**A Handful of Blackcurrants**
I hadn’t bothered much with New Year’s preparations. My daughter Emily said she’d be spending it at a friend’s cottage. What did I need, really? A few mince pies, a roast dinner, maybe a bit of telly before bed. Emily would be back soon enough.
When Arthur was alive, we’d gather with a crowd—shared meals, drinks, the Queen’s speech, then out into the frost with sparklers and noisemakers. We’d join the carolers around the town’s great fir, singing, laughing, even coaxing the younger ones into games.
I blinked away a tear. Nearly three years since Arthur passed, and still, the grief clung like damp.
I lifted his framed photo from the shelf—that crinkled smile, those warm, squinting eyes. I’d chosen the same image for his headstone. Visiting the cemetery, I’d sometimes imagine his expression shifting—joyful when I came often, stern if I stayed away too long. Ridiculous, of course. Yet each time, I’d wonder which version of him would greet me.
*”It’s hard without you, love. Grandchildren might’ve helped—something to keep me busy. But Emily won’t rush into marriage. Not after that bloke left her for her mate. Lately, though, she’s been brighter. Maybe there’s someone new. I won’t pry…”*
The front door clicked open.
*”Mum? You home?”* Emily’s voice chimed from the hall.
*”Where else would I be? Back early?”*
*”Left work ahead of time. Won’t stay for supper—Charlotte and her husband are picking me up.”*
*”But you weren’t leaving till the thirty-first?”*
*”We decided to prep the cottage early—get the fire going, trim the tree…”* She bustled about, stuffing a bag with chargers, shoes, her curling wand.
*”There. Sorry to leave you alone on the holiday. You could visit someone?”*
*”No need for fuss. When will you be back?”*
*”Third or fourth, depends.”* Her eyes sparkled. I hadn’t seen that in ages. *Someone’s definitely caught her eye.*
A car honked outside.
*”Off I go!”* She kissed my cheek, flung on her coat, and vanished.
The flat felt hollow again. I glanced at Arthur’s photo. *”Even Em’s gone now. Oh, Arthur…”* His smile seemed gentler.
To distract myself, I rifled through the cluttered desk drawer—bills, receipts, then a crumpled slip with an address. *John’s.* Arthur’s old friend.
Memories flickered—meeting John at a mutual pal’s birthday, a few cinema outings. Then, one day, he’d brought Arthur along. The moment I saw him, my heart stuttered. John noticed, bowed out graciously. A good man.
He’d married later, but it soured. After the divorce, he moved to a village miles away—inherited a cottage. We visited twice with little Emily. He’d joke, half-serious: *”If Arthur mucks up, come to me.”* Arthur just laughed. We had rows, sure, but never split.
John came to the funeral—though I don’t recall inviting him. Maybe Emily did? I’d been numb then. He’d urged me to visit, to heal. But I couldn’t leave Arthur’s grave.
Now, holding the address, I murmured, *”Maybe I’ll go, love. You wouldn’t mind?”* His photo seemed to nod.
I rang the coach station, kneaded dough for scones (one doesn’t visit empty-handed), and slept deeply from exhaustion.
By nine, I was on the coach, dreaming of John’s welcome—nostalgia, laughter. I dozed off.
The rumble of brakes woke me. Few passengers remained. Outside, snow-dusted cottages loomed.
At John’s gate, I found it locked. As I fumbled through the slats, a voice snapped: *”What’re you doing? Burgling in broad daylight?”*
A stooped old woman in wellingtons glared.
*”I’m visiting John. John Carter.”*
*”Gone nine days now,”* she muttered.
*”Nine days? How?”*
*”Just is. Best be off.”* She shuffled away.
The path to the door lay untrodden. Stunned, I caught the return coach, cursing myself for waiting too long.
Home by dusk, I sipped tea with the scones meant for John. *”Church tomorrow,”* I thought before sleep took me.
Then Arthur visited my dreams—holding out blackcurrants, plump as jewels. I woke gasping, the scent still clinging.
At the parish church, I lit two candles—one for Arthur, one for John. The latter sputtered out.
*”Don’t waste that on the living,”* an elderly woman chided.
Shaken, I left the second candle unlit. The dream gnawed at me all walk home.
Later, as the kettle boiled, the doorbell rang. *Mrs. Wilkins from upstairs, likely.*
But the figure in the bulky jacket and fur-lined hat was John. My breath hitched.
*”Irene! It’s me!”* He stepped inside, dropping a sack by his feet. *”Or not pleased to see me?”*
*”I went to your village! An old woman said—”*
*”Ah, Mrs. Hargreaves! She gets everything backwards. My son fetched me for Christmas—loaded the car with preserves, spuds. Must’ve looked like a clearance. Stayed awhile, but cities stifle me now.”*
We laughed over my ghost story, the candle, the dream. From his sack, he produced dried currant leaves for tea. The kitchen filled with summer’s ghost as Big Ben chimed on the telly.
Next morning, he left for home. *”Visit come spring. The orchards bloom white then.”*
I waved until the coach vanished. The flat smelled of currants. *So that’s what the dream meant.*
Gazing at Arthur’s photo, I whispered, *”You left me, love. But maybe I’ll see John’s orchards. You’d allow that?”*
Then Emily burst in. *”Mum! You’ll never guess—!”* Behind her stood a man—Daniel, her fiancé.
Currant tea flowed again as they shared news. Later, Emily confessed: *”He’s divorced—left the house to his ex and their girl. Mind if we stay here a while?”*
My chest tightened. A stranger in our home. But Emily wasn’t young. If not now, when?
I glanced at Arthur’s photo. *”Well? Shall we go, then? See those blossoms?”*
So my quiet life turned. New Year’s brings surprises—if you let it. And ahead, Christmas yet, with miracles still waiting.
