A Handful of Blackcurrants
Eleanor hadn’t bothered much with New Year’s preparations. Her daughter had said she’d be spending the holiday with friends at their countryside cottage. And what did Eleanor really need? She’d bake a few pies, whip up a trifle, watch a bit of telly, then turn in early. Julia would come home soon enough.
When Arthur was alive, they’d hosted grand gatherings—friends squeezed around the table, drinks poured, plates passed, the Queen’s Speech playing in the background before they spilled outside with sparklers and party poppers. They’d join the carolers around the tree in the town square, singing until their throats ached, even coaxing the younger crowd into silly games.
Eleanor wiped her cheek. Nearly three years since Arthur’s heart gave out, and still, the loss sat heavy in her chest. She doubted she’d ever truly make peace with it.
She lifted his framed photo from the shelf. His eyes crinkled, lips hinting at a smile. She’d loved this picture enough to have it etched on his headstone. Every visit, she studied it—sometimes Arthur seemed to greet her warmly; other times, his expression hardened if she’d stayed away too long.
She knew it wasn’t real. Yet each time, she wondered: *Which version of him will wait for me today?*
“It’s bleak without you, love,” she murmured. “At least if there were grandchildren—something to keep me busy. But Julia’s in no rush. After that boy chose her mate over her… well, she’s been skittish. Lately, though—laughing more. Might be seeing someone. Doesn’t tell me. And I won’t pry.”
The front door clicked. Eleanor hastily returned the frame.
“Mum? You home?” Julia’s voice rang down the hall.
“Where else would I be? Back so soon?”
“Left work early. Won’t stay for supper—Vicky and her husband are picking me up.”
“Why the change? You weren’t leaving till New Year’s Eve.”
“We decided to get the cottage ready—light the fireplace, trim the tree…” Julia rattled off, tossing wellies and a hair straightener into a duffel. “Right. Charger—got it. Oh, and my boots—”
“You’re really leaving me alone on the holiday?”
“Go visit someone, Mum! You’d mope either way.”
“Not my scene anymore. When will you be back?”
“Third or fourth. Depends.” Julia’s eyes sparkled. *Someone’s definitely caught her fancy.*
A car horn blared outside.
“Gotta run!” A peck on the cheek, a whirl of wool coat, and she was gone.
Eleanor scanned the hallway—gloves? Scarf? All taken. The quiet of the house pressed in. She turned back to Arthur’s photo.
“There she goes. Oh, Arthur… you left too soon.” His crinkled eyes seemed to smile.
She needed distraction. The cluttered cupboard yawned open—old bills, faded receipts. She sifted through, discarding junk, preserving essentials, until a scrap caught her eye. An address, scrawled in clumsy script. *Edward’s place.* Memories flooded in.
They’d met at a mutual friend’s birthday—cinema dates, easy chats. Then he brought Arthur along. One glance, and her pulse stuttered. Edward, ever the gentleman, stepped aside when he noticed.
She’d chosen right. Edward married too, but it soured. He’d moved to a village three hours north, inherited some cousin’s cottage. They’d visited twice—him wistfully nursing pints while Julia played in the garden.
*”If Arthur ever mucks up, you know where to find me,”* he’d joke. Arthur would just chuckle.
Edward had come to the funeral. Barely remembered it through the fog. Had begged her to visit—to breathe, to heal. But she’d clung to the cemetery instead.
She shut the drawer, clutching the address.
“Arthur… maybe I should go. You wouldn’t mind?” His photo seemed to nod.
A call to the bus station, a flurry of pastry dough—never arrive empty-handed. Who’d bake for Edward now? Exhaustion finally dragged her under.
By nine a.m., she was aboard, lulled by imagined reunions. The bus jolted her awake. Nearly empty. Snow-dusted cottages loomed outside.
His gate was locked. She fumbled at the latch, then jumped at a voice:
“What’re you on about?” A wizened woman in Wellies scowled. “Breaking in, are ya?”
“I’m visiting Edward—Edwards.”
“Gone nine days now.”
*”What?”*
“Dead. Now hop it.” The woman shuffled off, muttering.
No footprints marred the snowy path. The bus hadn’t left. Half an hour later, she slumped into her seat, guilt gnawing. *Should’ve come sooner.*
Home by dusk. Tea. Pies meant for Edward. *Church tomorrow—light a candle.* Sleep took her.
Arthur visited her in dreams—smiling, offering blackcurrants on his palm. She woke gasping, the scent lingering.
The church candle for Arthur burned steady. Edward’s sputtered out.
“Don’t light for the living,” a tiny woman chided.
Eleanor shivered.
At home, Arthur’s photo watched her. The kettle whistled—then the doorbell.
Neighbors, surely.
Edward stood there, parka swallowing him, fur hat shadowing his eyes.
“Ira? It’s me.” He stepped inside.
Her voice cracked. “*You?*”
“Who else? Missed me?” He dropped a duffel. “Or not?”
“I went to your place! Some hag said you’d died—”
“Old Mabel? Daft cow. My lad fetched me for Christmas. Packed up jams, spuds—she must’ve thought I’d kicked it. City air choked me. Figured I’d stop by.”
Relief bled into laughter. Over tea—steeped with his dried currant leaves—they howled at the mix-up. At midnight, clinking glasses, the tart-sweet steam wrapping them.
Next morning, at the station, he gripped her hands. “Visit. No excuses. Spring’s magic—blossoms like snow.”
She waved until the bus vanished.
Home again. Quiet. Currants on the air. *So that was the dream.*
“Left me alone, didn’t you, Arthur?” She eyed his photo. “Well, I’m going.”
“Mum?” Julia stood in the doorway. “You’re leaving?”
“Didn’t expect you yet.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Currants. Edward visited. And you’re not alone?” A man hovered behind her.
“This is Daniel.”
He nodded. *Guests like berries from a bush. Just like the dream.*
“He proposed,” Julia blurted, glowing.
“Don’t loiter! Come in.”
Over currant tea and shop-bought cake, Julia curled into her on the sofa.
“You love him?”
“Yes. He’s divorced—flat went to his ex and kid. Can we stay here till we save?”
Eleanor’s chest pinched. A stranger in Arthur’s space. But Julia was thirty-six—if not now, when?
She glanced at the photo. *Well, Arthur? Shall we see those blossoms?*
Just like that, her hollow year tipped into light. New Year’s—for those who still believe—brings surprises. And beyond it, Christmas, and the promise of more.
