She'd stood in the row, the grass beneath us crisp with frost, with her gloved hands clasped together on the strap of her handbag, looking up at me hopefully.
"Oh Martin, it's so beautiful!" She'd said breathlessly and my heart had sunk.
"Louisa, it's a just a tree." I'd replied, my desperation clearly evident in my voice. I'd gazed around me, slightly manically, indicating the plethora of stumpy, resolute firs with a sweep of my hand. "What about one of those?"
And then she'd bitten her lip and gazed at me so imploringly that I'd known instantly that resistance was indeed futile. I stared at it despondently, all eight feet plus of it, its blue needles glistening with dew, its dense branches reaching upwards so symmetrically. Louisa was correct in her assertion that, as far as Christmas trees go, it was rather imposing but all I could think about was how I was going to fit it into the car, never mind the cottage?
I glanced across at the gormless, hand-saw wielding salesman who stood ambivalently, staring blankly at the tree in question. Like quite a few of the local population, he exhibited a rather alarming degree of strabismus and I wondered briefly if he'd ever consulted an ophthalmologist about a recession procedure.
"It just seems...umm...a shame to cut it down." I said, my moment of hope cut short by the narrowing of my wife's eyes as, suddenly, she glared at me
"Nevertheless, Martin, I would like this tree." She said and, instantly, she was transformed from a sweet beseeching child to a battle-hardened sceptic, folding her arms across her chest and staring at me, as her competitive spirit flared. "And James would also like this tree, wouldn't you darling?"
I felt my jaw drop and I shot her an indignant glance as my son wrapped his hand around mine and stared up at me with huge hopeful eyes. Obviously, the rules of engagement had seismically altered and using our son to manipulate me was now clearly an acceptable parameter; a change that left me feeling slightly indignant and I'd lifted my chin and looked at her, my stare clearly indicative that I was not born yesterday.
"Oh right." I'd replied, haughtily, as she wrestled with a guilty smirk that threatened to overwhelm her face entirely.
Glancing at Louisa, the witless dolt with the saw stepped forward, as if he'd seen enough browbeaten husbands to clearly recognise when the game was up, bending over sluggishly as soon as he received her rather triumphant nod and ripping the blade across the trunk in a decisive and effective manoeuvre. We'd then lugged it up the frozen field, stumbling across the rutted ground, and he'd helped me heave it on to the roof of the car where I'd struggled to secure it with the help of a long length of expensive soft rope, wincing as it screeched across my paintwork, the blanket I'd brought with me proving woefully inadequate. My dismay at the obstruction to my rear vision, and the safe operation of my vehicle, was only exceeded by my horrified choking as I forked out an outrageous sum for what was effectively a dead tree, and I was not mollified in the slightest by my family's apparent euphoria at the prospect of this overpriced, oversized piece of Christmas lunacy cluttering up our tiny house.
When we arrived home, it had started to rain quite hard, a cold, stinging precipitation that whipped at my face and bit at my extremities so I'd ushered Louisa up the front stairs and into the kitchen, hurriedly, oblivious to her reprimanding me every step of the way, apparently as I was making a fuss over nothing. As the weather worsened, I'd gone back to the car, more than slightly dismayed at the prospect of manhandling the enormous, wet tree into my consulting room, unassisted, fighting the breeze that threatened to remove it from my grip several times or fling both of us over the adjacent bloody cliff.
As exhausting as that had been a few days ago, I was now faced with the prospect of having to heave the wretched thing from where it leaned tipsily against the wall of my consulting room, sitting in half a bucket of water and already showing its disdain for our purpose by the thick layer of tiny yellow, curved needles that decorated the carpet beneath it. I'd quickly understood that grasping the cut trunk and sliding it across the floor behind me was probably the most sensible option but, as simple as that sounded in theory, the practice proved somewhat more of a challenge. The branches were prickly beyond belief and, although I'd donned my special Dog Wrangling gloves, all I'd succeeded in doing was losing my temper and finding myself, together with the damned tree, wedged in the doorway under the stairs. After I'd eventually freed myself, I was able to run around to the kitchen via the terrace and, after much swearing and cajoling, extricate the branches where they'd wedged into the carpet, the ceiling and the door jamb, and drag the miraculously unscathed fir tree into the kitchen.
