Ruth's First Christmas Tree: A Ruth Galloway Christmas Story
Author: Elly Griffiths
Date: 2012-12-11 00:00:00+00:00
Description: A spirited stocking stuffer for fans craving a taste of Ruth Galloway in their holiday season. It is three days before Christmas and a bitter wind is blowing across Norfolk. Until her daughter was born, forensic archaeologist Ruth Galloway didn’t do Christmas, but now that Kate is a year old, she wants it to be special. She must get a tree, shop for food, clean the house, buy presents, including one for her new boyfriend—who she isn’t even sure is her boyfriend—and remember to get the turkey out of the freezer. But time is rushing by and the best-laid plans don’t always work out …
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Rights: Please read the legal notice included in this e-book and/or check the copyright status in your country.

Table of Contents

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.

www.hmhbooks.com

eISBN 978-0-544-14777-5
v1.1212

Ruth’s First Christmas Tree

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”.’

‘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.

‘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 trying to poison him.’

Ruth laughs. The pretensions of the Head of the Department are a continual source of entertainment to his team.

‘He’s joined the arts crowd now,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s even wearing a velvet jacket.’

‘I know,’ says Bob in awe. ‘Sybil thought he was wearing lifts. I’m sure he’s a good few inches taller than he used to be.’

They look across the room to where Phil is laughing heartily with two arty types dressed entirely in black. He is certainly walking tall these days. Maybe it’s the joy of impending fatherhood, maybe it’s pride at having the beautiful Shona as his partner. Or maybe it’s heels after all.

‘Where’s Sybil?’

‘She got trapped in the kitchen talking about phonics. She didn’t really want to come tonight. Thought it would be disloyal to Sue.’

Sue is Phil’s ex-wife, with whom he already has two children. Ruth never really liked Sue but she does feel that it’s slightly sinister, the way she’s been completely erased from the picture. Phil talks about the coming child as if he’s never known parenthood before and the years with Sue have vanished as if they have never been. It’s not a good sign when an archaeologist starts to rewrite the past.

‘Does Sybil still see Sue?’ she asks. She likes Sybil, a cheerful primary school teacher (hence the phonics discussion), and can’t really see that she has much in common with Sue, whose main topic of conversation seemed to be aromatherapy oils.

‘Sometimes,’ says Bob, trying to eat a falafel and balance his glass at the same time. ‘Sue’s still really bitter about . . .’ He inclines his head towards Phil, now throwing his head back in riotous mirth.

‘I’m not surprised,’ says Ruth. She thinks of Michelle and Nelson. If Nelson ever left Michelle for her, the guilt would be unbearable. But Nelson would never leave his wife and that, too, sometimes feels unbearable.

‘How’s Kate?’ asks Bob. ‘She must be growing up quickly.’

‘She’s just over a year old.’ Ruth is grateful for the change of subject. ‘How’s . . .’ She can’t remember the names of Bob’s children. Luckily, he can.

‘Sam’s in sixth form. Becca’s at Sussex, reading sociology. Libby’s in her last year at Sheffield.’

‘Do any of them want to be archaeologists?’

‘God, I hope not.’ Bob looks almost guiltily round the room. ‘Why would anyone do a backbreaking job that pays hardly any money?’

Why indeed, thinks Ruth. She just knows that, despite the lack of money and the days spent digging in the freezing cold, she would never do anything else.

‘How’s your friend?’ asks Bob. ‘The warlock in the chemistry department.’

‘Cathbad? He’s babysitting.’

Bob looks suitably discomfited. Ruth takes pity on him. ‘Cathbad’s Kate’s godfather. He’s really good with her.’

Bob is obviously trying to think of something to say and is saved by the appearance of Shona, a vision in a gold smock and lots of dangly jewellery.

‘Ruth! So this is where you’ve been hiding.’

A remark which, like many of Shona’s comments, combines to make Ruth feel both childlike and stupid. She hasn’t been hiding, she is simply chatting with a workmate, and it was Shona who ignored her in the first place. Still, she knows that there’s no point in saying any of this.

‘Hi Shona. You look great.’

‘Thanks. I feel like a whale. A great big golden whale. Did you feel like this in the last months?’

I feel like that all the time, Ruth wants to tell her. Instead she says, brightly, ‘Not long now. Are you all prepared?’

‘Almost. Do you want to see the baby’s room?’

Before Ruth can answer, Shona has dragged her away without a word to Bob. Ruth mouths ‘’Bye’ over her shoulder.

The hallway and the stairs are now full of people. Ruth sees Liam, Shona’s ex-lover, as well as Freya, a druid friend of Cathbad’s, and several graduate students. For a lunatic moment, she almost thinks that she sees Erik, though he has been dead almost two years. But it’s just another man with long grey hair and a faintly piratical expression. Shona weaves her way through the crowd, kissing cheeks and pressing hands. Ruth plods in her wake, nodding and smiling at people she knows. Surely she can go home soon.

Shona opens the door on a little room at the top of the stairs. ‘We were going to use the spare room but Phil needs that for his office. Anyway, this is plenty big enough for a baby. 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 Nesbø’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 windscreen now. She’s sure that she’s missed the turning.

