I placed the last plate and stepped back to look. Twelve settings. Twelve glasses. Twelve napkins, all folded into neat triangles just as Mum taught me. The Harris family would arrive by eight, and later, Sarah and her husband were coming. A full house, exactly how Mum loved it. The white tablecloth, embroidered with snowflakes on the corners, was Mums too part of her trousseau. I smoothed out a crease and thought about how this was the third New Years Eve Id set this table alone. Without her.
Gran, what about the thirteenth chair?
I jumped. Sophie was stood in the kitchen doorway, hugging a stack of extra plates to her chest. Her cheeks were red from the cold she must have dashed outside for something.
What thirteenth? I pretended not to understand.
Great-grandma always put one out. For a stranger who might come by.
I turned away to look out of the window. Outside, fat, lazy snowflakes drifted down, like pieces of cotton wool. Mum used to love snow like this. Shed say it brought visitors with it. I never asked who she thought might come. I thought it was just something people said, a quirk from old times.
Great-grandmas been gone three years, Sophie.
Which is exactly why.
My granddaughter looked at me in that way only she could direct, thoughtful, almost questioning, but never accusing. For only ten, she was the only one in the family who really remembered Mums stories, who listened and truly cared, not just nodded to be polite. Id long since stopped listening. There was always something to be done, something in the accounts, something else waiting for me. Now Mum was gone, and all my questions went unanswered.
All right, I said at last. Fetch the wooden one from the cupboard, by the wall.
Sophie grinned and disappeared. I went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. There, in a velvet jewellery box, lay Mums amber earrings, set in silver. The only piece she ever wore and now, the only piece I do. Victor says they suit me, but thats not why I wear them. I wear them because sometimes, when I touch the cool silver, I almost feel her beside me.
I slipped the earrings on and looked in the mirror. Fifty-two. Lines by my eyes, grey at my temples. Mum, at this age, always seemed younger. Or did I just imagine it?
Sophie placed the thirteenth chair at the end of the table, facing the front door. I wanted to tell her it was awkward, that any guest would have to sit with their back to the window but I kept quiet. Mum always put it there, exactly like that.
Great-grandma said, Sophie said, smoothing the cloth around the new setting, she had a brother. Uncle Greg. He left when she was twenty-seven. And he never came back.
I paused, salad bowl in my hands.
How do you know that?
She told me. When I was little and would stay the night. Wed lie in the dark and shed tell me stories, about her childhood, about home, about her brother. She always said hed come back one day. Thats why she always put the extra place.
Forty years. For forty years, Mum had set the thirteenth chair, and all that time, I thought it was just tradition. Just her way of being welcoming. Just an old ladys quirk. In reality, she was waiting for someone. Every New Years Eve, waiting for someone in particular.
Why didnt she tell me?
Sophie shrugged.
Maybe she was waiting for you to ask.
But I never did. Not once in fifty-two years did I stop to ask why she insisted on that extra setting. Not once did I ask about her childhood, about her family, about what came before me. I just accepted she was Mum. Now she was gone and I realised how little I really knew.
The front door banged. Victor came in from the cold, brushing snow from his collar. Behind him were Paul and his wife, Liz. The house filled with chatter, laughter, the clink of plates. Liz brought her legendary pie, Paul brought the bubbly. Victor hugged me, kissed my head.
Youve set it beautifully.
I smiled, helped hang up coats, poured tea, listened to tales of traffic and weather. But my eyes kept turning to that thirteenth chair. Empty, waiting.
Mum was waiting for someone. Someone real, for forty years and I never knew.
The doorbell rang at six oclock.
Wed just finished the nibbles. Paul was holding forth about work, Liz was giggling at his jokes, Victor was opening another bottle. Sophie sat quietly, picking at her salad quieter than usual, lost in thought. Then the bell sharp and sudden.
Ill get it! Sophie called, hopping up from her seat.
I was drying my hands when I heard her voice: Gran, theres a man.
Something in her tone made me go out to the hallway.
An old man stood on the doorstep. His beard was white, tangled, unkempt. His coat, long since worn and stained, once might have been good, now had a button missing. His woolly hat was poked with tufts of cotton. His boots were battered, the lace on one replaced with an old bit of string. He had the look of someone whod known too many railway stations, too many park benches.
But he wasnt looking at us. He looked at the house at the windows with their painted frames, the porch with its peeling paint, the fir outside wed dressed with fairy lights. He looked as if he were trying to remember, or maybe recognise, something.
Good evening, he said. His voice was soft, a little cracked, but gentle. Sorry to trouble you. Could I might I come in for a bit? Its awfully cold tonight.
Victor appeared behind me. I could feel him stiffen.
We dont give out, Im afraid, he said firmly but quietly. But I can bring you a hot tea. Wait here.
