Alberta Clipper (23 page)

“No, we usually get up at dawn and hunt down wild hog and roast it over a spit on the side of a mountain.  Nothing like you sophisticated people up here in Dublin.”

She laughed.

“Yes we eat turkey.  Although there is a rumour that Ma might be going for goose this year.  I'll just have to wait and see.  Speaking of which, have you the time by any chance?”

Christine made a big show of opening the box and turning it around
to look at the time.  “It's six-
thirty.  Although this old thing is probably slow.”

“Ha ha.  Very humorous,”
Gavan
said.  “Are you not going to put it on?”

Christine took a deep breath, and lifted the watch from its case.  She undid the leather strap on her old watch and put it carefully into her pocket.  Then she let
Gavan
help her on with the new, heavier one.  It did feel nice on her wrist.

“Is the strap too long?  I had them take a couple of links off it.  They're
in
there if you need them.”  He pointed at the box.

“It's actually perfect.  Thank you.  I really do love it.”

“Good.  Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to go.  I told Ma I'd get back before nine, and the traffic is going to be brutal.”

“I know.  Okay.”

They gathered their things, and le
ft the pub.  Outside it was perfect
Christmas Eve weather, cold and frosty, but dry.  They walked to where
Gavan
had parked his car. 

“You're sure I can't drive you home?” he asked.

“Absolutely.  You’
re going in a totally different direction, and the tram will have me at my Dad's door in fifteen minutes.”  She pointed at the tram station which was just further up the road.

“Okay.  If you're sure.”

They stood in each other's arms, she with her head on his chest, he with his face in her hair.

“I hope Sant
a
doesn't bring you the same camera,” she said into his jacket.

“Doubtful,” he whispered into her ear, kissing it.  “I was quite a b
ad boy
these last six months.  I suspect I'm on his naughty list
.”  He pressed himself closer to her.  “
But it was definitely worth it.”

She looked up at him and he kissed her hard. 

“I wish you weren't going,” she said.

“It's only for a day,” he pulled away, laughing.  “I'll see you on St. Stephen's Day at the races.  Another mad Dublin tradition.”

“Ah come on, you have horses in Wexford too.”

“Yes, in Wexford.  In fields.  Not in Dublin next to an industrial estate on one of our most precious and celebrated drinking holidays.”

“You'll be allowed drink there too.”

“Ah great.  Well, sure what fellah wouldn't want a girlfriend who encourages his drinking and gambling?”  He smiled at her.  “I've got to go.  Happy Christmas, Christine.  I'll call you tomorrow.”

She stood and waved at him as he got in his car and pulled off into the busy holiday traffic.  She felt very lucky.  He had only left, and yet she couldn't wait for two days' time when she would see him again.  As she walked along towa
rds the tram stop, she was conscious
of the unfamiliar weight of her new watch.  She looked at it.  It was beautiful.  The perfect present for any serious girlfriend of six months.  She put her other hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around her mother's simple leather-strapped watch. 

It was just a pity she wasn't a normal, serious girlfriend of six months.

~

“
A
n Alberta
Clipper
originates when warm, moist
winds from the
Pacific Ocean
come into contact with the mountains in the provinces of
British Columbia
and
Alberta.  The air travels down the mountains, developing into a storm when it
meets
the cold
air common
to the region
in winter.
Th
at
storm then gets caught up in the jet stream,
and heads west, bring
ing
with it dramatically lower temperatures, biting winds, and if the jet stream happens to be heading near the Great Lakes, significant and sudden falls of snow.
”

Mark
took a swig from his glass of whiskey.  It was amazing how something as benign as a warm
Pacific
breeze could develop into a snowstorm that could bring a city like Chicago to grinding halt.  He left the glass down on the sofa arm, and
glanced up over the laptop
balanced on his knees.  The sound on the TV was down, but he could see that some sort of ballroom dance competition was
on.  He recognised so
me of the dancers standing in
line
with exaggerated g
r
ins on their heavily made-up faces
.  There were a few actors, a newsreader, a politician, all in gaudy, sparking dresses.  The set itself was gaudy and sparkling
,
with heavily decorated
Christmas
trees lining the background, and fake snow scattered around the floor.  The set made a stark contrast to Mark’s living room.  He should have got a tree.  He had considered it, but then the whole exercise had seemed so pointless.  He didn’t expect to have anyone here over the holiday.  There was no one to decorate the place for.  He wasn’t even sure if he owned Christmas decorations.

He took another swig from his glass, and refocused on the laptop screen in front of him.  He could see the attraction.  In weather.  It must have been an interesting thing to study in college.  He knew
that Christine’s
primary degree was in
mathematics, but she didn’t seem like a mathematician.
  Meteorology suited her. 
He flicked around
a couple of weather websites, reading article
s that caught his eye.  When his glass was empty, he set the laptop aside and reached over to the bottle on the coffee table.  The news had started, so he turned the volume up. 
The main headline was
that Santa had definitely left his home in the North Pole and was headed on schedule for
eastern
Australia. 
It was followed by
a piece encouraging people to watch out for their neighbours in the cold weather, and especially on Christmas Day when many elderly people
might be alone, and lonely.

Mark would be alone. 

And lonely. 

