A Handful of Blackcurrants
Irene hadn’t made much fuss about Christmas. Her daughter, Emily, had said she’d be spending the holidays with friends at their cottage. And what did Irene need? A few mince pies, a bowl of roast potatoes, a bit of telly, and then bed. Emily would be back soon enough.
When Arthur was alive, they’d gather with a crowd—eating, drinking, watching the Christmas specials, before heading outside with sparklers and party poppers. They’d sung carols around the town’s giant Christmas tree, even coaxed the younger ones into silly games. Irene blinked away a tear. Three years since Arthur’s passing, and still, the emptiness clung to her. Would she ever grow used to it?
She reached for the framed photo on the shelf. His eyes crinkled with laughter, lips curled in that half-smile she adored. She’d chosen the same one for his headstone. Every visit, she studied the photograph as if his expression shifted—sometimes warm, welcoming, sometimes stern when she’d stayed away too long.
She knew it wasn’t possible. Yet each time she approached the grave, she wondered how he’d look at her today.
“It’s not the same without you, Artie. Grandkids would’ve been nice—something to keep me busy. But Emily’s in no hurry. After that lad of hers married her best friend… well, she’s been wary. Lately, though, she’s brighter. Maybe there’s someone new. Not my place to pry.”
The front door clicked.
“Mum? You home?” Emily’s voice rang from the hallway.
“Where else would I be? Back so soon?” Irene moved to meet her.
“Left work early. Won’t stay for supper—Vicky and her husband are picking me up.”
“But I thought you weren’t leaving till the thirty-first?”
“We decided to get the cottage ready—light the fire, chop the tree, decorate…” Emily tossed items into a bag. “Phone charger—right. Oh, shoes! Hair straightener—” She shoved it in. “There. I’m sorry, Mum. Hating to leave you alone. You ought to visit someone.”
“Not bothered with all that fuss anymore. When will you be back?”
“Third or fourth. See how it goes.” Her eyes sparkled. Irene hadn’t seen her so alive in ages. *Someone’s definitely caught her eye.*
A car horn sounded outside.
“Gotta run, Mum!” A peck on the cheek, a swish of her coat, and she was gone.
Irene checked the hall—hat, scarf, all taken. The quiet of the flat settled over her, and her gaze drifted back to Arthur’s photo.
“So now she’s gone too. Oh, Artie, why did you have to leave so soon?”
Arthur’s crinkled eyes smiled back.
She needed distraction. The cluttered drawer in the sideboard—time to sort it. Bills into the bin, important papers filed away. Then, a scrap of paper, an address scrawled in uneven ink. *John’s.* Memories rushed in.
She’d met John at a friend’s birthday. A few cinema trips, pleasant enough. Then he’d brought Arthur along. The moment she saw him, her heart stuttered. They’d both known instantly.
John had stepped aside without fuss. A true friend. And she’d never regretted choosing Arthur.
John had married later, but it hadn’t lasted. Moved to a village miles away, an old family house. She and Arthur had visited a couple of times, little Emily in tow.
John had envied them—openly, without malice. Joked that if Arthur ever upset her, she should come to him. Arthur had only laughed. They’d had their rows, sure, but they always made up. Divorce? Never crossed their minds.
*John came to the funeral. No idea who told him—maybe Emily? I was such a wreck. Begged me to visit, to get away. But I couldn’t. Too busy haunting the cemetery. Never made it to him.*
She sank onto the sofa, holding the address.
“Artie… maybe I should go. You wouldn’t mind, would you?” His smile seemed to nod.
She rang the station, checked the coach times, then baked. Couldn’t show up empty-handed. Who’d bake for John now? She worked late, exhaustion finally pulling her under.
By nine, she was on the coach, picturing John’s surprise, their shared memories… She dozed off.
The noise woke her. Nearly empty now. Passengers gathered bags, chatted. Irene craned her neck. The coach slowed past snow-dusted cottages.
She buttoned her coat, tugged on her hat. The stop came—last house in the village. Stepping out, she caught her breath. The silence rang.
She found John’s place easily, but the gate was locked. She fumbled through the slats, trying to unlatch it.
“Oi! What d’you think you’re doing?”
Irene startled. A wiry old woman in wellies and a long coat glared.
“I—I’m visiting. John… John Whittaker.”
“He’s been gone nine days.”
“Nine days?” Irene’s stomach lurched.
“That’s right. Best turn back.” The woman shuffled off, muttering.
Irene turned numbly. The path to the door lay untouched by footprints. She trudged back to the stop, swallowing tears. Thank God the coach waited. She rode home, cursing herself for waiting too long.
Exhausted, she arrived after dark. Ate one of John’s pies with tea. *Church tomorrow. Light a candle.* She collapsed into sleep.
And dreamed of Arthur. Smiling, holding out a handful of fat blackcurrants. She woke with a gasp, heart hammering. The room was dark, but the scent of currants lingered.
Dressing, she puzzled over the dream. Had he come for her?
At church, she lit two candles—one for Arthur, one for John. The second sputtered out.
“You can’t light one for the living,” a tiny woman tutted.
Irene shivered. Left the candle unlit.
At home, the telly droned, but her eyes kept drifting to Arthur’s photo. Uneasy, she put the kettle on. Then—the doorbell.
*Neighbour, probably.*
The man in the heavy coat, fur hat pulled low—she didn’t recognise him at first. Then—
“Irene, what’s that face for? It’s me, John.” He stepped inside.
A strangled noise escaped her. “You—?”
“Who else? Going to invite me in?” He dropped a duffel bag. “Not pleased?”
“I went to your village yesterday. An old woman said you’d—you’d been dead nine days.”
“Ah, that’d be old Mrs. Doyle. Gets everything muddled. My son came, dragged me off for Christmas. We loaded his car with jams, spuds, onions. God knows what she made of it. Too much city smog there—I came back early. Thought I’d stop by.”
Relief uncoiled. Soon they were laughing—her thinking him a ghost! She told him about the dream, the candle. John dug dried currant leaves from his bag for tea. The kitchen filled with summer.
At midnight, they sipped currant tea, ate pies. Come morning, John packed. Oddly, the coaches were running. She saw him off.
“Visit me. No excuses. It’s beautiful there.”
“I’ve seen,” she chuckled.
“Wait till spring—the orchards all in bloom…”
She waved until the coach vanished.
The flat was quiet, but the scent of currants remained. *So that’s what the dream meant. Silly me, scared of nothing.*
“You left me alone, Artie. But I think I’ll go to John’s,” she told the photo.
“Where’re you off to?” Emily stood in the doorway.
“Didn’t expect you so soon!”
“What’s that smell?”
“Currants. John visited. And you’re not alone?” A man hovered behind her.
“Mum, this is David.”
He stepped forward, shook her hand.
*Guests dropping like berries. Dream came true.*
“David proposed,” Emily blushed.
“Well, don’t stand there! Come in.”
They drank currant tea with the cake they’d brought. Later, curled on the sofa:
“You love him?”
“Yes. We’d like to stay here, just till we find a place. He’s divorced—left the flat to his ex and daughter. You don’t mind?”
Her chest tightened. A stranger in the house. But Emily wasn’t young. If not now—when?
She glanced at Arthur’s photo. *What d’you say, Artie? Shall we see those orchards in bloom?*
Just like that, her quiet life shifted. Christmas—time for unexpected miracles, if you believe. And ahead—more magic, waiting.