Let him in, Sophie stepped between us and the door, eyes bright. Gran, you put out the thirteenth chair. For someone like him.
I looked at the man. He wasnt begging, wasnt pleading. He didnt mutter about hard times or hungry children, as some do in the street. He just stood and looked at our home. My home. Mums home.
And then I noticed his hands.
Hed taken off his gloves knitted, with a hole at the index finger and was rubbing his cold palms together. And I saw: his nails were clean and trimmed, his fingers neat and elegant, with the calluses familiar to those who work with tiny things. Not the hands of a drifter, but of someone whod done fine work.
Come in, I said, surprising myself. Its New Years Eve. A person shouldnt be left out in the cold.
Victor looked ready to object I saw his jaw clench, but I put my hand on his arm, just like Mum used to calm my father. It worked as always.
All right, said Victor. But just for a while.
The old man stepped in, pausing in the hallway. He looked around, slowly first right towards the kitchen, then left towards the living room and tree. I thought something flickered in his expression. Recognition? Or was I imagining it?
The kitchens on the right, isnt it? he asked, to no one in particular.
Yes, Sophie nodded. How did you know?
Houses like this are usually laid out that way, he said. Sorry. Its been a long time since I was in a proper home.
We took him to the living room. Paul looked clearly displeased he hated unplanned events and Liz pressed close to him, wary. Only Sophie seemed pleased, hurrying to make the guest welcome.
I showed him his seat at the thirteenth chair. He sat gingerly, as if afraid it might break, hands resting on his lap. His back was straight despite his years and obvious tiredness.
Ill fetch you something to eat, said Sophie.
Thank you. Youre very kind.
There was something odd about his voice. His manners, his speech precise, polite. Not what youd expect from a man adrift for years.
Sophie set before him a plate of salad, potatoes, a thick slice of roast ham. He picked up his fork and again, I noticed his hands. He held his cutlery correctly, with the confidence of someone well taught. He ate slowly, carefully, no smacking of lips, no fuss. As one does who was raised that way.
Whats your name? Sophie asked him, taking the seat opposite.
He looked up.
Gregory.
My hand shook and I almost dropped my glass. Gregory. Uncle Greg, from the stories Sophie mentioned. I dimly remembered: some relative whod left when I was small. I was nine, but even before that he rarely came by worked late, lived elsewhere in town. I couldnt recall his face, just Mum sobbing after he left. But could this be him? Gregory thousands in England must be called that.
And your middle name? Sophie pressed.
Andrew.
Without thinking, I reached for Mums earrings, touching the cold amber. Andrew. Mums father, my grandfather, was Andrew Carter. He passed away long before I was born I only knew him via old sepia photos.
Tastes wonderful, said the old man, pushing aside his empty plate. Havent eaten like that in years.
Would you like more? Sophie asked.
No, thank you. Thats plenty.
He sat, hands folded, looking at the Christmas tree, the baubles and fairy lights, the star at the top. There was something familiar in those faded blue-grey eyes, something Id seen every day in Mums. I couldnt put my finger on it.
Nina, he said quietly, glancing straight at me, could you pass the salt?
Nina.
Only Mum ever called me that. Nina, come have your tea. Bedtime, Nina. No one else Victor calls me Nin, occasionally Ninny; Paul says Mum; Sophie calls me Gran. At work, its Mrs Carter.
How do you know my name?
He froze, fork in hand. I saw a flicker of fear, or perhaps confusion, on his face.
I heard someone say it, he stammered.
No one had called me Nina all evening.
I didnt push him. I passed the salt. Turned away to watch the snow outside, still falling thick and slow.
But all evening, I kept looking at his hands.
At a quarter to midnight, we raised our glasses. Victor gave a toast the usual, about family, health, happiness for the coming year. Glasses chinked. The old man Gregory sipped quietly, barely touching his champagne.
Midnight struck. Sophie squealed Happy New Year! Liz flung her arms around Paul. Victor kissed me. But I watched the old man. He remained still, staring at the tree. His lips moved, as if in a silent prayer or perhaps counting out the chimes.
After the chimes, Sophie put on music. Paul and Liz disappeared to dance in the next room peals of laughter, old pop songs echoing back. Victor dozed in an armchair, exhausted. Sophie ran off to phone her friends.
I went to the kitchen to clear the table.
The guest stayed where hed been all evening back straight, eyes on the tree.
And then I heard a faint creak.
Gregory stood up, moving carefully as pensioners do to spare their joints. He stepped over to the Christmas tree, reached out, and touched the old star at the top the one that belonged to my grandmother. He turned the star, just a little. About two centimetres to the left.
Something broke inside me.
That gesture, that tiny move. Thats what Mum did every New Year. Every time we decorated the tree, shed walk up last and adjust the star, two centimetres left. Every year Id asked, why? Shed only smile. Thats how it should be, dear. Thats right.
