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

What do you think?’
    ‘Babies have a way of spreading,’ says Ruth, but she has to admit that the room is beautiful, pale yellow with a frieze of sun, moon and stars. A mobile of glittering birds hangs from the ceiling.
    ‘It’s lovely,’ says Ruth. ‘Perfect for a boy or a girl.’
    ‘Oh, we don’t want to know,’ says Shona, sinking onto a blue velvet chair. ‘That would spoil the surprise.’
    For Ruth there was enough surprise in getting pregnant in the first place. But thinking of her miracle daughter makes her feel warm towards Shona.
    ‘It’s so exciting’, she says. ‘Are you excited?’
    ‘Ish,’ says Shona. ‘I can’t really imagine life with a baby. But let’s talk about you. Is Max arriving tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That’s wonderful. Your first Christmas together. Must mean that it’s serious.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Ruth. ‘We don’t want to rush things.’
    Shona laughs. ‘You’re so cautious. Phil and I knew immediately that we were meant for each other.’
    Even though Phil was married to someone else, thinks Ruth. Suddenly she doesn’t want to discuss Max and, more than anything, she doesn’t want to go back downstairs into the glamorous, chattering throng.
    ‘I can’t stay long,’ she says. ‘Kate had a bit of a temperature when I left.’ She crosses her fingers behind her back.
    Shona immediately looks concerned. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want to ring to see how she is? You can use the phone in Phil’s study. It’s hard to get a signal here sometimes.’
    *
    The spare room, where Ruth has spent many a night, has also been completely transformed. It is now painted dark red with bookshelves on two of the walls and a serious-looking desk in the centre of the room. Shona backs out tactfully but Ruth feels that she is still honour-bound to make the phone call. She sits in Phil’s swivel chair and picks up the receiver. The desk is very tidy, a pile of letters under a paperweight, a blotter, a collection of pens in a silver tankard. No archaeology journals or exam scripts, no ‘to do’ list. Ruth suppresses the ignoble thought that Phil doesn’t do any real work in here.
    Cathbad answers quickly. ‘Hi Ruth. What’s up?’
    ‘Hi. Just wondered how Kate was.’
    ‘She’s fine,’ says Cathbad. ‘Fast asleep. Go back and enjoy the party.’
    Ruth thinks that she can hear noises in the background. She wonders if Kate really is asleep. ‘I won’t be late back,’ she says.
    Putting down the phone, she thinks that she will make her excuses and leave. She pulls aside the expensive-looking brocade curtain and sees that the snow has started again. The last thing she wants is to get snowed in with Shona and Phil for Christmas. She is just about to leave the room when something makes her look back at the desk. Blotter, pens, phone, letters, paperweight. She moves closer. She sees that what she had taken for an ornamental paperweight is, in fact, a small lump of wood – oak, rounded by immersion in water, with a definite square hole where a linchpin would have fitted.
    *
    The drive home is a nightmare. The snow is falling heavily now and her windscreen wipers struggle to keep even a patch of clear window. Ruth leans forward, hands tense on the wheel, peering into the night. Her headlights seem only to reflect more snow, the flakes whirling in a funnel of watery light. It’s not so bad in King’s Lynn, where there are streetlights and other vehicles, buses and taxis looming up with terrifying suddenness, but as soon as she hits the A148, it’s a complete whiteout. Back and forth go the gallant little wipers, buckling under the weight of snow. Ruth leans even further forward, she can’t see any signs or landmarks. She turns on Radio 4 to give her courage but someone is reading Jo Nesbo’s
The Snowman
, which only makes her more frightened. Surely she must be near the Hunstanton turn-off by now? There is something mesmeric about the swirling snow; she imagines herself driving along this road for ever, Norfolk’s answer to the Flying Dutchman, endlessly circling her destination, never again to reach the comfort of home. Only yesterday she bought one of those snow globes for Kate and had enjoyed seeing the child’s face light up when the globe was agitated and the little plastic scene disappeared under the ensuing blizzard. Now it’s as if she herself is trapped inside the glass toy, invisible behind the snowstorm. Her nose is almost touching the