Ruth's First Christmas Tree

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Ruth’s First Christmas Tree

About the Author

More in the Ruth Galloway Mystery Series

Coming Soon from Elly Griffiths

First U.S. edition

Copyright © 2012 Elly Griffiths

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

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e
ISBN
978-0-544-14777-5
v1.1212

22 December

‘
THE SPIRITS ARE STRONG
in this one,’ says the man in the white robe and gumboots. ‘The goddess of the forest has breathed on him.’

Ruth is not unduly disconcerted by this description. After all, it was her friend Cathbad – lab assistant and part-time druid – who recommended this Christmas tree seller to her. The empty parking lot between two warehouses has been transformed into an enchanted forest with fairy lights strung in the branches of the trees and ambient music twinkling from speakers concealed in their foliage. The seller, a young man with dreadlocks and an earnest expression, introduces himself as Leaf. His girlfriend, sitting on the steps of a caravan parked at the entrance of the site, volunteers that her name is Raindrop.

Snowdrop would be more appropriate, thinks Ruth. It’s three days before Christmas and a bitter wind is blowing across Norfolk, direct from Siberia according to the locals, bringing with it the first flakes of snow. Ruth shivers in her anorak and hopes that the snow won’t settle before she has to collect her daughter, Kate, from the childminder. These days she tends to view everything through the filter of her concern for her daughter. War in Afghanistan? Hope it doesn’t affect traffic on the A148. Tsunami in Japan? Hope those rising water levels don’t affect King’s Lynn. She doesn’t like this trait in herself – she used to be interested and concerned about world events for their own sake – but she accepts it as one of the less attractive side-effects of motherhood.

‘All our trees are grown in sustainable forests,’ says Leaf. ‘Raindrop and I talk to them every day. They’re our friends.’ He adds, rather more briskly, ‘That one’s twenty-five quid.’

Ruth looks at the tree. She can’t really see anything special about it – it’s green and pointy and spiky, that’s about it. She needs a tree. She has promised herself that she will make this the perfect Christmas for Kate. It’s Kate’s second Christmas. She didn’t really register the first one, being only a month old at the time, but now she can recognize Santa Claus at a hundred paces and yesterday said ‘present’, very loudly and clearly. So she is on her way to becoming a typical product of the consumerist society. Well done, Ruth. A triumph for modern parenting.

But this Christmas it won’t just be Ruth and Kate, because Ruth has also invited Max, her . . . What is Max? Her boyfriend? Surely it’s ridiculous to have a boyfriend at forty-one? Her partner? Sounds too official for a relationship that has, so far, encompassed two weekends and an Aborigine repatriation ceremony. Anyway, she doesn’t need a partner. She has Kate and her beloved cat, Flint. She has her job as a forensic archaeologist, her friends and a somewhat stressful relationship with Kate’s father, DCI Harry Nelson. She’s happy as she is. But why then is she going to so much trouble to do all the Christmassy things when usually her only concession to the festive season is watching the
Doctor Who
special with a glass of white? This year she has put up her cards, bought an Advent calendar and even arranged holly behind her picture frames. She has also bought a turkey (M & S, pre-stuffed), mince pies (ditto containing brandy and grated nutmeg) and a ton of sprouts. And now she is standing in the freezing cold debating the finer points of a Christmas tree.

‘I’ll take it,’ she says in answer to Leaf’s raised eyebrows. ‘Is it okay to collect it later? I’ve got some shopping to do.’

‘Time has no meaning,’ replies Leaf, adding that he shuts at five.

Ruth heads to the shopping centre, a place she detests. But the perfect Christmas involves ritual spending and Ruth still has to buy crackers, champagne and a present for Max. She might even find something new to wear at Shona and Phil’s party tomorrow. Thinking of the party, Ruth’s spirits, already lowered by the sight of a ten-foot plastic reindeer, sink below the Plimsoll line.

