A Handful of Blackcurrants
Margaret hadn’t put much effort into preparations for New Year’s Eve. Her daughter, Emily, had mentioned she’d be spending it with friends at their countryside cottage. And what did Margaret need, really? A few mince pies, a bowl of turkey salad, the telly humming in the background—enough to pass the evening before turning in. Emily would return soon enough.
When Arthur was alive, they’d gather in a crowded house. A bit of wine, hearty food, the Queen’s speech, then out into the frosty night with sparklers and crackers. They’d dance around the village Christmas tree, singing carols, sometimes even coaxing the younger crowd into silly games. They’d always been good at keeping spirits high.
Margaret blinked away a tear. It had been nearly three years since Arthur’s passing, and still, the emptiness clung to her. Some losses never truly settle.
She reached for the framed photograph on the shelf—Arthur, squinting against the sun, lips curved in that half-smile she adored. She’d chosen the same image for his headstone. Whenever she visited the grave, she’d study it, convinced his expression shifted—sometimes welcoming, other times stern if she’d stayed away too long.
She knew it was nonsense. Yet, each visit, she’d brace herself, wondering which version of him would greet her.
“God, I miss you, Arthur. If only we’d had grandchildren—something to keep me busy. But Emily’s in no rush. Ever since that bloke left her for her best friend, she’s been wary. Lately, though, she’s been cheerful. Maybe there’s someone new. Not that she’d tell me…”
The front door thudded shut. Margaret hastily returned the photo to its place.
“Mum? You home?” Emily’s voice rang from the hallway.
“Where else would I be? Back so soon?” Margaret moved to meet her.
“Left work early. Not staying for dinner—Vicky and her husband are picking me up.”
“But you were meant to go on New Year’s Eve!” Margaret frowned.
“We decided to head down early—get the cottage warm, decorate the tree…” Emily bustled about, tossing a charger into her bag. “Right, shoes—oh, and the straighteners!” She darted to the bathroom, stuffing them in.
“That’s everything. Sorry to leave you alone, Mum. You should visit someone—”
“I’m past all that fuss. When will you be back?”
“Third or fourth. Depends.” Emily’s eyes sparkled. Margaret hadn’t seen her so alive in ages. *Someone’s definitely caught her eye.*
A car horn blared outside.
“Got to dash!” Emily pecked her cheek, threw on her coat, and vanished.
Margaret checked the hallway—gloves, scarf, all accounted for. She wandered back, her gaze drifting to Arthur’s photo.
“Even Emily’s gone now. Oh, Arthur… you left too soon.” She sighed.
In the frame, Arthur squinted back, smiling.
Needing distraction, Margaret yanked open a drawer—papers in chaos. Time to sort them.
Receipts, old bills, junk—she tossed most, keeping the essentials. Then, a crumpled note with an address. *James.* Arthur’s old friend. Memories surged.
They’d met at a mutual friend’s birthday. Dated briefly. Then he’d brought Arthur along. The moment she’d seen him, her heart stuttered. James noticed, bowed out gracefully. A good man.
He’d married eventually, but it crumbled. Moved to a village miles away—some inherited cottage. They’d visited a few times, Emily in tow.
James had envied their happiness, joking that if Arthur ever mucked up, she should come to him. Arthur had only laughed. They’d had their rows, sure, but never enough to split.
*He came to the funeral. Did I even invite him? Maybe Emily did. I was barely coherent.* He’d urged her to visit, to heal. But she’d clung to the grave instead.
Margaret shut the drawer, clutching the address.
“Arthur… maybe I should go. You wouldn’t mind?” The photo seemed to nod.
She rang the bus station, kneaded dough for scones—couldn’t arrive empty-handed. Who’d bake for James now? Exhausted, she slept deeply.
By nine, she was on the bus, dreaming of their reunion… until noise startled her awake. Few passengers remained. The bus rolled past snow-dusted cottages.
She buttoned her coat, tugged her hat low. The stop was a lone house at the village edge. Stepping out, the silence rang in her ears.
James’s cottage was easy to spot—but the gate was locked. She fumbled, trying to slip her hand through the slats.
“Oi! What’re you doing?” A shrill voice. Margaret jumped.
A bony old woman in wellies glared. “Breaking in, are we?”
“I—I’m visiting. James Whitaker.”
“Gone nine days now.”
Margaret recoiled. “What?”
“That’s what I said. Best be off.” The woman shuffled away, muttering.
The path was snowed over, untrodden. Margaret trudged back, swallowing tears. The bus was still there.
Home by dusk, she sipped tea with the scones meant for James. *Church tomorrow. Light a candle.* She collapsed into sleep.
And dreamed of Arthur—smiling, offering a handful of plump blackcurrants. She woke gasping, the scent lingering.
Dressing, she puzzled over the dream. Had he come for her?
At church, she lit two candles—one for Arthur, one for James. The second sputtered out.
“Don’t light for the living,” a wizened woman chided.
Margaret shuddered.
Back home, the telly droned, but her eyes kept flicking to Arthur’s photo. Unease prickled. The kettle hissed—then the doorbell.
*Neighbour, probably.*
But the man in the bulky jacket and fur hat wasn’t a neighbour.
“Margaret? It’s me. James.” He stepped inside.
She choked back a scream.
“You?” Her tongue felt thick.
“Who else? Not happy to see me?” He dropped a duffel bag.
“I—I went to your cottage. An old woman said you’d been dead nine days.”
“Ah, Mrs. Higgins. Nutter. My son visited—we loaded his car with preserves, veg. She must’ve assumed… Stayed with him a bit. Cities suffocate me now.”
Relief uncoiled. They laughed at the mix-up. She told him of the dream, the candle. James pulled dried currant leaves from his bag—*for tea.*
At midnight, they drank it with scones, the telly counting down.
Next morning, James left. “Visit me. Spring’s beautiful—orchards in bloom.”
She waved until the bus vanished.
The flat smelled of currants. *That’s what the dream meant, you fool.*
“You left me alone, Arthur. Maybe I’ll go to James,” she told the photo.
“Go where?” Emily stood in the doorway.
“You’re early!”
“What’s that smell?”
“Currants. James visited. And who’s this?” A man hovered behind Emily.
“Mum, this is Daniel.”
He stepped forward, hand outstretched.
*Guests raining down like berries. The dream was right.*
“Daniel proposed,” Emily blurted, glowing.
Margaret ushered them in. Over currant tea and cake, Emily clung to her.
“You love him?”
“Yes. But—he’s divorced. Left his flat to his ex and daughter. Can we stay here until—?”
Margaret’s chest tightened. A stranger in the house. But Emily wasn’t young. If not now, when?
She glanced at Arthur’s photo. *Well, old boy? Shall we see those orchards in spring?*
Just like that, her lonely life shifted. New Year’s—a time for miracles, if you believe. And ahead, Christmas, and the promise of more.
