Happiness at the Festive Rate
“Thank you, Mum.” Edmund rose from the table and stretched. “I’ll just go for a short drive. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful—there’s hardly any traffic this time of evening.”
“Ever since you bought that car, you spend all your time with it. You ought to be thinking about settling down. They say a man’s first love is his motorcar.”
“Now, now, let’s not start that again.” Edmund stepped closer and embraced her. “You know how long I dreamed of having my own car. Let me enjoy it a bit longer, then I’ll think about marriage. I promise.”
“Very well. Nearly thirty and still playing with toys.” She ruffled his hair. “Go on, then.”
Edmund stepped out into the frosty evening, brushing the powdery snowflakes from the windscreen of his car. He’d had his licence for years—his father had let him drive the old Morris until it was written off. He knew the roads well, but the thrill of owning his own car hadn’t yet worn off. He’d saved diligently, researched thoroughly, and now spent his evenings cruising through town, sometimes venturing onto the motorway. If anyone hitched a ride, he never took a penny.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned the key, savouring the engine’s purr before turning up the radio and easing out of the driveway. Snowflakes glittered in the headlights, a sudden winter having blanketed the streets in white. With no destination in mind, he meandered through the lanes until he spotted a woman and a child waving for a lift. He turned down the music, pulled over, and rolled down the passenger window.
“Could you take us to Builder’s Lane?” The woman leaned in, young and pleasant-faced.
“Hop in.” Edmund gestured to the seat beside him.
“How much will it be? It’s quite a way,” she asked, still hesitating.
“Don’t worry. I never charge pretty ladies.” Seeing her flinch, he quickly clarified, “Will a fiver do? Come on, I don’t bite.” He chuckled.
She opened the back door, ushering her son—a boy of about five—inside before joining him. Edmund merged onto the main road.
“How many horses does your car have?” the boy piped up.
“Horses?” Edmund frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“How can you not know?”
“Well, when I bought it, I cared more about how it looked and how comfy it was. Engine power didn’t bother me much. You sound like quite the expert, though,” Edmund said seriously.
“I am,” the boy declared.
“And what’s your name, then, Master Mechanic?”
“Timmy. What’s yours?”
“Well, aren’t you polite? I’m Edmund. Sorry I can’t shake hands, mate.” The boy’s earnestness amused him.
“Timmy, stop bothering the man,” his mother chided.
“Let him talk. He’s a bright lad—bright as a button, this one.” Edmund caught her eye in the rearview mirror, and something warm flickered in his chest.
The city glittered with shopfronts and lamplight. Christmas trees already twinkled outside the department stores, though the holiday was weeks away.
“Just here, by this building,” the woman said.
“Shall I take you right to the door?” Edmund glanced back, but she was looking away.
He stopped at the curb of a long brick terrace. She climbed out, holding the door for her son.
“Hurry up, Timmy.”
“Will you pick me up tomorrow?” His voice wobbled.
“I’ll fetch you Sunday. And don’t whinge—you’ll stuff up your nose. Come on.”
Timmy dragged his feet, reluctant to leave. Edmund stepped out and accepted the folded fiver she offered.
“I’ll keep this as a lucky charm,” he said solemnly, then shook Timmy’s small, warm hand. “Cheerio.”
“Cheerio.”
As they walked away, a man emerged from a parked car, kissing the woman before offering Timmy his hand. The boy turned away sharply.
*She’s got a beau, and the lad’s not keen on him,* Edmund thought, oddly pleased.
Back in the car, he turned up the radio—Cliff Richard crooning, “Oh, my darling, my darling—” The faint scent of perfume lingered. For a moment, he almost expected to see her reflection in the mirror.
The urge to drive faded. The song grated; he changed the station, but her face stayed in his mind. She was nothing extraordinary, yet something about her stuck.
Years ago, he’d fallen for an older woman with a daughter. He’d proposed, brought her home to meet his mum.
“She’s older, she’s got a child. You’re young, handsome—surely you could find a girl your own age? Don’t make a mistake, love…”
Later, his mother had agonised over ruining his happiness. No one since had touched his heart like Deborah. Then her ex-husband returned, and she remarried him.
And today…
He often drove past Timmy’s house, even patrolled the street where he’d picked them up. But he never saw them again. He thought of them often, knew the house number. He could ask around, find out where Timmy’s gran lived. But what would he say? Maybe things had worked out with that bloke waiting in the car.
So he kept driving, searching the pavements, hoping for another chance encounter.
New Year’s Eve arrived. His mother bustled in the kitchen, the tree shimmered by the window, and *Love Actually* played on the telly. Rested, he helped with the salads, fetched the good china. But as night fell, something pulled him outside.
“Mum, it’s snowing—like a proper winter’s tale. I’ll take a quick drive, or I’ll doze off before the countdown.”
“Now? The clock’s about to strike!”
“I’ll just loop round town. Taxi’s scarce tonight—drivers deserve their holiday too.”
His car wore a dusting of snow. The heater hummed to life as the city quietened, its streets empty save for stragglers hurrying to celebrations.
A burly man in an unbuttoned coat flagged him down, huffing as he clambered in, clinking bottles in a bag. Overpaying with a twenty, he lumbered off. *Festive generosity,* Edmund mused, pocketing the note.
Next, a bickering couple. He refused their money, leaving them stunned and grateful, walking off arm in arm.
Then he detoured past the street where he’d met Timmy and his mother, gazing at the lit windows, wondering behind which she sat with her son—and *him*.
Approaching Timmy’s gran’s neighbourhood, he spotted them: her in a beige coat and white bobble hat, Timmy lagging behind. His pulse leapt.
He braked and stepped out. They halted, wary. *They don’t remember me.*
“Need a lift? Special holiday rate—free of charge.”
They approached. Edmund offered his hand.
“Hello, Timmy.”
The boy glanced at his mother before placing his icy fingers in Edmund’s palm.
“Forgot your gloves? You’re freezing. Hop in.”
Once seated, Edmund met her gaze in the mirror—her eyes red-rimmed, swollen.
“Where to?”
“The station,” she murmured.
Timmy sat silent, subdued.
“The year’s nearly over. You won’t get far tonight. And why rush? I don’t know what’s happened, but no one should cry on New Year’s Eve. Right, Timmy?”
“We came to Gran’s for the party, but then Mum and her had a row,” he whispered.
“Timothy!”
“These things happen. Tell you what—no stations tonight.” He stopped her reaching for the door. “Think of your boy. He’s cold. Don’t rob him of the celebration.”
“What’s it to you? Just take us to the station.”
“Mum’s cooked enough for an army. It’s delicious—trust me, I’ve sampled it. We’ll go to mine and see in the new year together. Fancy that, Timmy?”
“Yes!” The boy brightened. “Mum, can we?”
“Come on. Where will you go at this hour? Mum will be delighted. Leave the tears behind tonight—start fresh with a smile.” He turned up the radio—*Oh, my darling, my darling—* His heart kept time with the melody.
*Fate. What else could it be? Even the same song. And they say miracles don’t happen.*
Parking outside his flat, he herded them inside.
“Mum! Guests! Starving and half-frozen. Ten minutes to midnight—quick!”
His mother appeared, hands flying to her cheeks.
“This is my mum, Margaret. And this is Timmy and—” He turned to the woman, now small and striking without her winter”And as the clock struck midnight, the four of them—strangers just hours before—raised their glasses, not knowing this was the first New Year of many they’d celebrate together.”