I went to him, my heart hammering so hard I was sure hed hear.
Why did you do that?
He jerked his hand away, looking suddenly frightened.
Habit, he replied.
Whose habit?
Silence. He studied me with those faded blue eyes, his beard white with age and sorrow. But the eyes the very ones Id seen every dawn in my mirror. Mums eyes.
You knew my mother, I said, but it was not a question.
He lowered his gaze.
Zinaida Carter? he said softly. Yes. I knew her.
How?
He glanced away to the tree, as though searching it for words.
We grew up together. In the same house.
It was as if my heart missed a beat. That could mean anything neighbours, family friends, distant cousins.
In this house? I whispered, already suspecting the truth.
Yes.
Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. I stepped closer.
Who are you?
He didnt answer for a moment.
There used to be a childrens room, he said, looking vaguely towards the corridor. At the end, little, with a window to the garden. In winter, the frost would make wonderful patterns on the glass. Wed stand and guess what they looked like.
Its the box-room now.
I know. He paused. Zina and I but faltered.
What?
He shook his head.
Nothing. Sorry. I need some fresh air.
And he slipped out onto the porch without his coat.
I found him half an hour later.
He was sitting on the old bench by the hedge, staring at the house. Snow was already dusting his shoulders, his hat, his beard. He didnt move, just sat.
I pulled on Mums old down coat ancient but warm and went outside.
Youll freeze.
Wouldnt be the first time.
I sat next to him. The bench was cold, even through the padding. Snowflakes tingled against my face.
Tell me.
Tell you what?
The truth. Who you are. How you knew Mum. Why you came.
A long silence. He looked down at his hands those neat hands with the calluses.
Zina was my sister, he said finally, voice trembling. My little sister. I left when she was twenty-seven. I was thirty.
It was as if the ground shifted under me. I gripped the bench to steady myself.
Youre Uncle Greg?
He flinched, turned to me.
She talked about me to someone?
To Sophie. She told her. And Sophie told me tonight. She said Great-grandma used to wait for you, put out a place every New Years Eve. For forty years.
He covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.
Forty-three years. For forty-three years, I didnt have the courage to come back.
Why?
He wiped his face with his sleeve. His eyes were red, glistening. The old man was crying not loudly, just tears running silently down his beard.
My father. We argued. Badly. I said things I cant unsay. Told him hed ruined my life. That I hated him, and would never set foot in the house again. He exhaled, mist rising into the cold air. And then I left. North, took work on the oil rigs. I thought Id be back in a year, settled down, made peace. A year turned into five, five into ten, ten into twenty. Then I was ashamed. Too much time had passed, too much had happened. I let them believe I was gone. It seemed easier that way.
And Zina? Mum?
He grimaced, in pain.
I thought shed hate me too. That shed side with Dad. I never even wrote her a single letter. I was scared she wouldnt answer, or worse would tell me not to come back.
She waited for you, I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. For forty years, she set that place. Every New Years Eve. Waiting for you.
He looked up at me.
I found out she passed away last year. By chance. I saw the obituary in an old local paper at the station. Picked it up to sleep on, funnily enough. Saw her photo. The name Zina Carter. My Zina, only grey and old. Passed away after illness, it said. And I knew it was too late. Forty-three years I tried to work up the courage and I was too late.
Then why come now?
Because she waited for me. For forty years she hoped Id walk through that door. And I I owed her at least to see her home once more. The house where we grew up, where we were happy the house I tore apart.
We sat in silence. Snow fell around us, but I didnt care. Mums old coat still smelled of her perfume that peculiar English rose she always wore.
I dont believe you, I said at last. Sorry. But I dont. Anyone could come and claim to be her brother, tell a good story.
I understand.
Do you have proof?
He thought for a while, eyes resting on the house.
In the box-room what used to be the nursery. Zina and I, when we were little, scratched something into the wall, beneath the wallpaper. With a rusty nail. Mustve been 1962. I was eleven, she was eight.
Weve redecorated five times since.
I know. But its still there, in the plaster, at childs height by the window. We had to stand on a stool to reach.
I stood up on trembling legs.
Come with me.
The box-room smelled of old clothes, Dads books, of dust and time. I switched on the single lamp and went to the window.
Right corner. About a metre off the floor.
Here?
A bit higher. Edge of the window. We stood on a stool.
I scanned for something sharp. A pair of rusting scissors lay on a shelf. Theyd do.
I dug at the edge of the wallpaper. The first layer was cream from five years ago, next were florals from the nineties, then blue from the eighties, yellow from before I was born, red and faded at the oldest.
Beneath them, bare grey plaster.
With my phones light, I searched the surface. My hands shook.