The shopping centre is heaving. Surely real people do their shopping earlier than this? Ruth attempts to buy some wrapping paper and gives up at the sight of the queue. Kate won’t care if her presents are wrapped or not and Max . . . What the hell should she get for Max? Clothes seem too personal somehow and anyway she’s not sure of his size. He’s tall, about as tall as Nelson, but thinner. Nelson’s not overweight but somehow he seems to take up a lot of space. Mind you, having come close to death last month, he probably isn’t looking his best at the moment.

Damn! She had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about Nelson. Now she remembers the time when she saw him Christmas-shopping, in this very mall, three years ago. She had hardly known him then but remembers watching the family – grumpy dad, glamorous wife, surly teenage daughters – and thinking what a cliché they were. But, even then, lurking behind a rack of novelty calendars, she had felt oddly drawn to Nelson, weighed down as he was by family and designer carrier bags. He had looked different, more substantial than the academic types that surrounded her, more serious, somehow more dangerous. And he had certainly proved dangerous to her peace of mind. A brief affair resulted in the birth of Kate, and now Ruth is stuck with him for ever whilst Nelson – Nelson is still safe in the bosom of his nuclear family.

In desperation she buys a book about the Romans for Max, aware that, as an archaeology professor, he probably possesses every known work on the subject. Still, this one has some nice pictures of Fishbourne Roman Palace, where she knows Max has done some digging. She adds some Christmas socks and a novelty dog calendar. Might as well tick all the festive boxes, and her only serious rival for Max’s affection is his dog, Claudia. She also buys some crackers – two boxes for the price of one – and a red tablecloth decorated with snowflakes. As she heads back out into the crowd, Cliff Richard is blaring from the loudspeakers. Christmas time. Mistletoe and wine. Ruth once found the body of an Iron Age girl with mistletoe berries in her stomach. Mistletoe was sacred to the druids, who believed that the plant gave protection against illness and witchcraft. It was also linked to fertility. In fact, Cathbad once told Ruth that the juice from the berries represented the sperm of the gods. Gives a whole new perspective on kissing under the mistletoe. But mistletoe is also highly poisonous, and Ruth’s Iron Age girl was probably destined for a horrible death. It’s a long way from Cliff’s jolly Christian rhyme. Sod it, she can’t be bothered to go clothes-shopping. She’ll just wear her black trousers and a vaguely sparkly top. Nobody will look at her anyway.

‘Ruth!’

A blonde woman in a red coat is coming towards her. She is followed by a dark man, rather thinner than the vision of three years ago, but still recognizable as DCI Harry Nelson.

‘Hi Michelle,’ says Ruth. ‘Hi Nelson.’

‘Isn’t this crazy?’ says Michelle. ‘I always vow I’ll have all my shopping done by the end of November but there are always a few bits you forget, aren’t there?’

‘That’s because you never stop buying things,’ says Nelson. ‘You’ve bought about a hundred presents for the girls.’

‘Well, they still need their stocking presents even though they’re grown-up,’ says Michelle, flicking back her hair.

Ruth stares at her. Michelle knows about Kate but the knowledge is too recent for anyone to feel comfortable with it. Ruth doesn’t feel that she can mention either Michelle’s daughters or her own. But, standing there in the shadow of the monstrous reindeer, she suddenly feels a great affection for Michelle. In fact, she almost wishes that she could spend Christmas with her. Michelle would cook for her and buy her stocking presents. She suddenly wonders if anyone will buy her a present. Her parents, born-again Christians, sent her a card informing her that, in lieu of gifts, they have purchased a donkey for the Sudan in her name. Her brother occasionally obliges with the latest Rebus book, but there’s been nothing from him in the post. Will Max get her something?

Nelson looks anxious to be off but Michelle seems to feel something of the Dickensy spirit.

‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea?’ she says. ‘Or something stronger. It is Christmas after all.’

‘I’d love to,’ says Ruth, ‘but I’ve got to pick up a Christmas tree.’

‘Oh, we always have an artificial tree,’ says Michelle, ‘that way you don’t get pine needles everywhere.’

