I give him a weak smile, wondering how it is that he always seems to know what I’m thinking; and, more importantly, how todistractmefrom what I’m thinking, when what I’m thinking is that we’ve both obviously lost our minds, and this is never going to work.
“What about this one?”
He gestures to a tree which is oddly lopsided, with more branches on one side than the other.
“I don’t even know why you made me come here,” I protest, shaking my head. “I don’twanta Christmas tree, Elliot. Dad and I haven’t bothered with one in years now. It’s kind of weird, when you really think about it; putting a giant dead tree in your living room. You’d never do that at any other time of year, would you? Plus, they’re messy and huge, and you have to spend weeks picking the needles out of the rug once they’re gone.”
Oh, and they’redead, obviously.
There’s that, too.
“Why would I want to get attached to something that’s already dead?” I ask plaintively. “There’s no point. It’ll just make me feel sad.”
“Because it’ll be beautiful while it’s here,” says Elliot, stopping in front of what must surely be the worst excuse for a ‘Christmas tree’ in the entire field. “And it’ll bring you joy.”
But this tree is definitelynotbeautiful. It’s like the Christmas tree version of a Charles Dickens’ orphan; sickly and weak, with a look about it that suggests it might not live to see Christmas day.
In spite of myself, I kind of love it.
“Not everything has to last forever, Holly,” says Elliot gently. “Some things are only meant to be in your life for a little while; it doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy them while they last.”
I look up at him with what I know is a panicked expression.
“I’m speaking hypothetically, obviously,” he says quickly. “And, well, abouttrees. I didn’t meanus. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Hypothetically,” I reply, smiling to let him know he’s forgiven,“If Iwereto buy a Christmas tree, this is the one I’d buy.”
“Because you feel sorry for it?” he replies, grinning in an ‘I knew it’ kind of way.
“Yes. Because I feel sorry for it. And because ifIdon’t buy it, no one else will. So it’ll just have to sit here on its own, and watch all of its tree friends go off to new homes, leaving it behind, all alone. You should never have brought me here, Elliot. Seriously. This won’t end well now.”
“Um, again, youdoknow it’s just a tree, don’t you?” Elliot says, looking like he’s starting to agree with me. “It’s not a metaphor. It doesn’t have feelings, like we do.”
“Oh, I know,” I assure him, smiling to prove how very sane I am. “But it’s not ‘just a tree’. It’s a poor little unwanted tree. And that means I’m going to have to buy it now, aren’t I? I suppose we could put it in the shop window, with some fairy lights on it, rather than trying to get it upstairs to the flat. Maybe it’ll help persuade some customers to come in.”
Given the sorry state of the tree in question, I very much doubt it’s capable of persuading anyone to do anything at all. And I’m not sure there are enough fairy lights in all the land to make this thing look festive. But now my mind is made up, and I can’t possibly leave it, so Elliot pays Billy the farmer (“I absolutely insist,” he says firmly, when I try to object. “It was my idea to get a Christmas tree, so I’m the one who’s going to pay for it…”) and then carries it to his hire car, where it immediately deposits at least 20% of its needles, before driving it back to the shop, where it loses another 10%.
“What’s this?” says Dad, looking at the tree as if he’s never seen one before as Elliot and I drag it to a space in front of the window, our cheeks red from the winter chill. “I didn’t realize you wanted a Christmas tree, Holly? You should’ve said. I’d have bought you one myself.”
He somehow manages to say this with an inflection that makes it hard to know which one of us has disappointed him more: Elliot for buying me a Christmas tree, or me for wanting one in the first place.
“I didn’t,” I reassure him quickly. “Elliot and I were just passing the farm — well, it’s just a field, really — and we thought it might be fun to take a look. Then I saw this guy, and, well, here we are.”
Dad’s mouth settles into a thin line of disapproval, although whether it’s aimed at me, Elliot, the tree, or all three of us, it’s still impossible to tell.
“Um, I’ll just pop upstairs and see if I can find some decorations for it,” I say, ignoring the pleading look Elliot gives me as he silently begs me not to leave him alone with Dad.
But maybe it’ll be good for them.
Maybe it’ll give them time to bond?
It takes me at least 15 minutes to find the old box of Christmas decorations which have been stuffed at the very back of a cupboard in the flat above the shop, and when I come back downstairs with it, I find Dad and Elliot standing at opposite sides of the room, with Elsie Poole in between them, as if she’s about to referee a boxing match.
“Oh, Holly, there you are,” she says, looking relieved to see me. “I just popped in to give you this. It’s for a book festival Maisie’sbeen planning; you know, through the library? Well, it seems she’s managed to get the community association on board, so it’s going to be happening in a few days. I said I’d help with the publicity, and see if we can get your father involved too.”
She holds up a home-made ‘leaflet’ which her sister has obviously made in Paint Shop Pro, with the slogan, “Come for the books, stay for the gossip.”
“You’d like to take part in a book fair, now, wouldn’t you, Alan?” Elsie says soothingly, speaking to Dad as if he’s recovering from a serious brain injury. “It’ll be good for the shop. And Christmas is no time for competition, so Maisie says you two should put the hostilities behind you and work together for once. Seeing as it’s for charity, you know?”
