Vera sighed and put the last bauble on the tree. She had worked for Marlowe and Marlowe, Solicitors, for thirty seven years and had been the one to put the tree up for thirty three of them. It had been easy enough with Old Mr Marlowe. He had just handed over some money from the petty cash and let her get on with it. Young Mr Marlowe had insisted on going with her for any shopping for Christmas, which was tiring. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t handed in receipts tallied down to the last halfpenny, back when they still had them. Vera sighed again. Now the grandson, who insisted on being called Matthew, had brought in the tree himself, without any sort of consultation. It was far too big for the office decorations that now looked rather sparse, and he had bought a real tree instead of replacing the rather dusty artificial tree in the back of the cupboard. It would be shedding needles for weeks.
“I like the scent of a real Christmas tree,” Matthew had said, rubbing his hands with glee.
“That’s what reed diffusers are for, Mr Matthew,” Vera had replied. “And I’m not sure what the cleaning staff will think.”
“They’ll be fine,” Matthew said. “But pick up a few of those diffusers as well. I’ll give you the money out of the petty cash.”
That was the problem. Young people didn’t understand. She already went around with a damp cloth to clear up where the cleaners had missed. And it looked so half hearted. Anyone would tell you that you needed red baubles on a real Christmas tree. But Mr Matthew couldn’t be told.
Her mind drifted a little. Her children had been the same. Daphne had seemed to have learned and had obediently followed her mother’s instructions about what to wear and where to work. She hadn’t need to be told twice when she was wearing unsuitable make up or when the earrings she had bought were too big. She knew the correct way to wrap a Christmas present and address a card. She had listened until she ran off with that unsuitable young man to go and live in Australia. Vera got letters twice a year with pictures of her grandchildren, and they all seemed happy enough, but it wasn’t the same.
Edward, well, her son had always been tricky. She had tried. After Daphne had left, she had tried to get Edward to understand the correct way of dressing a Christmas tree. He had refused to touch it at all. Her husband had been no help either. And now Edward had gone off to live with that Jackie woman. They seemed to thrive on the chaos surrounding them and last year they had had a pink artificial tree. Vera picked up a stray pine needle and inwardly shook her head. She had tried to explain to Jackie where they were going wrong and the explanation had become a discussion which had turned into an argument which ended up as a flaming row and they hadn’t spoken since.
Vera stepped back to get a look at the tree, nodded to herself and then straightened the coffee machine before settling back at her desk. Year after year she had been the one to dress the tree, here and at home, and it didn’t seem to get any easier. She scrolled through the emails. It was only her and her husband for Christmas this year, but at least the tree was done right. She could take satisfaction in that.
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