No. Thank God. There it is, mercifully illuminated. Ruth takes the turning wide and continues her painfully slow progress. How does that song go? Driving home for Christmas. Ruth sings a few bars and realizes that she is almost crying. She so badly wants to be back in her little cottage with Kate beside her. Why did she ever go to that stupid party? But beside her, buried in the depths of her organizer handbag, is a piece of wood that, she is almost sure, comes from a Bronze Age henge. Why had Phil taken it? To have a souvenir of the most famous find in Norfolk’s history? To say that his correspondence was weighed down by a three-thousand-year-old axle? Whatever the reason, Phil had no idea of the importance of the object, not only to the museum but to its elderly custodian, now lying dangerously ill in hospital. Ruth must get the wood back to Cathbad.

Then, suddenly, there’s the Saltmarsh roundabout. Ruth drives round it twice before she finds her exit. Nearly there. But this is the most dangerous part of the journey. The road is raised up over the marshes; one false turn of the wheel and Ruth will be in the ditch, where she could well freeze to death and be found years later, like Ötzi the iceman, the five-thousand-year-old body found on the Italian–Austrian border. Ruth the ice woman. Frosty the snowman. Nearly there. Driving home for Christmas. Ruth is singing almost manically now. I’m coming, Kate. Mummy’s almost home. Christmas time. Mistletoe and wine. In the bleak midwinter. Now she can see the light from her cottage, its flickering glow like a beacon in the darkness. Flickering? Why the hell is it flickering? Ruth feels a new panic overtaking her as she parks by the gate. There is definitely something odd about the light. What’s happening in her house?

She flings open the door and stands, transfixed, on the doorstep. The room is lit by dozens of candles and there, illuminated in the golden light, are Cathbad and Nelson and, hanging from the ceiling, an upside-down Christmas tree, twinkling with lights and hung with strange, glittering decorations.

‘It’s Yggdrasil,’ says Cathbad. ‘We thought, if it’s up high, Kate and Flint won’t be able to get at it.’

‘It’s amazing,’ says Ruth, coming closer. ‘How did you get it up there?’

‘By ropes and pulleys,’ says Nelson. ‘Took us ages.’

‘Lucky Nelson arrived when he did,’ says Cathbad. ‘I couldn’t have managed it by myself.’

‘I came to drop off some presents,’ says Nelson. He gestures towards two rather clumsily wrapped parcels. One is addressed to Kate and one to Ruth.

‘That’s so kind of you,’ says Ruth. She is afraid that she’s about to cry.

‘I made new decorations because yours got broken,’ Cathbad explains. ‘They’re mainly dried fruit and paper. We wanted to make it special because it’s your first Christmas tree.’

‘It is special,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s unique.’

‘It has turned out rather well.’ Cathbad looks modest. ‘How was the party?’

‘Dreadful,’ says Ruth. ‘Phil was wearing high heels.’

‘I always knew he was weird,’ says Nelson. ‘Bet there wasn’t even any decent beer.’

‘Mainly champagne,’ says Ruth. ‘Bob Bullmore brought some home-made cider.’ Nelson shudders. ‘But I only drank orange juice.’

‘Well, let’s have a drink now,’ says Cathbad. ‘I’ve made some more mulled wine. Do you want some?’

‘That would be lovely,’ says Ruth, sinking down on the sofa, still staring up at the tree. ‘And I’ve got something for you.’ She takes the piece of wood out of her bag.

Much later, when Cathbad and Nelson have gone home, Ruth is still sitting and staring at the tree. The snow has stopped but it’s still lying thick on the ground, deep and crisp and even. Nelson was confident that his heavy Mercedes could cope and he has taken Cathbad with him. Cathbad is planning to visit Driffield tomorrow, taking with him the missing piece of Bronze Age wood. ‘He’ll get better now. I’m sure of it.’ Ruth hopes so. Even if the wooden peg itself doesn’t have special powers, she is sure that Cathbad’s powerful conviction will go a long way towards healing his friend. Maybe that’s what shamanism is all about. It’s enough that someone, somewhere, genuinely believes that the magic will work.

Will Max be able to drive up from Brighton tomorrow? Ruth doesn’t know, and at the moment she doesn’t care. All she can think of is that Nelson left his family to drive through the snow to bring her a present. She looks at the parcel, sitting under the inverted tip of the tree. It’s small and irregular. It could be jewellery or an ornament of some kind. It could, knowing Nelson, be a tiny toolkit for the car. At the moment, she has no desire to open it. She too wants a surprise on Christmas morning. Still, she’d better hide the parcels before she goes to bed. Kate could never be persuaded to wait before tearing off the paper. But with age comes patience. Ruth is quite prepared to wait, looking up at her wonderful Paradise Tree, brought to her by ancient magic and the love of friends.

About the Author

ELLY GRIFFITHS’ Ruth Galloway novels take for their inspiration Elly’s husband, who gave up a city job to train as an archaeologist, and her aunt who lives on the Norfolk coast and who filled her niece's head with the myths and legends of that area. Elly has two children and lives near Brighton.

Visit www.hmhbooks.com to purchase the latest Ruth Galloway mystery.