Ruth's First Christmas Tree (2 page)

‘Isn’t that one of Santa’s reindeer?’ says Ruth, rescuing Flint, who has become entangled in the tinsel. She helps Kate twine the sparkly thread through the branches.

‘Yes,’ Cathbad grins. ‘Dasher and Dancer, Donner and Blitzen. It’s all linked. Anyway, when Saint Boniface came to convert the German tribes, he chopped down the Donar Oak. When he wasn’t killed by a thunderbolt, they all converted to Christianity.’

‘What a shame,’ says Ruth, who has taken a dislike to the show-off saint. ‘He sounds as if a bolt of lightning would have done him the power of good.’

‘There’s a Christian link too,’ says Cathbad. ‘The evergreen tree symbolizes eternal life. In medieval times it was sometimes called the Paradise Tree.’ He holds up a decoration in the form of an apple. ‘The apples are meant to remind you of the Garden of Eden.’

‘They just remind me of apples,’ says Ruth. She has little patience with Christian symbolism. ‘Trees are important to druids too, aren’t they?’ She is thinking of Leaf and Raindrop. Despite everything, she hopes the police don’t catch up with them.

‘Yes. The word druid comes from a Celtic word meaning “knowing the oak tree”. It survives in Irish place names like Derry and Kildare. Kildare means “church of oak”.’

Ruth knows that Cathbad was brought up in Ireland, otherwise his past is as mysterious as the origin of the Christmas tree. They met nearly thirteen years ago when Ruth was excavating a wooden henge found on the beach at the Saltmarsh. Cathbad and his fellow druids were protesting about the removal of the timbers. They were meant for the open air, they said, for the wind and the rain, part of the ebb and flow of the tide. But the authorities had prevailed and the remains of the henge are kept in controlled conditions inside a Norfolk museum. Looking at Cathbad now as he carefully sorts through the baubles, Ruth feels a surge of affection for him. They have been through a lot together, one way or another.

‘Of course,’ he is saying, ‘trees are important in all religions. Christ was killed by being hung on a tree. And Odin sacrificed himself on the world tree.’

‘Yggdrasil,’ says Ruth. She remembers another henge discovered nearby that had a tree buried upside down in the middle of it. Archaeologists had thought at the time that this might represent Yggdrasil, the great ash that, in Norse mythology, links heaven and hell.

‘I must go to the museum,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen the henge for ages.’

‘I was there the other day,’ says Cathbad. ‘Do you remember old Driffield, the curator?’

Ruth remembers a gentle old man who had made the installation of the henge timbers a more tranquil process than they had feared. It was a complicated business; the huge wooden posts that made up the henge circle had to be immersed in fresh water to remove the salt. Then, over the years, the moisture would be replaced with wax preservative.

‘Dear old Driff,’ says Ruth. ‘How is he?’

‘Not well.’ Cathbad looks away. ‘He’s in hospital with pneumonia. Doesn’t look good at his age. They lost a piece of wood from the henge, you know. I think it’s linked to his illness.’

Ruth stares at Cathbad. Just when he’s being fairly normal, he comes out with something like this.

‘How could they lose one of the timbers? They’re huge.’

‘This was a tiny piece. A peg really, used to keep one of the posts in place.’

And, thinking back, Ruth remembers this piece of the puzzle. A small sliver of oak, valuable because of the presence of a neatly cut square hole, clearly meant for the linchpin of a wheel. This showed that the wood had been part of an axle before being pressed into service to support the post. It’s a loss indeed. But there was another strange thing about Cathbad’s statement.

‘What do you mean, “linked to his illness”?’

‘There are lots of stories about men’s lives being linked to trees. Take the Egyptian
Tale of Two Brothers.
One brother leaves his heart in an acacia tree, and when it’s cut down, he dies.’

‘He leaves his heart in an acacia tree?’

‘It’s just one example,’ says Cathbad, rather huffily. ‘There are lots of others. People hang gifts from the branches of trees as offerings to the gods. Garlands and ribbons are tied to trees to bring good luck. Think of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree”.’

‘I try not to,’ says Ruth. ‘You think Driff is ill because the peg went missing? How did that happen anyway?’

‘They had a big conference, lots of bigwigs there, including your boss Phil. They were looking at some of the smaller artefacts, and when they came to put them away, the peg was missing. Driff was really upset. Thought it was all his fault. The next day, he got ill.’

