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Strike dug the box of plastic baubles out of the Tesco bag, along with the tinsel and gaudy star that he had just purchased. He looked dispassionately at the assortment, wondering how much glitter the baubles would leave behind in his flat. He would have preferred to decorate sans glitter of course, but waiting until Christmas Eve to buy a tree and trimmings didn’t leave one with many options. He didn’t know why, since he never did decorate for the holidays, but he had been hoping to purchase some of the Christmas cheer that had been eluding him. It hadn’t worked.
He turned on his radio and scanned through the garbled staticky stations until he found one that was playing Christmas music. The sounds of “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree” filled his flat, an odd contrast to his current mood. He hung the baubles on the branches, putting far too much thought into their placement, and wondering why he cared. The package now empty and already needing a break from the merriment, he opened his window and pulled out a cigarette. The streets were quiet, or as quiet as London could ever be.
Behind him, the radio switched to a softer, more mellow tune. He vaguely recognized the voice, but wouldn’t have been able to name the artist. Robin would probably know.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
From now on
Our troubles will be out of sight
This version of the song was much more melancholy than those he had heard before. The singer sounded lonely and sorrowful, as if she were trying to convince herself to be jolly. It’s Christmas, time to be merry and bright, Strike thought. He smiled ruefully as he imagined Robin telling him he was just projecting. Or, he countered, perhaps I have the measure of it. Maybe I’m seeing it more clearly than you. It’s not projection if it’s perception. He smiled at his own witticism. Robin was always impressed by his cleverness. He could see so clearly the look she would be giving him now.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the Yuletide gay
From now on
Our troubles will be miles away
Strike watched a family walking along the pavement opposite, their shoulders and hair dusted in the lightly falling snow. Through the golden glow of the street lamps, the woman’s hair looked about the color of Robin’s. She and the man were swinging their young daughter between them, the girl’s laughter the only discernible sound on the street below. The father, who Strike noticed was tall and broad, pulled the girl up to sit on his shoulders. The man held her hands as she threw her head back to catch snowflakes on her tongue. Strike watched, not with longing but something closer to curiosity.
If his formative years had been different, would he want children now? Of course, Robin’s upbringing had been the complete opposite of his own, and she didn’t want children. What if he hadn’t wasted so much of his young adult life chasing after Charlotte, would he be a father now? Would he be at home - in a real house - with his wife, wrapping presents and trying to convince their little ones to go to sleep so that Santa could come? He had never wanted that life for himself, and still didn’t really want it now, but still he wondered…
Here we are as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more
He closed the window and went back to his tree, pulling the tinsel from the package without much enthusiasm. He had never been that interested in holidays. He bought gifts for his loved ones of course, mainly because it was expected, but Christmas had always been just another day to him. It was difficult to develop excitement for holidays when you never knew when they would fall. He remembered the exact year he had stopped believing in Santa. He was seven. Leda had forgotten about Christmas completely. All of his friends at school bragged about what Santa had brought them, while he had been empty handed. Leda had eventually realized her mistake and had surprised her children with a Christmas tree on Valentine’s Day. The tree was a ficus that had been covered in chocolates and valentine cards. When Lucy had asked why the gifts were from Cupid instead of Santa, Leda had explained that it was Santa’s day off. There were other times when Easter had come during the summer, or Halloween had been in the Spring.
Strike wondered how old Robin had been when the magic of Christmas had finally worn off for her. He flicked at a piece of tinsel that was stuck to his finger. Robin was probably in Masham now, enjoying a nice warm fire. Perhaps she was helping to hang the ornaments that she and her brothers had made when they were kids.
Through the years
We all will be together
If the Fates allow
Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow
Strike had been planning to go to Cornwall this year for Christmas, but Ted was insistent that he wanted to be alone. Lucy had gone off on one - it was their first Christmas without Joan, and she wanted the family to be together. Many tears were shed, but Ted was resolved to spend the day on his boat, alone. Strike understood. Christmas had always been Joan’s thing. She filled the house with knickknacks, gingerbread houses, and twinkling lights. But it wasn’t the decorations that filled the house with the glow of Christmas cheer, it was Joan. Lucy didn’t get it, but on the ocean, where he was closer to his beloved, is exactly where Strike would want to be if he were Ted. Strike knew he would have been welcome at Lucy’s, but an evening with Greg, the prick, and the arsehole was less appealing than his own empty flat.
A knock on his door nearly made him jump out of his skin. Trying to quell his increasing heart rate and telling himself it was probably just carol singers, he opened the door. His heart pounded in his chest.
“Hiya!”
He stared dumbly for a moment too long.
“Bad time?” Robin asked.
Finally coming to his senses, Strike stood back to invite her in. “No, no, not at all. Please.”
“What are you doing here?” He asked.
Her face fell and he internally punched himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound so… I meant I thought you’d be in Masham.”
“No, I didn’t go this year. It’s all too… No, I didn’t go.”
Strike thought he understood. There were too many reminders of a past she wanted to forget, and wounds that still stung. Robin looked at the small tree atop his kitchen table, its box on the floor next to the bin, and she smiled.
“Just now decorating?” She teased.
“How long has your tree been up then? First of December I’d wager,” Strike retorted. He loved their banter.
“No, I didn’t put one up this year. I wasn’t feeling very festive.”
Strike nodded. “You can help me then. I’m not very good at this kind of thing. Perhaps we’ll find our Christmas joy together.”
Robin smiled, “Perhaps.”
She grabbed a handful of tinsel as the music hit a crescendo. Shoulders brushing, they huddled around the small tree, hearts already lighter.
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now