Letters childishly uneven, scratched deep into the plaster:
We lived here. Greg and Zina, 1962.
My phone clattered to the floor. I knelt and touched the old graffiti with my fingertips. Sixty-two years, under five layers of wallpaper. Their secret. Their memory.
I did that, Greg whispered behind me. Zina was afraid Mum would see and scold us. I said wed just cover it with wallpaper it would be our secret forever.
I turned. He stood in the doorway, old, battered, a stranger. And yet, family. Mums brother. My uncle. The man shed waited for, year after year.
You really are Uncle Greg.
Yes, Nina. Really. He paused. You were so little when I left. Nine. But I remember you sitting on my knee. Zina used to call you, Nina, go to Uncle Greg. Thats why it slipped out tonight.
We sat in the kitchen until dawn.
I brewed strong tea with a hint of thyme, like Mum always made. I found a jar of her raspberry jam from the summer before she fell ill the last batch she ever made.
Greg talked. Tales of the North Aberdeen oil, icy Scottish towns, then a stint inside for a silly theft in his youth. Years roughing it hostels, parks, under bridges. The mounting fear of returning home, which with every year became all the harder to face.
I was a watchmaker, he said, looking at his hands. Before I left, worked in a shop on King Street, fixing clocks and little gears. See the calluses? Tweezers, screwdrivers. Ive not worked in years, but my hands havent forgotten.
He held them out for me to see those same meticulous hands thatd caught my notice on the doorstep.
You know why I waited so long to come back? he asked, as dawn crept through the frost. Not just shame. Worse, I was afraid Zina wouldnt forgive me. Not a phone call, not a letter in all that time. I could have found her. I could have written. I didnt. I was scared.
Scared of what?
That shed say, Go. Youre dead to me. Better not to know than to hear that.
She never would have. How can I explain she set that chair every year. For forty years. Even when bedridden, shed ask me to do it. I never understood why. Thought it was some superstition, some old habit. But she was waiting. For you.
He was silent, as pinkish dawn crept through the windows the first morning of the new year.
The earrings, he said suddenly. Amber in silver. I gave her those for her eighteenth birthday. Saved for months working as a junior, wages were awful, but I managed. She was so happy said shed wear them always.
I touched the earrings. Cool silver, warm amber. Mums only jewellery. Now it was clear whod given them.
She never took them off, I said. Even in hospital, the nurses tried to remove them, but she wouldnt let them.
Greg wept. Silent tears, rolling into his beard.
I stood, reached into the cupboard for Mum’s old scarf grey wool, knitted by her hands and still scented faintly of rose. I draped it over Uncle Gregs shoulders.
Happy New Year, Uncle Greg.
He caught my hand, pressing it to his face. His tears were warm against my skin.
She never saw me again, he whispered. Three years. If only Id come sooner
You came. Maybe late. But you came. Thats what she waited for.
He met my gaze at last his eyes red and swollen.
Shed want you to stay. Here. With us.
He was silent for a while. The first light of the year crept over the garden.
In the morning, when sunlight began glimmering through the frosted window, I found him in the living room.
Uncle Greg sat at the thirteenth chair, clutching his tea. Sophie chatted his ear off, waving her hands, and for the first time all night, he looked truly happy.
The star at the top of the tree was turned left again, just so. Now, I knew why. It was their secret sign brother and sister, waiting to be reunited.
Paul sat in the corner, eyeing Greg with suspicion. Liz was washing up, making a show of appearing unfazed. Victor came over and put his arms around my shoulders.
So hes staying, then?
Yes.
Nina he hesitated, are you sure? We hardly know the man. Anything could
He knew about the writing under five layers of wallpaper, Victor. We lived here. Greg and Zina, 1962. You cant fake that.
Victor sighed. He was a good man cautious, practical, but kind. He loved me enough to trust my choice.
All right. As long as you know I warned you.
I looked at Uncle Greg, holding his tea carefully in both hands a watchmakers hands, hands that once scratched a secret on the nursery wall, that once slipped Mum those earrings.
Mum set that chair for forty years, I told Victor. It was empty for three. Thats enough.
Sophie spotted me and waved.
Gran! Uncle Greg says he can fix clocks! My old pendulum one from Grandads never works he reckons he can sort it!
I went to the table, placed a hand on Uncle Gregs shoulder just like Mum always did to welcome or soothe. I suppose now it was mine to use.
Happy New Year, I said softly. To new beginnings.
He laid his hand gently over mine. His palm was warm.
Thank you, Nina, he replied, his voice trembling. Thank you for letting me in.
Snow drifted outside lazy, thick flakes falling slowly. Mum used to say that kind of snow brought guests.
She was right. As always.
She waited for forty years. And three years after, in the end, he did come.
And there was no longer a need for the thirteenth chair to remain empty.
