Alberta Clipper (5 page)

“And you wonder why you have no men in your life.”

“She's good fun,” Christine was indignant.  “And I don't wonder that.  Not much.”

“Hmm.  Was it a late one?”

“Nah.”  Christine stood up and looked around for the bird.  “I was home after twelve.”

“Really,” Emily’s voice was flat
,
“
i
t sounds wild.”

“Well, the others were going on to a club, but I wasn't in the humour.  Anyway, I was saving myself for tonight.  I didn't want to be haggard for my blind double date.”

“It's not a blind double date if
you've checked him out online
already,” Emily said.  “More like a partially-sighted double date.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, it's just a double date.  Nothing to be ashamed of.  And he's really nice.  Otherwise I wouldn't have set this up, now would I?”

“You only set it up because you feel sorry for your poor best friend who can't get a man,” Christine sighed.  “I'm nearly thirty, and I have no man.  Not even the whiff of a potential husband
.  I’ve been reduced to being set up with your boyfriend’s workmates.
”  She sat back in her c
hair and looked out across the
bay.  “I don't even have a mortgage, never mind a marriage.”

“Ah now
.
”
Emily's tone became more serious.  “What would you want one of those for?  And you're not nearly thirty.  You're twenty-eight and three-quarters.  Listen, Chris, tonight is gonna be fun.  That's it.  Full stop.”  There was silence on the line for a moment.  “Have you plans for this afternoon?”

Christine certainly did have plans, but she had no interest in discussing most of them now.  “I have a hair appointment at four.” 

“Great.  And do you know what you're wearing tonight?”

“Sort of.”

“Lovely.  Well I'll see you in yours at seven.  Okay?”

“Okay.  Emily?”

“Yes.”

“You're very bossy.”

“I know.”  Emily sighed.  “I can't help it.”

~

Mark was spending the morning following Jennifer around a garden centre.  Sometime over the past few weeks, they had agreed to tackle their garden, which had become increasingly inhospitable over the past few years.  It was a nice garden.  Not huge, but big enough to have fun in.  When they had first bought the house, they’d had many a gathering there.  Family barbecues when Jennifer’s nieces had run around on the grass and made daisy chains.  Parties for their friends which might have started indoors, but had always ended up with a few drunken ciggies i
n the garden, huddled around a
tall gas heater which had met its demise on a windy night two years ago now.  He had fond memories of sitting out on the patio with Jennifer late on summer evenings, drinking wine, a blanket over their shoulders to ward off the inevitable Irish breeze.  Neither of them had been much use as gardeners, but he had managed to keep the lawn cut and the hedges and trees that surrounded it trimmed.

But in the last few years, the garden had become somewhat neglected.  He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a party.  It made him sad to think of it.  It was partly, he supposed, because he was away a lot with work.  And if they’d had kids, of course, they would have made more of an effort.  If they’d had kids, the garden might have swings in it by now, or a little Wendy house, or whatever you called those clunky plastic houses his friends’ kids had.  Or maybe even mini goal posts.

“Ow!  Mark.  My ankle.”

“So
rry.”

“Are you even looking at these?  Have you any preference at all?”

Mark tried to focus.  It appeared he was surrounded by long, straggly looking plants.  Climbers?  They must be in the cover-the-wall-between-us-and-the-neighbours section.  He regarded the rows of pots which seemed to all be in desperate need of some water.  One of the tags caught his eye.

“My Mum used to have clematis.” 

He hoped this remark would suggest that he had been paying attention.  It seemed to work. 

“Okay.”  She started picking up plastic tags, reading them, dropping them.  One plant, whose tag must have said something more promising than the rest, warranted lifting up and a more thorough examination.  Mark watched her turning the pot, examining it from all angles, looking under the leaves for God knows what ailment. 

“This one looks nice.  Clematis - The President.  It will have big purple flowers.  What do you think?”

“Do you ever regret not having children?”

To be fair to her, she didn’t flinch.  But she didn’t look at him.  She just put The President carefully into the trolley that filled the space between them, and sighed.

“No Mark.  I don’t.  Do you?”

Fuck.
 
Why had he asked her that?  Where had it come from?  They stared at each other.  He could just say no, and wrap it up.  Leave it at that.  She might not take it any further.  But as the seconds
passed, Mark recognised that his question
had brought them somewhere new.  That they were in this new place now, and that there was a door forward and a door back.  And that the door back just returned them to where they were, shopping for sticking plasters and temporary fixes in the shape of horticultural supplies.  They had to move forward.  They had t
o take themselves out of the
gaping pothole they had fallen into in the journey of their lives. 

“I’m not
sure,” he said.
 
“
Maybe.  I don’t know.  Sometimes...” 
It looked to him like
Jennifer
might
silently implode.
“Sometimes, it feels -
”  He took a breath.  “It feels like there’s something missing.”

The colour on Jennifer’s cheeks changed, and she nodded and turned her back to him
.  She
continu
ed
along the climbers
aisle, pulling the trolley gently along with her.  They were walking so slowly, it felt somehow like a funeral march.  They were the pallbearers, pushing the bier with the coffin on down the aisle.  The thought struck him that the coffin was empty but for The President, and an irrational urge to laugh aloud overcame him.  He emitted a loud stifled snort which made Jennifer look up.  She stopped walking and turned to him, holding onto the end of the trolley with both hands.

