Alberta Clipper

by Lambert, Sheena

  “Eh, Mark? Got a sec?”

  “Of course.”

  As Shay closed his door behind them, a memory of being called into his school principal's office popped into Mark's head. He had been seen with a group of other fifth year boys in the village at lunchtime. Some of the boys had been smoking, and they had been reported to the school by a local woman. As it happened, Mark hadn't been smoking, but as he had refused to tell the principal who had been, he had been punished along with the rest of them. They had been banned from attending the seniors' rugby final. As a sixteen-year-old boy, it had been a greater punishment than a whole year's detention. As he sat at Shay's desk, he felt the familiar sense of foreboding somewhere in his gut.

  “Sorry Mark, I couldn't really talk when you phoned on Saturday. Nina's entire family were over. It wasn't pretty.”

  “No worries.” The foreboding began to rise to his throat.

  “It's just, I wanted to tell you what happened. Just so you know.”

  Mark froze in his chair.

  “Now, it's nothing really bad. Not really.”

  Mark closed his eyes. “What did I do?”

  Shay sat down in his chair on the other side of the desk, just like Principal Ball all those years ago. “It's nothing really bad Mark. You were just a bit hammered. You went home quite early.”

  Mark could hear the hesitation in Shay’s voice.

  “It's just, before you went home, you were chatting to Christine.”

  Oh Jesus. No. No. Please.

  Mark opened his eyes. “What did I say to her?” His voice was a whisper.

  Shay fiddled with a pen on his desk. “I don't really know exactly. You weren't talking to her that long. You may not have said anything.” Mark could sense that Shay's optimism was minimal. “But she did text me to come and get you. I just think it's better that you know.”

  Mark closed his eyes again.

  “You were fairly juiced.” Shay focused on the pen again. “Look, Mark -”

  Mark stood up and walked over to the window.

  “Mark. You can tell me to feck off if you want to. But, it's not a crime to fall for someone you work with. Sure, look at me!” Shay seemed delighted with himself to have thought of the comparison.

  Mark watched the traffic crawl past on the street below. He didn't want to imagine what state he had been in talking to Christine, or what he might have said to her. He had obviously told Shay how he felt about her. There was no point in pretending now. Shay knew.

  “It doesn't really matter now though, does it? I've rightly fucked it up now anyway.” He turned to look at him. “She must think I’m a total ass.”

  “No, no you haven't. And I’m sure she doesn’t think that.” Shay stood and went over to him. They stood side by side, hands in their trouser pockets, looking out the window at nothing in particular. “Nina thinks that this might be the best thing to have happened. Bring it out in the open.”

  Mark turned to him. “Nina knows?”

  “Nina has known for months.” Shay nodded to himself. “Months.”

  Mark tried to get things straight in his head. What might he have said? Had he tried to kiss her, or something worse? Oh God.

  “Anyway,” he said after a moment. “I should have never been in that state at the Christmas party. I'm her boss, Shay. I can't act like that.” He frowned. “I just can't.”

  “Look, mate,” Shay put a hand on Mark's shoulder. “You have been under a lot of stress lately. I can't imagine the state I'd be in if Nina and I broke up. Give yourself a break.”

  “I appreciate that Shay. But Jennifer and I were never like you and Nina. We never had what you guys have.” Mark suddenly felt overwhelmingly sad. “And you know something? I actually really like her. Christine. Really.”

  “I know Mark. I know. Tough times. Tough times.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments.

  “Look,” Shay said at last, “I really don't think there's any damage done. When she gets back from London tomorrow, just sit her down and apologise for being drunk. Then just see what she says. She'll probably be totally fine about the whole thing. And then you can take it from there, yeah? I doubt she'll make a big deal of it either way.” He paused. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Mark sighed. Principal Ball's office was going to be nothing compared to this.

  ~

  “So you're sure you're okay?”

  “Mark, you just bought me a drink, and we chatted for a few minutes about work. That's it. Really. Then Shay arrived in, and I headed back to the party.”

