In a cozy cottage nestled in the Yorkshire countryside, old Granny Margaret sat by the hearth, knitting thick woolen socks—stitch by careful stitch. Officially, she was Margaret Elizabeth Whitaker, but to the villagers, she was simply Maggie, spoken with warmth and familiarity.
The winter silence wrapped around the house, broken only by the faint crackle of the wireless on the windowsill. Then, the door creaked. Maggie looked up—and froze. There, on the threshold, stood… Father Christmas himself. Crimson hat, snowy beard, fur-trimmed coat—every bit as he ought to be.
“Good evening, Maggie dear!” he greeted her with a twinkle. “Care for a visitor?”
She adjusted her spectacles, studying his sack and boots, then breathed out in disbelief:
“Good heavens, is it really you? Whatever brings you here?”
“What do you mean?” He chuckled. “It’s the thirty-first of December! The whole world’s ringing in the New Year. And here I am—bearing a gift for you.”
“What use have I for gifts, old as I am? You ought to be visiting the little ones, listening to their rhymes. But me? Just an old woman, long past expecting presents.”
“Barely a handful of children left in the village these days. But your socks there—fine and warm. That very kindness deserves a gift.”
“Well, if you’ve come all this way, out with it then,” she muttered, though her lips twitched. “But don’t expect a rhyme from me—my back’s giving me grief, I can scarcely move.”
“Then tell me—what good deeds did you do this year?”
“Me? Oh…” She paused. “Knit mittens for the grandchildren, socks for neighbors. Gave away vegetables from the garden. Might not be kindness, just idle hands.”
“None of that modesty. True kindness is doing without thought of reward.”
“My old man, mind you, is off somewhere. Left at dawn—not a word since.”
“I mean to see him too. Still as much a jester as ever?”
“That he is! Goes round the village spinning yarns, singing songs. Cheers them all up, so none are left glum.”
“Do you love him?”
“What do you think?” she smiled. “Fifty years together. We pretend not to hear, not to see everything. Never argue—what’s the point?”
Father Christmas drew a soft woolen shawl from his sack—embroidered, shimmering, just right for winter.
“Here, this is for you. Wear it, and you’ll feel ten years younger.”
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Her eyes shone. “A dream come true. Bless you!”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “It was he who wrote.”
He stepped into the hall, shed his coat and hat, stashing them in the chest.
“Ah, Maggie my love…” he murmured. “Didn’t recognize her own husband’s voice. Or else she’s playing along?”
Meanwhile, Maggie twirled before the mirror in her new shawl, whispering:
“That’s how we live, Johnny… Acting as though we don’t know. But we do. Love in our own way. And that—that’s the magic.”