“I’m not sure what to say to you, Mark.”  Her voice was steady, although he could tell it was taking a lot of effort for it to remain so.  “I could say that I understand what you are feeling.  That it's inevitable that you would feel like this at some point in your life.  Most people of our age have children.  You were bound to feel pressurised at some stage.”

“I don’t feel pressurised,” he began. 

“Or -” 

He shut up. 

“I could say that you are a bastard to throw this at me now.  At this stage in our life.  When you know how I feel about it.  When I never left you under any illusion that I would have children with you.  When we’d made our choices.  Or at least I thought we had.”

“I’m sorry, Jen.”  He began to feel alarmed.  She had spoken calmly, but he could see her knuckles had turned white on the trolley.  “Just forget it.  Can we just forget I opened my mouth?  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I don’t want kids.  The words just came out of my mouth.  Please.  Forget it.  I don’t want kids.”

She looked at him.  Into him.  Then she turned, and they resumed their procession down the aisle, around the corner, past the display of potted herbs. 

“Maybe you don’t.”  She spoke over her shoulder so he could hear her.  “But maybe you’re right.  Maybe there is something missing.”

Mark felt like the ground had
become unstable
beneath his feet.  His heart raced in his chest, and he stopped walking, making her stop too as the trolley jerked her arm.  She turned to him.  There seemed to be nothing to say.  After a moment, he just went to her, and held her
to him.  They stayed like that for a time, his arms around her, hers
limp by
her sides.  And then she sniffed loudly, and pushed him gently away, before tu
rning and walking on towards a
huge display of
purple
lavender. 

~

Christine parked her car, and walked along the tree-lined avenue to the wrought iron gate of the graveyard.  She stopped briefly at the flower lady's stall before making her way past the old gate lodge, along the tarmac path to the furthest corner of the site, carrying two single, cream-coloured roses.  The sun beat down on her as she turned off the main path and walked past the by now familiar headstones, surreptitiously nodding at each politely. 

Margaret King, died February twelfth 1998, aged seventy-two years.  Charles O'Dowd and his wife Angela, fifty-eight and fifty-six.  Anne Murphy, died December twenty-ninth 2003, aged ninety-seven years. 

She couldn’t help but regard these names as her mother’s new friends.  Almost like a secret, subterranean club, these people were her mother’s closest companions in death, and Christine thought it appropriate to acknowledge them.  It had actually brought her a little comfort, in the first days, to think that her mother wasn’t totally alone in the cold ground.  And now, she couldn’t
help
mentally saluting them as she walked past
them
each week.  She stopped at a grave of gravel and granite kerbing with a simple marble headstone in the shape of a cross.  After a few moments, she stooped to pull a weed that was trying to push its way up through the stones.  The graveyard was very peaceful.  Birds sang from the trees lining the distant road.  The sound of voices caught her attention, and she looked up to see a small group of older men and women, voluntary gardeners and grave keepers, discussing their plans, surrounded by a few wheelbarrows and spades and bags of mulch.  She placed her hand on the headstone and kissed the top of the cold marble before leaving the roses on the plinth.  After a moment, she turned to leave.  An elderly man hobbled past leaning heavily on a stick, carrying a plastic plant in his other hand. 

“The deer will eat your lovely roses, pet,” he smiled at Christine.

“I know.  That’s okay.”  She smiled back.  She heard the same warning every other week from seasoned grave visitors, most of whom had resigned themselves to artificial wreaths for their loved ones.  Christine really didn’t mind.  There was something enchanting about the idea of deer stealing around the graveyard in the moonlight, munching on roses or whatever else they could find.  And she could never leave a fake plant on the grave.  With one last glance at the headstone, she walked back to the main path and returned to her car, binning the weed along the way.

~

Just after seven
PM
, Emily arrived.  Christine opened the door to outstretched arms and a bottle of chardonnay. 

“Hey girl!  I thought we’d have one here before we go out.  Loosen us up.”  She grinned.  “You look great.”

Christine frowned.  “Not too casual?”  She did a half-turn and stuck out her bottom at her friend.

“Nope.  Nice ass.”  Em
ily whacked her.  “
Gavan
will
be drooling into his fettucine, wait til y
ou
see.  This is gonna be great!”

Emily busied herself in the kitchen, taking glasses out of the press and twisting the cap from the bottle.

“Best invention ever,” she said, examining the metal cap in her hand. 

“What is?”  Christine was rummaging through her make-up bag, making sure all her touch-up arsenal was in place.

“Twisty caps on wine bottles.”  Emily poured two generous glasses, and took them out onto the veranda.

“Well, that’s partly to do with a shortage in the supply of cork some years back.  Which was primarily to do with the changing climate in the -”

“You lost me at cork,” Emily called from outside.  Christine joined her and they clinked glasses like it was an age-old habit.  Which it was.

“Skaal.”  They said it simultaneously. 

Emily sat back into her chair and regarded her friend. 
“Chris, listen to me.  The whole climate thing is, of course, very interesting.  And moving.  And topical.”

“And important.”  Christine settled herself onto the second chair.

“Yes.  And important.”  Emily sighed.  “But you must remember.  It’s been a while since you were on a serious date.  And things have changed.  Back in college, it was good to have interesting things to say.  Blokes liked it.  But now -”

“What?”  Christine looked at her friend, amused. 

“Now you have to act like we are back in the nineteen-fifties.  Just a little.  At our age, blokes are, subconsciously or not, looking for potential wives.  They don’t want their dates to have stellar careers.  They want them to be sexy, articulate and funny.  And have good child-bearing hips.”