Ruth's First Christmas Tree: A Ruth Galloway Short Story

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.
    ‘I know. Thank you.’
    Ruth can hear her mother’s sigh all the way from Eltham. It’s not easy having a daughter who’s an unmarried mother, an atheist unmarried mother at that. Ruth feels sorry for her parents, but not sorry enough to shack up with any of the chinless Christians regularly presented for her inspection.
    ‘Kate’s really looking forward to Christmas,’ she says, to placate her mother who, despite everything, adores her granddaughter.
    ‘I’m sure she is. She’d love the crib at our church. We’ve got life-size cows.’
    ‘Life-size cows. Wow. Look Mum, I’d better go. I’ve got masses to do.’
    ‘Give little Katie a kiss from her grandma.’ Like Nelson, Ruth’s mother can never call Kate by her plain, unadorned name. It drives Ruth mad.
    ‘Of course I will. Bye Mum.’
    Kate is in the kitchen attempting to pick up the tree. Flint is watching from the window ledge.
    ‘No, Kate. Leave it. We’ll have a tree next year, I promise. And life-size cows if you want.’
    She makes lunch, tidies the kitchen and embarks on a futile hunt for wrapping paper. When Cathbad arrives at six he finds Ruth wrapping presents in brown paper. ‘I think it looks chic,’ she says defiantly.
    ‘And very ecologically friendly,’ says Cathbad. ‘I make all my own presents out of recycled driftwood.’
    Ruth can believe this, having, over the years, received several dream-catchers made from shells, wood and pebbles. But this year, though Cathbad has delivered a large present for Kate, there doesn’t seem to be anything for her, recycled or not.
    ‘When are you leaving?’ asks Cathbad.
    ‘In half an hour,’ says Ruth. ‘Shona said to get there for seven.’ She looks doubtfully at her daughter, sitting happily on the floor surrounded by brown paper. ‘I’m sure Kate will be tired soon.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ says Cathbad. ‘I’m good at getting her to sleep.’
    This is true. Cathbad’s Celtic lullabies have an almost narcotic quality. Ruth feels pretty tired herself. How soon can she leave the party?
    ‘I won’t be late back,’ she says.
    ‘Be as late as you like,’ says Cathbad. ‘Enjoy yourself. It’s Christmas. ’
    *
    As soon as Ruth arrives at the party, she realizes that enjoying herself is out of the question. For a start, Shona, who begged her to arrive early ‘so I’ll have someone to talk to’, is already at the centre of a laughing, champagne-swilling crowd and hardly has time to acknowledge Ruth’s presence. ‘Get yourself a drink, Ruth. You know where it is.’ Grimly, Ruth pours herself some orange juice. She can’t afford even one drink if she has to negotiate the Saltmarsh road in the dark. And more snow is forecast.
    Shona’s house is decorated in a style that Ruth recognizes as post-modern Christmas. This includes a vast black tree in the sitting room, adorned with white tinsel. Avoiding its baleful branches, Ruth looks round for someone to talk to. She recognizes a lot of faces from the university but most people have brought their partners. She can’t just insert herself into a circle and disrupt the cosy couples’ chat about schools and house prices. Besides, Shona’s friends from the English Department are all so glamorous and theatrical. On Ruth’s left a beautiful Indian woman is holding forth on ritual and symbolism in the plays of Edward Bond. Wasn’t Bond the one who wrote a play where they stone a baby to death? Hardly very Christmassy. Maybe Ruth should butt in and talk about Tiny Tonderai.
    ‘Hi Ruth.’ Ruth turns in relief and sees Bob Bullmore, a colleague in the Archaeology Department, reassuringly scruffy in jeans and an unravelling grey jumper.
    ‘Hi Bob. Enjoying the party?’
    ‘I’m not really one for the beautiful people,’ says Bob. ‘I don’t even like champagne. I brought some home-made cider but Phil looked as though I was