He thought about the turkey breast wrapped in cellophane, sitting in the fridge in his kitchen.  He had bought it on his way home from work out of some sense of tradition.  He didn’t even like turkey.  He tilted the bottle over his glass, and sat back into the sofa.  He wondered what
Christine
might be doing.  Probably snuggled up with her boyfriend in front of a roaring fire.  Wearing something Christmassy.  Red.  Satin.
  Mark covered his eyes.  He couldn’t bear this.  He’d heard people say how Christmas was the loneliest time of the year, but he had never really understood them.  Christmas had always been a time of fun, and holidays and skiing and partying.  Christmas had never been like this.

He necked the whiskey in his glass and pointed the remote at the TV.  The room went dark apart from the glow from the laptop screen.  Mark stood and headed upstairs to bed.  Maybe if he tried really hard, he would sleep through the whole of the blasted holiday. 

“I love it, Dad.”  Christine looked up from the open box on her lap.

“Ah well, it's not an antique or anything.  I just thought it would look well on the wall in your place.    I'm sure you don't need an old-fashioned one like it, you probably have a barometer and everything else on your computer nowadays?”

“Not exactly, Dad.  Anyway it's beautiful.  I've always wanted one like it.”

“Yeah, well, the more practical part of your present is on the mantelpiece there.  You might need some of it for the races tomorrow.”

Christine walked over to the fireplace and took down the envelope that was propped up next to a photograph of her mother.  “Aw Dad, that's too generous.  Really.”

“Shush now.  Here's your coffee.”  He handed her a delicate china cup and saucer, and poured himself a cup from the silver coffee pot on the tray.  It struck Christine that it looked tarnished.  She thought about her mother sitting at the dining table in the good room, holding a green cloth to that coffee pot with blackened hands, panting with exertion through the chorus of some Billie Holiday song.  “We'd better phone Aggie after these,” her Dad said as he sat back on the sofa.  “It's getting late there now.”

“Open one of yours.”  Christine nodded at the small pile of oddly shaped presents next to her father.  “Don't get too excited now.”

“Right so.”  He tore at the paper on the first one.  A set of spatulas peeked out.  “Ah lovely.  You can never have too many spatulas.”  They laughed.  “Now what could this be?”  A hard-backed Italian cookery book appeared.  “Perfect.”  He flicked through the pages.  “Thank you Christine.”

“The next one is from both of us.  Me and Ag.”

Her father untied the bow on a large cream-coloured envelope.  “Very mysterious,” he muttered.  He opened the card inside and caught a slip of paper that fell out as he read the message with a serious expression.  Christine sipped her coffee as she watched him from the armchair.  “I don't understand,” he said.  “Is it a voucher for a restaurant?”

“It's a chain of hotels and restaurants.  You can use it for any of the places listed on the card there.  Some of them are really nice.”

“Well, sure that's lovely.”

“It's from both of us.”

“I see that.”

“We thought, Aggie and I, that you might like to take Grace away.”  Christine could feel her cheeks redden.  “For a weekend or something.  And we -”  Her father looked up from the card he was still holding.  His hands were steady as a surgeon's, while Christine's coffee cup rattled on its saucer.  “Or you could
just
use it for
meal
s.  There are lovely restaurants on the list too.”  She stood quickly and brought her cup to the tray on the little table next to her Dad.  As she set it down, he put his hand on her arm.

“Thanks Chrissy.”

She pressed her cheek to his.  “I love you Dad.  We both do.”

Just at that moment, a cloud covered the morning sun and the room darkened, highlighting the flickering Christmas tree lights reflected on the wall.  Christine felt happy and sad all at once.  She stood up straight, and father and daughter smiled at each other. 

“Come on.  Let's phone Aggie.”

“Honestly,” she put an elbow on the table and rolled her eyes, “this is incredible.  No offence Mum,” she looked up at the ceiling in a half-laugh.  “I don't think I've ever had a Christmas dinner like this.”

“Ah now, it's just a little change here and there.  And of course my secret recipe gravy.  And my homemade cranberry sauce.”

“Where's that?  I don't even have that.”  Christine scanned the table.

“And there are apricots in the stuffing.  You
r
mother's stuffing was never her strongest suit.  I actually tried to make a few changes to it years ago, but she insisted that it was a Kingston family heirloom, and I was not to fiddle with it.”

“It's just unbelievable.”  Christine shook her head at her plate. 

“Wait 'til you try the trifle.  I didn't make a pudding.  I hope you don't mind.  Too many memories in those puddings.”  He laughed at his forkful of turkey like they had shared a joke. 

Christine raised her almost empty glass of red.  “To Mum.”

“To Mum.”

They sat with only the sound of scraping plates and a muted Julie Andrews for a few moments.

“So are you coming to the races tomorrow?  I missed us not going last year.  It wasn't the same with only Emily.  She barely placed a bet.  She was only interested in meeting horsey-types in the reserve enclosure.”

“No, not tomorrow.  I've been invited to Grace's tomorrow.”  Christine caught her Dad's eye as it flickered up from his food.  “Meeting the family, actually.”  He took a long drink of his wine.

“Dad.  Wow.  Big day.  Are they all going to be there?”

“Yep.”

“Even the grandchildren?”

“The lot of them.”

“Wow.”  Christine sniggered.  She couldn't help herself.  “No pressure then.  Lucky you have your new shirt and jumper to wear.”

“Yeah, thanks for those.  That is handy actually.  I hadn't thought too much about what I would wear.”

“And gifts?”

“What gifts?  Christine, don't talk with your mouth full.”