After what seems like hours of frustration, stripped of my suit coat, and with my tie askew, observed calmly by the dog in his basket, I had managed to secure the sodding tree in the position that Louisa and James had decided upon. Despite the plummeting outdoor temperature, I found myself freely perspiring, and bleeding from the innumerable tiny puncture wounds to my arms and face. Muttering under my breath, I'd removed the offending needles from my sleeves before stomping up the stairs to shower, lathering myself with an antihistamine cream as the little holes quickly turned into small welts, and began, irritatingly, to itch. Glancing at my watch as I came downstairs, I'd made myself an espresso, collapsing gratefully onto the sofa and staring at my botanical adversary with rather a sense of accomplishment, like a triumphant Heracles having bested the giant, Antaeus. I watched as the damn dog approached and I jabbed my finger in his direction, warning him in no uncertain terms that any urination infractions would see him become the ornament at the top of the tree, and even Angela Bloody Sim wouldn't be able to perform a surgery to extract the fir's central leader from where I would rather forcibly place it.
As a peaceful calm finally descended, perhaps it is a side effect of the therapy but I began to contemplate how often I had sat in this position, alone in this silent house. Today, I felt remarkably buoyant but I don't even want to recall the times where misery had overtaken me, finding myself faced with the prospect of having, yet again, driven Louisa away. All the unhappy hours where I'd had to face the consequences of my own thoughtless behaviour, every recollection of the pain I'd caused her by my inappropriate remarks and clueless observations; and my god, I'd spent so many sessions going over this ad infinitum with the damn therapist. He'd been so insistent that we discuss it and I'd been so resistant to the idea that I needed to simper, and be smarmy, and sugar coat things; I'd clung to my bluntness like it was my greatest virtue, righteous and indignant. Until, once again I failed to understand a need to filter even the most brutal of truths but this time the recipient was James and, heartbreakingly, I'd seen his little face fall as the words slipped so easily from my mouth. It was finally, in that moment, that I'd had an inkling of what the man meant when he said that I perhaps confused the importance of honesty and the way it should be used, unwilling to acknowledge the damage that it could potentially do, if it wasn't delivered with some sort of cognisance of the repercussions.
My Auntie Joan had told me once, after I'd put my foot in it rather horribly once again, that people can't change and I'd replied, rather dismissively, that they could. I could, if I wanted to, I'd told her, and I'd believed it until my efforts to appear congenial had been greeted with horror by Louisa. She'd told me in no uncertain terms that it was no good acting, and that I would only be convincing if I truly wanted to be nice. I remembered the conversation clearly but, until I'd seen the sadness in my son's eyes, I hadn't really understood what she'd meant. I knew that there would be many occasions in the future where my insistence in the rules of good behaviour might create conflict between James and me. I can predict that my requirement for self discipline and diligence and hard work might cause us to clash at some point in the future, and I am prepared for his inevitable resistance, disappointment and frustration. But I never again want to be responsible for upsetting him solely due to my thoughtlessness and my insensitivity.
He'd run in to reception shining with enthusiasm, clutching a roughly hewn Christmas star, no doubt the result of his afternoon's activities at daycare; a place where he was apparently learning how to be social, allegedly mastering childhood interactions but only the barest modicum of fine motor skills, and little, if any, of what I would expect are the pre requisites for learning: concentration, critical thinking, and an inquisitive mind. When James had first burst noisily through the door, brimming with excitement and trailing glitter and mud across the carpet in equal measure, in my defence I'd been on the phone to Chris Parsons, venting once again my frustration with the seemingly endless delays in finalising my return to work. No one seemed to be prepared to make a decision and now I'd discovered that the GMC committee wouldn't be reconvening until mid-January. It had been the last straw in what had been a frustrating few months and I'd felt what remained of my patience and good temper evaporate.
