Gran Betty sat at the kitchen table, knitting warm socks—stitch by careful stitch. Officially, she was Elizabeth Margaret, but around the village, everyone just called her Betty—friendly-like, like family.
The house was quiet, winter hush settled in, broken only by the crackle of the radio on the windowsill. Then—the door creaked. Betty looked up and froze. Standing on the threshold was… Father Christmas himself. Red hat, white beard, fur-trimmed coat—all proper, just like he ought to be.
“Evening, love!” he greeted her with a grin. “Room for a visitor?”
Betty adjusted her glasses, squinting at him—his sack, his boots—then breathed out, stunned:
“Good heavens, is it really you? Why on earth…?”
“Why d’you think?” he chuckled. “It’s the 31st of December! Everyone’s welcoming the New Year. And I’ve come with a little something for you.”
“What’d you want with an old thing like me? Ought to be off blessing the kiddies, listening to their rhymes. Me? Just an old biddy, seen plenty of presents in my time.”
“Hardly any little ones left in the village these days. But those socks you’re knitting—proper cosy, they are,” he nodded. “Means you’ve earned a gift too.”
“Alright then, since you’re here—go on, hand it over,” Betty smirked. “But I won’t recite any poems—back’s giving me grief, can barely move.”
“Then tell me—what good’ve you done this year?”
“Oh, what have I…?” Betty mused. “Knit mittens for the grandkids, socks for the neighbours. Shared out my veg. Not out of kindness, mind—just keeping busy.”
“Don’t downplay it. That’s kindness right there—doing things without expecting nowt back.”
“My old man, mind you, is off somewhere. Left this morning—not a peep since.”
“I’ll pop by him after. Still the same old joker, is he?”
“Oh, worse! Goes round the neighbours spinning yarns, belting out tunes. Cheers everyone up so they don’t mope.”
“You love him?”
“What d’you reckon?” Betty smiled. “Fifty years together. We pretend we’re deaf, that we don’t see or hear everything. And we don’t row. What’s the point?”
Father Christmas pulled a scarf from his sack—soft wool, patterned, with a bit of sparkle.
“Here, take it. Wear this, you’ll knock ten years off.”
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Betty’s eyes lit up. “Dreamed of one like this all my life. Ta, love.”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “He’s the one wrote me.”
He stepped into the hall, shrugged off the coat and hat, and tucked them in the chest.
“Ah, my Betty…” he muttered. “Didn’t recognise her own man’s voice. Or maybe she’s playing along?”
And Betty twirled in front of the mirror, the new scarf round her neck, whispering:
“That’s how we live, my Johnny… Like we don’t know a thing. But we do. Just love our own way. And the magic’s in that.”
