Harold swore under his breath as the car took a rather unceremonious bump over a pothole.
"Really, Harold," Alberta said automatically, "when you drive so quickly it one feels as though one is on a boat on a breaking wave."
Instantly a crudely painted dragon's head leapt through her mind, disappearing behind white sea spray that quickly faded into black.
Say, Alberta, I know you don't like the painting in the spare room, but I like the painting and- and I was wondering- I was wondering if I could give it to someone.
"Jill Pole," she whispered. The name brought with it a gust, familiar and yet fresh. She felt resentment that had festered and dried now flaking off, flying (falling) through the distant, intangible voice of space and time.
I used to hate her, she thought, and was almost surprised. It was almost as though there were two Albertas. There was the one who had lived before that wretched train, the Alberta who was mother to a living son, the confident Alberta who had written for the contentiously satirical Cassiopeia column. Then there was, next to her- yet also her- the Alberta now, the Alberta she did not know. The Alberta who shook hands with a strange, prayerful woman in fraying gloves and an unfashionable coat; the Alberta who said such hurtful things to Harold when he had done nothing but support her.
But you would say those things before, a voice in her mind insisted, maliciously gleeful. Wouldn't you ask him why he didn't have any siblings, wouldn't you question his decisions, mock his choice of attire?
" - well, if the-"
"I'm sorry," she said, almost stumbling over her words as she interrupted Harold's retort. I'm sorry- she had said it, she had actually used those words and meant them. Why had she found it so hard before this? Three tiny syllables to cover a multitude of sins.
Despite the roaring in her ears, she was intensely aware of the silence that had descended within the car. Fleetingly she wondered whether it was worse that she had not listened to Harold's retort and had interrupted him, or whether her rudeness could be offset by her apology.
"Harold, I'm sorry," she said again, and quickly raised her eyes to meet his before glancing away. "Don't- don't take what I mean to heart. I shouldn't say such things."
I don't know why I do.
There was a heartbeat, a moment when Alberta thought she might not breath. Then Harold spoke, and there was no hesitation in his voice.
"It's all right, Alberta. I understand," he murmured quietly, and with sudden propulsion a sob forced itself through Alberta's throat. "Sh- it's all right," his voice repeated as she placed a hand across her shaking face. The car moved on, silent perambulator.
Presently, she choked down the last sob and drew a halting breath. It was only then that she noticed the car had stopped moving.
Ah, we're home.
She looked across to Harold and saw the creases in his forehead that had not been so prominent a week before. She saw the darkened bags under his eyes, the subtle quiver at his jawline. She saw the tiny gash on his lower left cheek, where he had cut himself shaving just the day before. She had found him at the basin, his hands shaking.
"He's not coming home, Alberta."
Tired, we are all tired.
Aged, how he had aged.
"We all have."
"It's all Harold," she whispered, her voice breaking from the effort. "It's all right, Harold, I'm here."
For a moment, it seemed as if she might not have spoken; and then Alberta noticed a tiny light creeping into Harold's eyes, and as it spread, she felt (just a little) inexplicably lighter.
"We should probably start preparing for dinner," he said, his voice low and warm, and she smiled.
We. Always such a forward thinking man, it was why she had- she she still loved him. She opened the door, smiling, and slowly swung her legs to the concrete pavement.
"What time did you tell Susan to come?"
And as they discussed banal matters of supper and crockery, Alberta saw a moth that looked for all the world like ripped cotton buffeting against the wind.
The strange and sudden thought struck her, it is so beautiful.
I can't pin them anymore, Alberta, not when they're so alive!
"Are you coming in?"
Startled, she looked up and saw Harold holding the door open.
"Oh, oh yes," she said, blinking in confusion. "Yes, certainly- thank you."
And she stepped into the hallway, tumbling into a wide courtyard of memories she did not quite understand.
A/N: Ok I swear the story will move on. I know this chapter, like the last, is very short, but I don't think they merge into a single chapter very cohesively. And Harold and Alberta just needed another moment. There's an awful lot of assumed backstory in this fic that just keeps fighting to enter the scene!
Alberta's column "Cassiopeia" is (loosely) based upon the "Cassandra" column in The Daily Mirror. Hers has a more political vent to it and I would explain more, but Alberta has persistently been indicating her desire that I should include one or more of her articles within this fic, so hopefully explanations will be unnecessary.