Right at that moment, James had thrust his rustic creation into my hand with an enthusiastic cry of Daddy! only for me to discover with horror that the glue was still wet and I now had glitter, and some sort of cotton wool-like material, adhering to the cuffs of my brand new, worsted wool, cashmere and silk suit which had only, this week, arrived from my tailors.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" I'd said loudly, rising to my feet, my tone clearly frustrated enough that James had stopped in his tracks.
"I'll call you back." I'd barked at Chris, tossing the phone onto the desk where it clattered loudly, and I'd reached into my pocket for my handkerchief, swiping madly at the offending red and gold glitter which was now streaked across both my jacket cuff and the exposed sleeve of my pristine white shirt.
"Damn, damn, damn." I'd muttered angrily under my breath, dabbing at it furiously before I'd looked up at my son, frowning at him in reprimand.
"James, you need to be more careful. Look at the mess that ridiculous star has made everywhere."
I'd paused, crossly, thinking that I would give him time to contemplate the result of his actions before asking him to help me clean it all up, but one look at the expression on his face made me realise instantly that the only person who needed to take a long hard look at himself was me. He'd gazed back at me, lower lip trembling, eyes filling with tears, and it had been enough that I was instantly filled with remorse. Fortunately, I'd had the wherewithal to redeem myself before Louisa had discovered us, and I'd apologised before sweeping him up in my arms and setting off in search of her box of craft supplies. When she'd found us at the kitchen table, we were engaged in making identical stars for everyone else in the family and his upset was seemingly forgotten. I'd shown him where to punch the holes more precisely so that stars hung symmetrically, and I'd encouraged him to spell Mummy with two 'm's and Ruth with a capital R because, even if one is four years old, the habits of physics, geometry and good grammar can never come soon enough. When Louisa finally joined us, looking tired and grateful, she'd smiled at me as if I were Father of The Year. I'd glanced back at her, slightly guiltily, determined that, though I would of course tell her the truth eventually, perhaps I wouldn't do it just now.
Later that night, as a bone chilling fog had crept through the narrow streets and condensation had streamed down the insides of the windows, I'd huddled under the covers, making my confession, as she'd sat on the edge of bed, brushing her hair and glancing up at me thoughtfully.
"Well done." She said, as she awkwardly rolled into the bed beside me, reaching for my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "And, you know, while it was good that you apologised, and even better that you explained to him why you'd been cross, the most important thing was that you came up with a solution, and that you two spent that lovely time together this afternoon, fixing everything. That was perfect Martin, absolutely perfect."
She paused for a moment, narrowing her eyes at me.
"You did enjoy it, didn't you?" She said slowly, in a low voice and I nodded.
"Umm, yes, of course." I reply. I would have preferred that we were finally going to dissect that frog, or examine the workings of a transistor radio, but apparently making glitter encrusted cardboard stars will just have to suffice for now.
"Perhaps when we get home from doing the decorations for the carol service, you and James could hang the stars you made today on the tree, together? James would love that, decorating the tree with his daddy, p'raps he could sit on your shoulders and put some of them up really high?"
I stare back at her, about to attempt an argument on my behalf, an insistence that Christmas and everything pertaining to the celebration of it is entirely her department. But she sighs and places my hand on her belly, and we lie in a contented sort of silence for a moment, as the newest addition to our family makes his presence felt by kicking the bejesus out of his poor mother. And, as she so easily does, I find myself once more manipulated into situations that are outside my area of comfort and skill, agreeing to Louisa's suggestion without even so much as a whimper of protest. As she struggles to get comfortable, I rub her hands; though she tells me they feel puffy and swollen, they still seem slim and elegant to me, soft and warm and, as ever, somehow always reassuring. In a rare moment of vulnerability I admit my thoughts, I tell her of my resolve, of my best intentions, to still speak the truth but to attempt to moderate its delivery, especially where my family is concerned. She turns her head to look at me, prone as she is, wedged upright with pillows, and she smiles, her eyes soft and glassy, almost tearful. I clear my throat and, muttering a brief and awkward goodnight, I reach over and extinguish the lamp.