A Handful of Blackcurrants
Edith hadn’t made much fuss about Christmas that year. Her daughter, Grace, had said she’d be spending the holiday at a friend’s cottage. And what did Edith need, really? She’d bake a few mince pies, whip up some trifle, watch the telly for a while, then off to bed. Grace would return soon enough.
When Arthur was alive, they’d gathered with a full house. A bit of food, a drink or two, the Queen’s speech, then out into the frosty night with sparklers and crackers. They’d joined the carollers round the town’s great fir, singing along, and if the crowd was lively enough, there’d even been games. Arthur had a way of making even the young ones laugh.
Edith blinked away a tear. Nearly three years now since Arthur’s passing, and still, the ache hadn’t faded. She doubted it ever would.
She reached for the framed photograph of him on the shelf—eyes crinkled, lips hinting at a smile. She’d loved that picture, had chosen it for his headstone too. Whenever she visited the churchyard, she’d study it closely, certain his expression changed. Sometimes he seemed to beam at her, glad she’d come; other times, his face turned stern when she’d stayed away too long.
Deep down, she knew it couldn’t be. Yet each visit, she’d wonder which version of him would greet her.
“Hard without you, Arthur,” she murmured. “Wish we had grandchildren—something to keep me busy. But Grace isn’t in a hurry. Not since that lad of hers married her best friend. Scared to try again, I reckon. Lately, though, she’s been cheerful. Maybe there’s someone new. She hasn’t said. And I won’t pry.”
The front door clicked shut.
“Mum? You home?” Grace’s voice rang down the hall.
“Where else would I be? Back so soon?” Edith stepped out to meet her.
“Got off work early. Won’t stay for supper—Victoria and her husband are picking me up.”
“But you were leaving on Christmas Eve!” Edith frowned.
“We decided to go early, get the cottage warmed up, trim the tree…” Grace bustled about, stuffing a bag with chargers, shoes, a hair straightener. “Right, think that’s everything. Sorry to leave you alone over the holidays. You could pop round to Mrs. Higgins’?”
“Not my scene anymore. When will you be back?”
“Third or fourth. Depends.” Grace’s eyes sparkled. Edith hadn’t seen her so bright in ages. *Someone’s definitely caught her eye. Good.*
A car horn sounded outside.
“Gotta run, Mum!” Grace pecked her cheek, shrugged on her coat, and vanished.
Edith checked the hall—scarf and gloves gone. She returned to the silent room, gaze drifting back to Arthur’s photo.
“Grace is off now. Oh, Arthur… gone too soon.” She sighed. In the frame, his eyes seemed to twinkle, his smile tender.
Needing distraction, she rummaged through a cluttered drawer—bills, old letters. A scrap of paper caught her eye, an address scribbled in uneven hand: *John, Arthur’s old mate.* Memories rushed in…
She’d met John at a birthday do years back. They’d gone to the pictures a few times. Then one evening, he’d brought a friend. The moment Arthur walked in, Edith’s heart had leapt. They’d been smitten straightaway.
When John noticed her preference, he’d bowed out gracefully. A true friend. She’d never regretted choosing Arthur.
John had married too, though it didn’t last. He’d moved to a village miles away, to a house left by relatives. They’d visited him a handful of times—Edith, Arthur, and little Grace.
John had envied their happiness, joking that if Arthur ever mistreated her, she should come to him. Arthur had only laughed. They’d had their rows, of course, but never once considered parting.
*He came to the funeral. Don’t recall sending word. Grace must’ve. I was half-mad with grief. He begged me to visit, to rest. But I couldn’t bear to leave the grave. Never made it to his place.*
She shut the drawer, clutching the address.
“Arthur… maybe I ought to go? You wouldn’t mind?” The photo seemed to nod.
Edith rang the coach station, checked timetables, then kneaded dough for scones. Couldn’t arrive empty-handed. Who baked for John now? She worked late, exhaustion pulling her into deep sleep.
By nine, she was on the coach, imagining John’s delight, their shared reminiscing… She dozed off.
A jolt woke her. The bus was nearly empty. Passengers gathered belongings as snow-dusted cottages came into view. Edith tightened her scarf, grabbed her bag.
The coach halted at the village edge. She stepped into crystalline silence. John’s house stood easy to find, but the gate was latched. She wriggled a hand through the slats, fumbling for the lock.
“Oi! What’re you on about?” A shrill voice cut the air.
Edith startled like a thief caught. A wiry old woman in wellingtons and a sagging coat glared.
“Shame on you! Proper lady like you, sneaking about!”
“I’m visiting. John… John Whitmore.”
“Ain’t here. Nine days now.”
“*Nine days?*” Edith paled.
“Gone. Best be off.” The woman hobbled away, muttering.
Edith turned numbly to the house. Untrodden snow blanketed the path. She trudged back to the stop, choking back tears. Thank heavens the coach waited.
By dusk, she was home, berating herself for waiting too long. She sipped tea with the scones meant for John. *I’ll light a candle at church tomorrow.* Sleep swallowed her whole.
Arthur visited her dreams—smiling, offering a handful of plump blackcurrants. She woke gasping, the scent of berries lingering in the dark room.
Dressing, she puzzled over the dream. Had Arthur come for her?
At church, she bought candles—one for Arthur, one for John. The second flickered out. She tried relighting it, but it refused to catch.
“Don’t light for the living,” a tiny old woman tutted.
Edith shuddered. She left the candle near the Virgin’s icon, thoughts churning.
At home, the telly droned, but her eyes kept darting to Arthur’s photo. Uneasy, she put the kettle on. Then—a knock.
*Mrs. Higgins, probably.*
She didn’t recognise John at first, bundled in a thick coat, hat pulled low. When she did, a squeak escaped her.
“Edith? It’s me!” He stepped inside.
“You—?” Her tongue felt leaden.
“Who else? Aren’t you glad to see me?” He dropped a duffel bag.
“I went to your village yesterday! An old crone said you’d… been gone nine days!”
“Ah, that’d be Mrs. Poole. Daft as a brush. My son visited, convinced me to stay with him. We loaded his car with jams, potatoes—Lord knows what she made of that! His flat’s too stuffy. I headed back, thought I’d stop by.”
Relief uncoiled in Edith’s chest. They laughed over the mix-up. She told him of the dream, the candle. John pulled dried currant leaves from his bag. “Brew these with tea.”
The kitchen filled with summery fragrance. They drank currant tea with scones as Big Ben chimed midnight.
Next morning, John prepared to leave. Oddly, the coaches still ran. Edith saw him off.
“Visit me. No excuses. Spring’s lovely—orchards all in bloom.”
“I’ve seen,” she giggled.
She waved until the coach vanished.
Home greeted her with quiet and the tang of currants. *So that was the dream’s meaning. Silly me, getting spooked.*
“You left me alone, Arthur. Maybe I’ll visit John. See those blossoms, eh? No objections?”
The flat’s silence broke with Grace’s voice: “Where are you off to?”
“Didn’t expect you so soon!”
Grace sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Currants. John dropped by. And you’re not alone?” A man stood behind Grace.
“Mum, this is Daniel.”
He stepped forward, offering a hand.
*Guests pouring in like berries. The dream was right.*
“Danny’s proposed,” Grace blurted, glowing.
“Well, don’t stand there! Come in!”
They ate currant tea with the cake the young ones brought. Later, curled on the sofa, Edith asked, “You love him?”
“Madly. You’ll understand—he’s divorced, left the flat to his ex and theirEdith squeezed her daughter’s hand, looking once more at Arthur’s smiling photo, and whispered, “Spring will be lovely this year, won’t it?”
