A Handful of Blackcurrants
I hadn’t made much fuss about New Year’s Eve. My daughter, Emily, said she’d be going to her friends’ country cottage. And what did I need, really? I’d bake some mince pies, whip up a trifle, watch the telly for a bit, then off to bed. Emily would be back before I knew it.
When Arthur was alive, we used to gather in a big group. A bit of food, a glass or two of sherry, the Queen’s speech, then out we’d go—poppers in hand, sparklers lighting up the frosty air. We’d join the carolers around the town Christmas tree, or if enough folks showed up, someone would organise a silly game or two. Even the younger ones got swept up in it.
I wiped my cheek. Nearly three years since Arthur passed, and still, my heart ached. Some losses never soften.
I reached for the framed photo on the shelf—his eyes crinkled at the corners, that quiet half-smile. I’d loved this picture so much, I’d used the same one for his headstone. Whenever I visited, I’d study his face, imagining his expression shifting—sometimes warm, as if pleased to see me; other times stern, as if scolding me for staying away too long.
I knew it was just my mind playing tricks. But each time, I’d wonder—how would he greet me today?
“Miss you, love. Wish we’d had grandchildren. Something to keep me busy. Emily’s in no rush, though. After that James fellow married her best friend, she’s been wary. Lately, though, she’s been brighter. Maybe there’s someone new. She hasn’t said. I won’t pry—”
The front door clicked open.
“Mum? You home?” Emily’s voice rang through the hall.
“Where else would I be? Back so soon?” I hurried to meet her.
“Left work early. Won’t stay for supper—Vicky and her husband are picking me up.”
“But you weren’t leaving till the thirty-first!”
“Change of plans. We need to air out the cottage, get the tree up—” She bustled about, stuffing a holdall with chargers, shoes, her curling wand. “Right, that’s everything. Sorry to leave you alone, Mum. You could visit someone?”
“Not my scene anymore. When will you be back?”
“Third or fourth. Depends.” Her eyes sparkled—a look I hadn’t seen in ages. Someone’s caught her fancy, then. Good.
A car horn sounded outside.
“Gotta run!” A peck on my cheek, a swirl of her coat, and she was gone.
I checked the hallway—gloves? Scarf? All packed. Back in the quiet living room, I glanced at Arthur’s photo.
“Now it’s just us again. Oh, Arthur…” The photo smiled back.
I needed a distraction. The sideboard drawer was crammed with papers—time to sort them. Receipts, old bills, all into the bin. Then I found it—a crumpled note with an address. William’s, Arthur’s old friend. Memories flooded in.
We’d met at a mutual friend’s birthday. Went to the pictures a few times. Then one evening, he brought a mate along—Arthur. My heart leapt that instant. He felt it too.
William noticed straight away—stepped aside without a word. Good man. Never regretted choosing Arthur.
William married later, but it didn’t stick. He moved to a village miles from town—some cousin’s old place. We visited a few times, Arthur, little Emily, and I.
He’d joke, half-serious, that if Arthur ever mucked up, I should come to him. Arthur just laughed. We had our rows, sure—what couple doesn’t?—but we always made up quick enough.
“William came to the funeral. Don’t even recall inviting him. Maybe Emily did? I was in such a fog. He begged me to visit afterward, to get my mind off things. But I couldn’t bear leaving Arthur’s grave. Never made it to William’s.”
I shut the drawer, clutching the address.
“Arthur… maybe I should go? You wouldn’t mind?” The photo seemed to nod.
I rang the coach station, checked timetables, then set to baking. Couldn’t turn up empty-handed. Who’d make William a proper pie now? Worked till midnight, then fell straight into heavy sleep.
By nine, I was on the coach, dreaming of William’s delight, swapping old stories—until the murmur of passengers roused me. Nearly empty now. Through the windshield, I spotted snow-dusted cottages.
Buttoning my coat, I grabbed my bag. The coach halted at the village edge. Stepping out, I gasped—pure fairy-tale. The silence rang in my ears.
Found William’s place easy enough, but the gate was padlocked. I wriggled my arm through the slats, fumbling for the latch.
“Oi! What’re you doing?” A shrill voice. I spun—there stood a wiry old woman in wellies and a shabby mac.
“Here to see William. William Thompson.”
“Well, he’s not here. Been gone nine days now.”
“Gone? How?”
“However it happens. Now hop it.” She trudged off, muttering.
I gaped at the house. The path was snowed over—no footprints. Stumbling back to the stop, I barely made the return coach. All the way home, I cursed myself—why hadn’t I come sooner?
Exhausted, I slumped inside after dark. Ate one of William’s pies with tea. “Church tomorrow,” I thought, then blacked out.
And dreamed of Arthur—smiling, holding out blackcurrants on his palm. I woke clutching my chest. The room was dark, yet I swore I smelled berries.
Dressing, I puzzled over the dream. Was it a sign? At church, I lit candles—one for Arthur, one for William. The second flickered out. I tried again—nothing.
“Don’t light for the living,” whispered a tiny old lady.
I shivered. Left the candle by the Virgin’s icon instead. Pondered it all the way home.
Switched on the telly, but my eyes kept drifting to Arthur’s photo. Uneasy, I went to boil the kettle—then the doorbell rang.
“Neighbour borrowing sugar, likely,” I thought.
Didn’t recognise him at first—bulky jacket, fur trapper hat pulled low. Then—”William?!”
“Ira, it’s me.” He stepped inside.
My throat locked.
“You—yesterday—a woman said you’d—nine days—”
“Ah, that’d be old Maud. Gets things twisted. My son visited, dragged me back to London. Loaded the car with preserves, potatoes—she must’ve assumed the worst! Stayed a bit, but couldn’t stand the smog. ThoughtSo there we were, the three of us—me, Emily, and her Dmitri—sipping blackcurrant tea while the snow fell softly outside, the ghost of Arthur’s smile in the photo frame and the promise of spring blossoms at William’s cottage waiting just around the corner.
