappointed, as Reggie Upton, Philomena and Rhys had spent the last few weeks making toys and clothes for them.
It was almost midnight when the doors of The Squid and Teapot finally closed and the day’s work was at last completed. Drury, the skeletal hound, snored contentedly before the roaring log fire, and Philomena, Rhys and Reggie prepared to welcome in Christmas Day with a tankard of Old Colonel. Tenzin, the Buddhist monk who had recently moved into the inn, was not a drinker, but sat in happy puzzlement observing his friends celebrating this strange festival, which was completely new to him.
“Do you always have bells at Christmas?” he asked.
“Yes, they’ll ring the church bells at twelve o’clock,” said Rhys.
“No, I mean sleigh bells,” said Tenzin. “Can’t you hear them.”
Yes, they could, now he had mentioned it. They were certainly sleigh bells, and seemed to be right outside. Then Drury began barking, and wagging his bony old tail. Suddenly someone banged on the front door, hard enough to shake the glass in the windows.
“Who the devil…” began Reggie, wishing that his swordstick was to hand.
Gingerly Rhys opened the door a fraction, then stepped back in surprise at the huge, dark shape standing in the courtyard.
He was even more surprised when Drury, yapping with delight, threw himself at the stranger.
“Mr Squash!” Rhys exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise. Come on in”
The Sasquatch bundled into the bar room, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.
“A Merry Christmas,” he boomed. “I come bearing gifts. By the way, did you like the sleigh bells? I thought that they provided a nice, seasonal touch.”
Mr Squash delved into his sack and pulled out a wheel of cheese, several bottles of French Brandy, chocolate, coffee, fresh fruit, sweet biscuits, jars of honey, white flour, two christmas puddings… and butter; lots and lots of rich, golden butter.
Tactfully, no one asked how the Sasquatch had come by all of this bounty. Wordlessly, they accepted that this was a Christmas miracle, and nobody should ask how miracles happen.
“Thank you, Mr Squash,” said Philomena, blinking back her tears. “And a very merry Christmas to you, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some porridge to make.”