Ruth is registering the fact that she didn’t know about this conference whereas Phil, who was not even involved in the henge dig, was evidently a guest of honour. She is so deep in thought that she hardly notices Cathbad and Kate placing the star on top of the tree.

‘Shut your eyes,’ orders Cathbad.

She does so and, when she opens them, the room is in darkness apart from the little golden tree, a glittering offering to the Christian and pagan gods, spreading its laden branches in benediction.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she says.

Ruth offers to make a cup of tea but Cathbad says that he has brought some wine.

‘We could have mulled wine. It’s traditional, after all.’

Ruth and Cathbad go into the kitchen. Cathbad has even brought his own spices, which is a relief as Ruth’s spice rack contains only some ancient curry powder and half a jar of dried basil. She feels quite triumphant, though, that she’s able to brandish the luxury mince pies.

‘Great,’ says Cathbad. ‘Let’s heat them up.’

It is so cosy in the little kitchen with the wine simmering on the hob and the snow outside that Ruth forgets to check on Kate. The result of this negligence is that when Ruth and Cathbad go back into the sitting room, bearing the wine and mince pies, the Christmas tree is lying on the floor surrounded by broken baubles and Kate and Flint are sitting in the middle of the chaos wearing tinsel crowns and identical expressions of satisfaction.

23 December

IN THE MORNING
the snow has gone but the wind is still howling around the house, blowing the letter box inward and sending Flint flying through his cat flap in a ball of outraged fluff. In the bleak midwinter, thinks Ruth, frosty winds made moan. What a dismal carol that is. She is planning a day of domestic goddessery. She doesn’t have to go into work and she wants to have the house all ready for Max’s arrival tomorrow. She doesn’t know exactly when he is coming; Max just said ‘Christmas Eve morning’, but she doesn’t want to get caught unprepared. Also she doesn’t think she’ll feel like housework tomorrow, after a late night at Shona and Phil’s party. No, Max must find a house smelling of pine needles and clean linen, with logs on the fire and gifts on the tree. Damn, now she’s got that Cliff Richard song on her brain. Anyway, gifts on the tree are out of the question now. Even so, some degree of Christmas spirit is still achievable. She decides to make a list.

Over breakfast, spooning porridge into Kate and trying to keep Flint off the table, she writes:

• Make beds
  
• Tidy sitting room
  
• Wrap Christmas presents
  
• Make gingerbread men
  
• Ring Mum and Dad
  

She hasn’t got any wrapping paper so the presents will have to wait. The sitting room is still covered in pine needles. She decides to make the beds.

It’s quite a jolly morning. There is Christmas music on the radio and Ruth sings along whilst struggling with sheets and duvet covers. Kate helps delightedly, rolling on the discarded bedding. Flint waits until the pristine new sheets are in place before jumping on the bed and starting a thorough all-over clean. Ruth chases him away. Looking at the bed in all its cream and white glory reminds her that tomorrow she’ll be sleeping there with Max. It still feels rather wicked to be having sex in a house that also contains Kate and Flint. She has now officially moved Kate’s cot to the spare bedroom but she knows that it’s only a matter of time before Kate joins Ruth and Max in the double. How will Ruth feel about that? Kate sleeping between her mother and her mother’s boyfriend. It all feels rather decadent and uncomfortable. She wonders what Nelson would think and quickly brushes the thought aside. Nelson has no right to think anything. He is free to roll around with Michelle on their matrimonial king-size. Don’t think about that.

She makes the spare-room bed as well, in case she ends up sleeping there with Kate.

Downstairs she makes coffee and listens to the Christmas serial on Radio 4. It’s an updating of
A Christmas Carol
about a female city banker called Mrs Scrooge. Tiny Tim is an asylum seeker called Tiny Tonderai. Ruth is ashamed to find tears in her eyes when Mrs Scrooge buys a vegetarian Christmas banquet for Tonderai’s family. She must remember to get the turkey out of the freezer in time.

The postman brings more cards and an Amazon parcel from Simon, Ruth’s brother. Ruth peeps inside and sees the latest Val McDermid. Three cheers for Simon. The postman hovers and shuffles on the doorstep until Ruth remembers his Christmas tip. She hastily shoves a fiver in an envelope and takes it out to him.

‘Thanks very much, love,’ says the postman, who dreads the daily trek out to the Saltmarsh. ‘A very merry Christmas to you.’

