“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 realizeyou 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’s been 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?”
Dad blinks, as baffled as I am by the idea that he and Maisie are locked in some kind of bookish fight to the death.
“I suppose it could be good for business,” he says, coming over and taking the leaflet for me. “Christmas Eve, is it? Bit short notice, Maisie, but I suppose you’ll help with this, Holly, won’t you?”
Elliot and I exchange looks.
We both know I’m not just going to drop everything and move to America with him, but we have still been talking about the possibility of me going there for Christmas. “Just for a week or so,” Elliot said earlier, as we drove back to the store, the tree in the back seat tickling the backs of our necks. “Just to get a feel for the place; see how you like it.”
I didn’t say yes or no. I need to talk to Dad about it first; make sure he’s going to be okay with me leaving him on his own for a few days.
And now it looks like the time to have that conversation has come.
“About that,” I begin. “Christmas Eve, I mean. I was thinking … if it’s okay with you, I mean, that I might … well, I might like to …”
The shop door opens, and I stop speaking, grateful for the interruption, until I realize it’s Martin Baxter from next door, carrying a large brown package and shaking the snow off his boots.
“Holly,” he says, beaming at me. “I brought you some mince pies. They’re fresh out of the oven. I thought you and your dad might like them.”
He holds up the bag, and I smile back weakly, not wanting to tell him I can’t stand mince pies.
Across the room, Elliot’s eyebrows twitch as he takes in ‘the competition’. Then he pulls a book from the shelf closest to him and holds it up, winking at me from over the top of it, and forcing me to suppress a giggle.
“Wonderful, Martin,” says Dad, rubbing his hands together with pleasure as he comes forward to take the bag. “How kind of you. You must thank your parents for us.”
Like me, Martin still lives in his parents’ flat above their shop in the village. It’s another example of one of the things he thinks we have in common. Unlike me, though, Martin seems quite content with this state of affairs. I expect he’ll be there forever, untilBaxters and Sonbakers is just the ‘and son’ bit.
I give an involuntary shiver, my life if I stay in Bramblebury flashing rapidly in front of my eyes.
