At the tail end of the globe, where polar bears wade through snowdrifts and midges rule summer skies, there sprawled a blink-and-you’d-miss-it mill town. The houses were stacked like bricks in a matchbox city, huddled into the moorlands as if by a drunken builder. The sixties were in full swing, but here, time had forgotten to tick. Everything revolved around the textile mill—broad-shouldered lads, gray-haired grandmas, and everyone in between toiled, yet life wasn’t dire. Northern allowances kept the kettle boiling, as the locals’d say.
In one such drab box, ground-floor flat, lived the Winter family. On the surface, a picture of normalcy. Step inside, and you’d have found a museum of miserliness.
Ivan Gregory Winter, the patriarch, was a sight. Tall, gaunt, with a face like a knotted grumpy lettuce. A foreman at the mill, his hands were as firm as a bank ledger, and his eyes sharper than a thrift store needle. A local legend, really, for his skills with looms. But at home?
Ah, home was where Ivan became Mr. Tightpenny incarnate. Once, Uncle Norbert, a man known for his corned beef and ale, said, “Eh, old man ’your face is tighter than a marmalade jar.’” Ivan hadn’t spoken to him for weeks. Stupid remark.
His wife, Margaret, was a paradox. Rumor had it she was once the town’s lass, striding through the dance halls in a lace dress. Now? A ghost in cardigans, her voice a whisper, eyes flicking to the clock like it might rob her of seconds. She worked the mill offices, tallied numbers for Ivan’s fate.
Their son, Sebastian, known to all as Seb, had cottoned on at age twelve that their home was no place for joy. A clever boy, but coiled like a spring. He’d vanish if Ivan’s gaze caught him. “Every penny is earned!” Ivan’d bellow, thumping the table so hard the marmalade jar trembled.
The neighbors tittered. The Petries had a telly. The Thompsons imported tea from Calcutta. But the Winters? Their cupboard was as bare as a barn floor, save for a bolted tin box labeled “Do Not Spoon-drag.” Inside—about enough oats to make a crumpet, measured down to the atom.
Breakfast each morning was a drama. Ivan’d key in the tin box at six, the clatter jarring awake Margaret, then Seb, eavesdropping behind a door.
“Today, split the oats: two pinches for you, three for me, a whisper for the lad. Understand?”
“Of course, darling,” Margaret’d mumble, her voice soft as moth wings.
“Six potatoes. Two for your nest, three for my supper, one for the boy’s leftovers.”
“Yes, dear.”
Then, the icebox—a hacked-up fridge with a lock, propped against the garden wall. Ivan’d sniff the butter ration, slash a shaving, and growl, “Not for toast. Save it for Christmas.”
Seb’s pulse would thrum like a carol choir. But he’d bite his tongue. Ivan’s hand was a slapstick maestro when it came to beatings.
Seb learned frugality early. At school, he ducked trips to the canteen, feigned absences on birthday days. “Friends are a tax,” Ivan’d lecture. “Wait until you’re old enough to afford them.”
Books were his refuge—free, shameless, and no registration required. Once, he brought home a shivering kitten from the coal yard. Ivan’s roar could’ve startled a badger. “Heffalumps cost money, lad! Are you planning to fill the tin with cat excrement?”
Seb stammered that he’d stretch his portions. Ivan’s laugh was a grater over cheese. “Out! Now! Before I stretch your hide.”
That night, Margaret watched her son heave the kitten into the garden. “He’s being swindled by you,” she’d hiss later, but Ivan silenced her with a silken slap.
Years hopped by. Seb fled to Leeds, studied engineering. Still, he’d lie to his mates, claiming his stew was “pasta with a hint of optimism.” At 20, he met Olivia, a nurse with a laugh that crackled like a bonfire. She’d drag him to pubs, give him a pint, and say, “Knock yourself out, tiger!”
Seb hesitated. “Wasted money, isn’t it?”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “What?” And then laughed until the ale quivered in her glass. “Alright, tightwad. Take a bloody sip.”
He went. The rest was history.
They married in a chapel that smelt of lavender and pennies. Olivia wore a dress she’d thrifted. Seb wore his dad’s suit, moth-eaten in the underarms.
Love bloomed, but Ivan’s shadow clung. When Olivia suggested curtains, Seb’d say, “Plug the holes, they’re free.” She’d sigh. Chandeliers, holidays, a dog? Ivan’s ghost hovered, whispering, “Spend your life, and when you’re dead, you’ll be broke.”
One day, Olivia slammed her cup. “Enough, Seb. We’re financially functional. Live!”
“And you,” Seb’d hiss, “sound like my father。”
They didn’t speak for a week. Olivia packed her things. Seb sat in the spare room, bare as one of Ivan’s tins, and finally got it.
Love, joy, a life that wasn’t just surviving—it didn’t cost a penny.