Ruth clears away the broken decorations and puts the tree by the back door. It looks sad standing there, shorn of all its finery. So much for Ruth’s first Christmas tree. Kate seems upset too. She keeps trying to put the star back on, jumping up and down trying to reach the top.

‘Star! Star!’

‘Maybe next year, Kate.’

Ruth gets out her recipe book and looks doubtfully at the instructions for gingerbread men. Although Ruth loves buying cookery books she’s not really much of a chef. And she’s not sure if she even likes gingerbread anyway. She just likes the idea of baking something, decorating the gingerbread men with chocolate-button eyes and icing-sugar clothes. But where the hell is she going to find chocolate buttons or icing sugar? The nearest shop is five miles away and she doesn’t feel like going out. It’s bad enough that she has to go out this evening. She shuts the book. Both Kate and Flint are staring at her.

The phone rings. It’s Clara, Ruth’s babysitter. She’s so sorry but she has flu and doesn’t think she’ll be able to make it tonight. Ruth sympathizes but she does wonder whether Clara had just had a better offer. It’s not much fun for a young woman to spend the night before Christmas Eve babysitting in the middle of nowhere. For a glorious few minutes she contemplates skipping the party altogether. After all, she has a genuine excuse now. She imagines sitting down with a mince pie and the remains of the mulled wine and watching
Miracle on 34th Street.
But Shona would never forgive her. She keeps saying that this party is her last fling before the baby is born (Shona and Phil are expecting their first child in March) and has twice rung to check that Ruth will be coming. Sighing, Ruth dials Cathbad’s number.

Cathbad says that he will be delighted to babysit. He says that he can be there at six.

‘I’m going to visit Driff at the hospital but visiting ends at five and I’ll be straight over.’

‘How is he?’

‘Not good. He’s got a chest infection, which is the worst thing possible. I spoke to his daughter last night and they’re all really worried.’

‘Any sign of the missing wood?’ asks Ruth, more to distract him than anything.

‘No,’ says Cathbad. ‘Driff keeps asking about it. It’s really weighing on his mind.’

‘Are they sure it’s not at the museum? Those places can be very shambolic.’ Ruth is thinking of the Smith Museum in King’s Lynn, a place where, until recently, chaos reigned supreme.

‘Not this museum. It’s all very high-tech.’

‘I remember,’ says Ruth, thinking of the vast tanks that kept the henge posts in immersion. ‘The timber needed really specialist treatment.’

‘Exactly,’ says Cathbad. ‘Driffield’s little piece of wood could be dying.’

‘Dying?’ This seems a melodramatic choice of word, even for Cathbad. Ruth takes an involuntary glance at the drooping tree by her back door.

‘If it’s left without treatment it’ll disintegrate altogether.’

‘But I thought you wanted the wooden posts left where they were. They would have disintegrated eventually if they were left in the open air.’

‘Yes,’ says Cathbad, ‘but that would have been a natural process, part of the cycle of nature. But for a piece of wood just to be lost like that, it’s all wrong. These were sacred timbers. You remember what Erik used to say? “Wood represents life; stone is death.”’

Ruth doesn’t argue because she is grateful to Cathbad for offering to babysit. Besides, she knows what he means. She will never forget her first sight of the henge, rising up out of the flat landscape like some prehistoric monster. Erik, the archaeologist in charge of the dig, had fallen to his knees in the centre of the circle. ‘Sacred ground,’ he had said. She remembers, too, Erik’s thoughts on wood and stone. ‘Our journey is from the flesh of the body to the wood of the coffin to the stone of the tomb.’ She shivers. She doesn’t want to talk about Erik, whose ghost still haunts her.

‘I hope Driffield feels better soon,’ she says.

After that, the day goes downhill somewhat. Ruth rings her mother to be told how sad it is that she’s not coming home for Christmas. ‘Simon, Cathy and the boys have just arrived. They’re asking for their Auntie Ruth.’ Ruth doubts this, her nephews have reached the stage when they are permanently attached to wires and communicate only in grunts.

‘I’ll ring on Christmas Day,’ she says. ‘I’m going to a party tonight.’

‘Oh.’ She knows this will intrigue her mother. ‘Are you going with Max?’

‘No, he’s arriving tomorrow.’

‘That’s nice.’ Her mother has met Max and, to Ruth’s disappointment, rather approves. ‘You must bring him for Sunday lunch one day.’

‘I will.’

‘Daddy’s longing to meet him. We’re both praying for you, Ruth.’ Significant pause.