  “You're sure?”

  “I only texted him because he said he was looking for you. I'm sorry if I made you feel embarrassed or whatever.”

  “But I shouldn't have -”

  “Look,” she lowered her voice slightly, “it was our Christmas party. You were entitled to have a few drinks. As was I. So please, forget about it now, okay? You did nothing wrong.”

  “Okay, well I appreciate that. Thanks Christine.”

  “Well thank you for a great party. The London office were all complaining that they only got brought out for lunch. They all want to relocate to Dublin.” She smiled at him, and pulled his office door closed after her.

  ~

  Christine sat back down at her computer. Poor Mark. The knot that had been growing in her stomach since Friday seemed to untie itself. She picked up the phone and dialled Craig's desk. “Bringing me for lunch? C’mon, it's Christmas.”

  ~

  The office was almost devoid of people that Christmas Eve. Those who had shown up were busy checking off Christmas shopping lists, tidying their workspaces, filing, shredding. For every dealer that had come into work, there was another abandoned cubicle, and the usual buzz and din of the fourth floor had been replaced by the gentle sound of merry laughter and happy anticipation. Christine was tidying her own desk, in preparation for an orderly return to work in the new year, when Craig appeared at her door.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” She followed him across the floor into the coffee room. It seemed half of the few staff members that had come to work were in there, discussing plans for the holiday. She sat at a table near the window as Craig uncustomarily set about making their coffees.

  “So, you should know Christine. Are we going to have a white Christmas?” Dave the company solicitor grinned at her like he might be the first person to have thought of asking. “They're giving three to one odds on it, might be worth a flutter, excuse the pun.”

  “Oh, are we?” A young receptionist joined in the conversation. “That would be so cool.”

  “It would be a disaster,” Petra had just walked in with Mark. She stood next to Craig, shaking her head at his coffee-making technique. Eventually he stood aside and let her finish the job for him. “Everyone's holiday travel plans disrupted.” She gave two filled cups to Craig, and started making two more. “Anyway,” she glanced out the window, “it's not going to snow. It's not cold enough.”

  The young receptionist looked disappointed.

  “Don't be a kill-joy, Petra,” Craig said, sitting down next to Christine. “Anyway, you're not the meteorologist in the room, last time I checked.”

  Petra glared at him. Christine reached over and patted Craig's arm. “Never mind,” she said. “Santa will still make it through.”

  “Har, har.”

  “I got snowed into the Chicago office one December,” Mark sat down at the table too. Christine noticed Craig sit up just a little straighter. “It came out of nowhere. I only made it out two days before Christmas. Thought I was going to have to spend the holidays there on my own.”

  “Alberta Clipper,” Christine said.

  “Pardon?” Mark looked at her with a smile.

  “It could have been an Alberta Clipper. It's a low pressure system that comes down suddenly from western Canada at this time of year. It can cause fairly major, sudden snowfalls in and around Chicago.” She sipped her coffee and looked back at the f
aces staring at her. “It's just a weather thing.” She was starting to feel a little uncomfortable.

  “Alberta Clipper,” Craig said softly. “Sounds like a porn-star.”

  Christine whacked him.

  “Craig,” Petra took a seat at the table between Mark and Dave. “Really.”

  “Oh, your ring is so beautiful,” the junior receptionist reached across the table and touched Petra's engagement solitaire.

  Petra beamed. “Thanks.” She rubbed at the diamond.

  “So what will Mr. Petra have wrapped for you under the tree tonight, I wonder?” Craig said.

  “We're not buying presents this year.” Petra folded her arms. “We're saving for the wedding.”

  “Oh, I bet he'll have a little surprise for you,” Craig smiled into his coffee, “if he knows what's good for him.”

  “What have you got Rachel?” Christine asked before Petra had a chance at riposte.

  Craig seemed to blush. “Oh, just something small.”

