Alberta Clipper (44 page)

They sat looking ahead of them, Mark’s arm around Christine’s shoulder.  Above them, something startled a crow, and she looked to see a flock of them break away from the topmost branches of a tree, their caws scattering to the wind, leaving the tree naked.

“I’m going to Edinburgh next weekend,” Mark said suddenly, his gaze never moving from the Harrington headstone before him.  Christine froze.  She wasn’t sure what to expect next.  “I need to see Jennifer,” Mark turned to face her on the bench.  “I need to tell her about you, and I’d rather do it face to face.”  He touched a button on her coat which was about to fall off.  She’d meant to sew that on.  “We need to talk about the house too.”

Christine stayed still.  She was afraid to look at him.  Afraid of what she might see in his eyes.  Afraid of seeing any trace of feeling for Jennifer.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  Of course he had to see her again.  She understood that.  They still had the house together.  And there must be a hundred other little ties binding them.  Ties that grow over ten years spent together, like ivy tentacles that would now need to be cut.  And after all she had asked of him, she had to let him do that.  But still
,
the thought of him in Edinburgh, with her
-
.

“I’m going to fly over and back in the one day,” he said to her, reassuring her.  “I just have to see her once more.”  He turned back to the gravestone.  “It just seems like the right thing to do.”

Christine reached out and clasped his hand in hers.  “I understand,” she said.  “You’re right.  Do what you have to do.  And I’ll be here.”  She squeezed his hand.  “When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

He drew her to him and kissed her again.  “Come on,” he said.  “Will we go?”  They stood for a second more at Mark’s parents’ grave, and then walked back, hand-in-hand towards the entrance gate. 

“So have you heard from baby Mark in the past few days?”

“Yeah,” Christine laughed.  “Aggie had the poor child on skype yesterday evening.  It must have been six in the morning in Sydney.  She said she was up giving him his bottle anyway, so she might as well be online at the same time.”

“That’s great.”

“I know.  I’m so glad I was there when he arrived,” she said softly.  “I think, well, it really helped.  And I think Aggie was glad too.  It was very, fateful.”  She looked up at Mark like he might have planned it all somehow.  “Dad’s booked his flight over for the end of the month.  Jamie’s mother will be around until then.  So she’ll be okay.”

“Of course she will.”

“It’s just, very far.”

“I know,” Mark put his arm around her shoulder.  “I know.”

“Anyway,” Christine rubbed her eyes quickly as Mark held open the gate for her.  “She’ll be back in the summer.  That’s the plan.  So that’s not so bad.”

As they walked along towards where Mark had parked his car, the sound of a brass band in the near distance made Christine pull away from him and crane her neck down the avenue towards the main road.  She could see people gathered and flashes of colour moving past.

“Is that a parade?”  She shaded her eyes.

“Must be,” Mark said.  “Just a local one.  We shouldn’t be held up too long.”

“Let’s go down and have a look,” Christine pulled at Mark’s arm, and he saw the light in her face, and he smiled.  They walked together to the end of the avenue where a parade was dancing past, flanked by what seemed to be children and teenagers from a local hurling club, green ribbons tied around the hurleys swinging from their hands.  A small group of Irish dancers had just passed, their ringlets bouncing along after them like springs.  Mark and Christine just got there as a karate club marched past, children and adults all dressed in gi, some of the younger participants enthusiastically attempting chops and kicks as they walked.  The last group was a band of elderly musicians with trumpets and drums, a wide green banner with golden tassels held high behind them.  Mark and Christine clapped and cheered with the other onlookers, mostly comprising proud, waving parents with green ice-cream eating toddlers on their shoulders.

“Show’s over, I think,” Mark said and they turned to go back up the avenue to the car.  “Not exactly Chicago standard,” he laughed.

“Aw, cute though.”

They sat into Mark’s comfortable car.  “I’m in Chicago all next week,” he said suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Actually,” he kept his hand on the ignition, “I want to talk to you about it.  I’ve been offered a position over there.  They want to discuss it with me next week.”

Christine went from shock, to despair, to delight at her own feeling of despair all in the matter of a second.  “Wow,” was all she said.

“It’s just an offer,” Mark stared at her, his hand still on the key.  “I, I don’t have to consider -”

“I love Chicago,” Christine said quietly to herself, as she stared out the windscreen.  A child of eight or nine, dressed in an Irish dancing costume was skipping towards the car parked in front of them, followed by her clearly adoring parents.  She turned to Mark.  “I know I’m only back two weeks, but I’d already thought about leaving CarltonWachs.”

“No,” Mark sat back in his chair, shaking his head.

“Not in a bad sense,” Christine put her hand on his arm.  “It’s just, I don’t think us working together long term would be such a good idea.  Do you?  And, I’m pretty employable, you know.  There’s lots of things I could do.”

“Of course.”

“I’m just saying.  Maybe moving to Chicago
…
” her eyes twinkled as she spoke, and Mark began to understand the excitement of making plans.  Making plans for the life you really want, with the girl you really love.  “Maybe it would be, wonderful.”

Mark’s heart was thumping again.  He shivered.  “And you don’t want to
stay here?  With your Dad, and -
”
  H
e looked out through the window towards the stone wall of the graveyard.

Christine followed his gaze and sighed deeply.  And after a moment, she turned to him and looked straight at him with a smile. 

“It’s not a deal-breaker,” she said.

THE END

Sheena Lambert is a writer from Dublin, Ireland.  Her articles have appeared in the Irish Times and Irish Independent newspapers.  ALBERTA CLIPPER is her first novel.