A Handful of Blackcurrants
Margaret hadn’t made much fuss about New Year’s Eve. Her daughter Emily had said she’d be spending the holiday with friends at their cottage in the countryside. And Margaret herself didn’t need much—she’d bake a few pies, make a traditional salad, watch a bit of telly, then go to bed. Emily would be back soon enough.
When Arthur was alive, they’d celebrate with a house full of people. A shared meal, a drink or two, festive performances on TV, then outside for sparklers and firecrackers. They’d join the carol singers around the town’s Christmas tree, and if the crowd was lively, they’d even organise little games. Even the youngsters would get swept up in their cheer.
Margaret wiped away a tear. It had been nearly three years since Arthur passed, and she still couldn’t get used to it. Perhaps she never would.
She took his framed photo from the shelf—his crinkled eyes, his gentle smile. It was her favourite, the same one she’d chosen for his headstone. Whenever she visited the cemetery, she’d study his face closely, convinced his expression changed—sometimes warm and welcoming, other times stern, as if scolding her for staying away too long.
She knew it wasn’t possible. Yet every time she approached the grave, she wondered—how would he look today?
“It’s not the same without you, Arthur. If only there were grandchildren… some little joy to keep me busy. But Emily isn’t rushing into marriage. Not after her boyfriend married her best friend. She’s been scared of love since. Lately though, she’s been smiling more. 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 hallway.
“Where else would I be? You’re back early!” Margaret called back.
“Left work ahead of time. Won’t stay for supper—just packing, then off. Victoria and her husband are picking me up.”
“But I thought you were leaving on the 31st?” Margaret frowned.
“We were, but Vicky and I decided we should get the cottage warmed up, decorate the tree, prep everything…” Emily rambled excitedly as she tossed things into her bag. “Phone charger? Got it. Oh—shoes! And my hair straightener—” She dashed to the bathroom and stuffed it in.
“That’s everything. Sorry, Mum, leaving you alone on the holiday. You could visit someone?”
“No, no. That fuss isn’t for me anymore. When will you be back?”
“Third or fourth. Depends.” Emily’s eyes sparkled.
Margaret hadn’t seen her this bright in years. *There’s definitely someone new in their group. Good.*
A car horn sounded outside.
“Gotta go, Mum!” Emily pecked her cheek, threw on her coat, and vanished out the door.
Margaret glanced around—had Emily forgotten her scarf? No, she’d taken everything. The room felt emptier now. She looked back at Arthur’s photo.
“Emily’s gone. Oh, Arthur… you left us too soon.” She sighed.
Arthur’s crinkled eyes smiled back.
She needed distraction. Pulling open a drawer, she found stacks of old papers—time to sort them. Useless ones in the bin, important ones kept. Then—a crumpled note with a scribbled address. *John’s place. Arthur’s old friend.* Memories flooded in…
She’d met John at a mutual friend’s birthday. They’d seen a film or two. Then one day, he brought along a friend. The moment Arthur walked in, Margaret’s heart leapt. They’d fallen for each other instantly.
John noticed, stepped aside without a word. A true friend. She never regretted choosing Arthur over him.
John married later, but it didn’t work. He moved to a village miles away—a family house left to him. She and Arthur had visited once or twice, little Emily in tow.
John had envied their happiness, joked that if Arthur ever wronged her, she should come to him. Arthur only laughed. They’d had their quarrels—every couple did—but never divorce.
“John came to the funeral. Did I even call? Or was it Emily? I barely remember those days. He begged me to visit after, to rest, but I couldn’t. Too busy grieving. Never made it.”
She shut the drawer, clutching the note.
“Arthur… maybe I should go. Would you mind?” His photo seemed to nod.
She rang the bus station, checked the schedule, then started baking. Couldn’t visit empty-handed. Who else would bake for John? Worked late into the night, then slept deeply.
By nine, she was on the bus, imagining John’s surprise, their shared reminiscing… She dozed off.
A jolt woke her. Few passengers remained. The bus neared snow-dusted cottages. She buttoned her coat, tugged on her hat, and grabbed her bag.
The stop was by the village edge. Silence rang in her ears as she stepped into the frosty wonderland.
John’s house was easy to spot—but the gate was locked. She reached through the slats, fumbling at the latch, when a voice barked:
“Oi! What’re you doing?”
Margaret startled like a thief. A wiry old woman in wellies glared.
“Shame on you! Breaking into houses?”
“I—I’m visiting John… Johnson?”
“Gone. Nine days now.”
“Nine days? How?”
“However it happens. Off with you.” The woman waved dismissively and hobbled away, muttering.
Margaret turned back. The path was snowed over—no footprints. She trudged to the stop, blinking back tears. Luck—the bus hadn’t left.
By evening, she was home, exhausted. Ate pie meant for John, drank tea. *Church tomorrow. Light a candle.*
But sleep brought Arthur—holding ripe blackcurrants, smiling. She woke gasping, the scent still lingering.
At church, she lit two candles—one for Arthur, one for John. The second flickered out.
“Don’t pray for the living,” a hunched woman tutted.
Margaret recoiled. Left another candle by the Virgin’s icon. All morning, she puzzled over the dream and the words.
Back home, the telly droned. Arthur’s photo drew her gaze. Uneasy, she headed to the kitchen—then the doorbell rang.
*Neighbour, probably.*
The figure in the bulky coat and fur hat pulled low startled her.
“Mags, it’s me—John!” He stepped inside.
She nearly screamed. “You?”
“Who else? Aren’t you going to invite me in?” He dropped a sack by his feet. “Or not happy to see me?”
“I went to your village yesterday! An old woman said—said you’d died nine days ago!”
“Ah, Mrs. Wilks. Always gets things twisted. My son visited, talked me into staying with him. Loaded the car with preserves, potatoes, onions—who knows what she thought she saw. Couldn’t stand the city air, though. Came back early and thought—why not visit?”
Laughter unstuck the shock. She told him about the dream, the candle. John dug out dried currant leaves for tea. The kitchen bloomed with summer’s ghost.
They sipped currant tea at midnight, watching the countdown. Come morning, John readied to leave—buses still ran.
“Come visit. No excuses. You’ve seen how lovely it is.”
“I have.”
“Wait till spring—the orchards all in blossom…”
She waved till the bus disappeared.
The flat was quiet, but currants perfumed the air. *So that’s what the dream meant. Silly me, getting scared.*
“You left me alone, Arthur. But I think I’ll go to John’s. See those orchards bloom. You’d allow that?”
“Where are you off to?” Emily stood in the doorway.
“You’re back early!”
“What’s that smell?”
“Currants. John dropped by.” Then she saw the man behind her. “You’re not alone?”
“Mum, this is Daniel.”
He stepped forward, smiling.
*Guests falling like berries. The dream’s right.*
“Dan proposed.” Emily glowed.
“Well, don’t stand there! Come in!”
They drank currant tea with the cake the young pair brought. Later, curled together on the sofa:
“You love him?”
“Yes. So much. I need you to understand—he’s divorced, left the flat to his ex and daughter. Would you mind if we stayed here till we buy our own?”
Margaret’s chest tightened. A stranger in the house. But Emily wasn’t young anymore. If not now, when? She’d been late having Emily herself.
She glanced at Arthur’s photo. *Well, Arthur? Shall we visit John? See those blossoms? You wouldn’t mind?*
Just like that, her quiet life shifted. New Year’s—a time for unexpectedAnd so, with the first light of the New Year spilling through the curtains, Margaret realised that sometimes, the sweetest blessings arrive not with a fanfare, but as quietly as blackcurrants ripening in the sun.