  Christine's eyes widened. “Something small? Something small and sparkly? Something small and sparkly and mined in sub-Saharan Africa?” Every girl around the table looked up, even Petra.

  Craig looked like a cornered animal. “It's none of your business,” he stood smiling, and drained his coffee.

  “Make sure you wash that, Craig,” Petra called as he walked away. “The cleaners are off now for the holidays.”

  Christine saw Craig make a rude gesture behind Petra's back, and she tried not to laugh. Could Craig really be getting engaged? Wow. She was thrilled for him. But a little shocked too.

  “Who knows Christine?” Dave said with a genuine smile. “Maybe Santa Claus will bring you something sparkly too. I got engaged to my wife at Christmas time.” He sighed and stood up to go.

  Christine hardly noticed Mark standing up suddenly also. What if Gavan did propose? The thought hadn't crossed her mind. She knew Emily was secretly hoping that Jack would ask her to marry him, but even while they had been considering that, and planning her reply, it had never occurred to her that she might be asked.

  But surely not. They were only dating six months. They weren't even living together yet. Christ, if Gavan asked her to marry him, what would she do? She'd have to say no. It would be awful. They were so not in a getting married place. Not yet. Christine began to feel sweaty, and the breath seemed to go from her lungs.

  “Christine?”

  She looked up. “Yes? Sorry?”

  “I just said have a good Christmas. I'm heading off now. You should too. They'll be locking up the place at one.” Mark was standing, holding the door, with one foot outside in the hallway.

  “Okay Mark.” Everyone else was helping Petra at the sink. “Thanks. Happy Christmas. See you in the New Year.”

  He smiled at her and nodded, and walked off towards his office.

  ~

  She met Gavan in town at five, on her way to her father's house where she had planned to stay the night. She didn’t want Matt to be alone on Christmas morning. The day was difficult enough with her mother gone. Nor did she want to be alone herself. They would go to midnight mass together, and have Christmas day to themselves.

  Gavan was on his way home to Wexford. He had suggested they met in a city pub for a quick drink before he left. Town was busy and festive, and they each had a hot whisky and basked in that special feeling that belongs exclusively to Christmas Eve. The bag with his camera in was at her feet as she sat on the stool in the bar. She could see no sign of his inevitable gift to her. Was it possible that it was a small box? Small enough to fit inside his jacket pocket? She was concerned for about thirty seconds. But only thirty seconds. She knew better. Gavan wasn't going to propose. He wasn't that dumb. He just probably had a voucher for a nice spa or a weekend away in an easily concealed envelope somewhere. So when he reached inside his jacket and took out a long slim parcel, tastefully wrapped in gold paper with a silver ribbon, she was both surprised and thrilled. When she unwrapped it and opened the plush leather hinged box inside, she hesitated before gasping in delight.

  “Do you like it?” He looked concerned.

  The watch was gorgeous. Fashionable, but abidingly elegant. A chunky silver strap that would make her wrist look tiny and gorgeous too. And she knew from the box and the brand that it had been expensive. “It's beautiful.” She looked up at him. “Too much.”

  “Put it on.”

  “Wait, open yours.” She lifted the bag from the floor, and he took out the box wrapped in snowman paper and tied with a red bow. He laughed at the paper, and tore it away.

  “I don't believe it.” He examined the box. “It's amazing. Thank you so much.” He leaned over and kissed her, almost knocking the empty glasses on the table. “I'll miss you tomorrow,” he said.

  “I'll phone you after dinner.” She ran her finger along the length of the smooth box on the table before her. “Do you eat turkey and cranberry sauce in Wexford on Christmas Day?”

  “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 left 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 Santa doesn't bring you the same camera,” she said into his jacket.

  “Doubtful,” he whispered into her ear, kissing it. “I was quite a bad 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 towards the tram stop, she was conscious of the unfamil
iar 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.

  ~

  “An 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. That storm then gets caught up in the jet stream, and heads west, bringing 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 some of the dancers standing in line with exaggerated grins 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 articles 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.