But when Ruth returns to the parking lot, there is no sign of Leaf, the caravan or any Christmas trees. There is only a police car containing a man eating a burger. Ruth taps on the car’s window.

‘Clough!’

The man, DS Dave Clough, swallows the last of his bun and gets out of the car. He’s dressed in jeans and a sheepskin jacket and looks rather like a successful football manager. A curly haired dog is sitting in the passenger seat.

‘Ruth. What brings you here?’

‘I’ve come to collect my Christmas tree.’

Clough laughs. ‘Been buying from Leaf, have you? Let me guess who pointed you in his direction.’

Bloody Cathbad. It’s only four-thirty but it’s pitch-black and the snow is drifting around the deserted lot. Where is Ruth going to find her perfect Christmas tree now?

‘What happened to Leaf?’ she asked.

‘He was selling without a licence,’ says Clough. ‘Got a tip-off that we were on our way and did a runner. Trees, girlfriend, mood music and all.’

‘What about my tree?’ says Ruth. ‘I’d already paid him.’

Clough smiles pityingly. ‘He’ll be halfway to Glastonbury by now.’

Ruth sighs. She has to pick Kate up at five. Where is she going to find a tree between here and the childminder’s house? She asks Clough.

‘Try the garden centre. They’ve got some nice ones there. Trace and I can’t risk a tree this year, what with Chummy there.’

He indicates the dog, who is grinning out of the half-open car window. ‘He chewed up our new leather sofa last week. Trace wasn’t best pleased.’

Ruth drives home through the slanting snow feeling resentful about Cathbad, Christmas and druids everywhere. Ruth lives on a beautiful but lonely stretch of coastline known as the Saltmarsh. There are three cottages in the row but two are currently empty; one is a holiday home only occupied for a couple of weeks a year, the other belongs to an Indigenous Australian called Bob Woonunga, who is currently stretched out on a beach in North Stradbroke Island. But as Ruth approaches, the security light flares into life, almost shockingly bright, and Ruth sees a figure silhouetted against her front gate. The figure, looming out of the swirling snow, looks sinister in the extreme, cloaked and hooded like the grim reaper, but Ruth finds herself smiling in mingled exasperation and pleasure. Cathbad.

As soon as she has parked, Cathbad appears at the car window, smiling at Kate, who is sitting in her baby-seat next to a rather scruffy-looking Christmas tree.

‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ says Ruth.

‘Interesting phrase,’ says Cathbad, brushing snow off his hood. ‘A bit like “bone of contention”. Why is it always bones, I wonder.’

At another time, Ruth, whose expertise is bones, would be happy to discuss this point, but now all she can think about is her perfect Christmas disappearing on the back of a caravan together with Leaf and Raindrop.

‘Your druid friend disappeared with my tree,’ she says.

‘But you’ve got a tree,’ says Cathbad, pulling faces at Kate.

‘Tree! Tree!’ shouts Kate.

‘This is a second-best tree from the garden centre,’ says Ruth. ‘My first tree was special. Apparently the goddess of the forest had breathed on it.’

‘That’s certainly special,’ agrees Cathbad. ‘Do you want a hand getting this one out of the car?’

Together they haul the tree out of the car, and in a reasonably short time it is installed in Ruth’s untidy sitting room. Flint comes up and sniffs it suspiciously.

‘Shall we decorate it?’ says Cathbad. ‘Have you got any decorations?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth proudly. ‘I bought them last week.’ She has even bought fairy lights – tiny lanterns in red, green and gold – tinsel and a box of baubles.

‘People say the idea of putting up a Christmas tree originated in the nineteenth century,’ says Cathbad, selecting a golden Santa from the box, ‘but it’s far older than that. It’s linked to the pagan tradition of the Donar Oak.’

‘What’s the Donar Oak when it’s at home?’ asks Ruth, handing Kate a string of tinsel.

‘It’s a legendary oak tree sacred to the Germanic tribes,’ says Cathbad. ‘Also called Thor’s Oak. Donar probably comes from the German word for thunder, “Donner”.’