Margaret woke feeling rather out of sorts. Snow was tumbling past the window, and she was grateful she’d popped to the shops yesterday—today would’ve meant trudging through drifts, a dreadful ordeal with her dodgy knees. Not to mention her blood pressure seemed to be playing up again. She took a pill, lay back on the sofa, and shut her eyes.
*”Blast it, I can’t just laze about—the roast won’t cook itself,”* she thought, though her limbs refused to cooperate.
It had become tradition—her son Nigel and his wife always came for lunch on New Year’s Day. Back when little Oliver was small, they’d bring him too. Nigel would march in and demand, *”Mum, you’ve done the roast, haven’t you? Sick of cold sandwiches.”* Margaret decided ten more minutes wouldn’t hurt. She listened to her own breathing. The thumping in her head had eased, at least.
She opened her eyes and gazed at the portrait of her late husband, Arthur, on the wall. She’d hung it just so—first thing she’d see waking, last thing before sleep. Seven years gone, and still she couldn’t shake the habit of chatting to him, as if he might chuckle at one of her remarks.
*”It’s rotten without you, Art,”* she said aloud.
*”Remember my fiftieth? You came home empty-handed, you devil. Hid the bouquet behind your coat in the hall, took ages hanging it up just so I’d come fussing. Then you spun some tale about losing your wages—claimed a pickpocket nicked your wallet while you were picking out my present. Oh, I was livid! Knew you were up to something, too. That smirk of yours—always gave you away.”*
She shot the portrait a mock-stern look. *”And what about the time you ‘dropped’ the car keys in the snow? Had half the street out searching before you ‘found’ them tucked in your own pocket. Never did admit it was a prank—too proud. Tormented the kids just as bad.”*
Arthur’s photo listened solemnly—a rare shot where he wasn’t mid-laugh. Usually, he looked like he’d just nicked the last biscuit. Margaret sighed, rubbed her temples, and headed to the kitchen.
Every step sent a twinge through her knees as she peeled potatoes. And with each chop, the memories bubbled up…
***
It had been a golden August afternoon. Young Margaret sat fidgeting before the mirror in her ivory wedding dress, while her mate Sarah pinned her curls. Nigel would be there any minute to whisk her off to the registry office, but Margaret’s stomach was in knots. She’d agreed to marry him mostly because her mum had insisted—*”Good family, steady job, what more could you want in Whitby?”*
Sarah babbled praises about the dress, the groom, but Margaret kept glancing at the window, half-dreading the sound of the car. When the engine finally rumbled outside, her heart leapt clean into her throat.
Then—chaos.
The door burst open, but it wasn’t Nigel who strode in.
*Arthur.*
Her mum lunged, grabbing his sleeve. *”You absolute *mongrel*—get out!”* Sarah just gawped. Arthur shook free, knelt before Margaret, and asked, *”Come with me. Right now.”*
She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He scooped her up—bridal carry and all—and marched out.
Later, he confessed he’d paid Nigel a visit beforehand. *”I told him, ‘Try to take her back, and you’ll regret it.’ Bloke went green as cabbage.”*
They’d fled to London, slept on a mattress in a bedsit. Arthur got a council flat through his factory job. Two kids, decades of laughter. He’d tease her mercilessly—hiding her reading glasses, faking illnesses for cuddles. Even at the end, when his heart failed, he’d grinned through the pain. *”Just winding you up, love.”*
The ambulance took too long. Snowstorm, same as today.
***
Margaret blinked away tears and turned off the hob. Why was she wallowing? The memories had summoned a fresh ache behind her eyes. She retreated to the sofa.
*”Seventh New Year without you, Art. Nigel’s coming tomorrow. Oliver’s grown now—got your cheeky grin.”*
A tear plopped onto her cardigan. For a blink, she could’ve sworn Arthur’s portrait winked.
*”Don’t cry, Maggie.”*
She startled. The headache surged. Rubbing her eyes, she glared at the photo. *Must be going barmy.*
*”Everyone’s young here, Maggie. Nothing hurts.”*
She sat bolt upright. *”Bloody hell—now I’m hearing things?”*
*”Miss you, though.”*
*”Show yourself, then! Or is haunting all you’re good for?”* She meant to fetch aspirin, but the room tilted. The walls pressed in.
Then—peace.
Arthur stood before her, young as the day he’d stolen her. *”Time to go, love.”*
She reached for his hand.
The pain vanished. The flat, the snow, the simmering roast—all dissolved into honeyed light. Funny, how familiar it felt. Just like being swept into that old Austin all those years ago.
When Nigel found her the next day, she looked serene. The roast sat untouched on the stove.
At the funeral, Oliver hung her photo beside Arthur’s. In it, she was beaming—as if she’d finally found exactly what she’d lost.
