"Answer Me"

A hard frost has settled over South Street, the kind that makes the air sting the inside of Irma’s nose. The sky is a pale, washed-out blue, already dimming. Shop windows glow with tinsel and paper bells. People hurry past with parcels tucked under their arms, their breath rising like steam from a train’s chimney.

She enters her usual café, where the air is thick with the smell of brewing tea and wet wool. She spots her friend Mavis sitting at a corner table with her coat still on, hands wrapped around a mug. She nods in greeting, then turns to order her own tea from the counter.

Mavis notices that Irma looks unwell. Not ill as such, just worn down by the cold and the season and something else she can’t quite name.

Irma joins her, plonking her mug on the table while sliding into the seat opposite, giving a single shudder to shake off the cold.

“You look done in,” Mavis says. “Long day?”

Irma nods. “People want everything done before Christmas. Bills, meters, complaints… all of it urgent.”

Mavis sips her tea. “You heard from him yet?”

Irma doesn’t answer straight away. “No.”

“You expecting to?”

“I don’t know.”

Mavis watches her. “You miss him.”

Irma stares at the steam rising from her mug. “I miss… not thinking about it.”

The music from the wireless behind the counter swells slightly and David Whitfield’s voice rises: “You don’t answer me…”

Irma flinches. “I wish they’d stop playing that.”

Mavis gives her a look. “It’s not the song you’re bothered about.”

Irma doesn’t reply. A bus rumbles past outside. The frost on the pavement glitters as the streetlamps begin to light up.

Mavis says, “Christmas is coming. People get soft. Men especially.”

Irma shakes her head. “George isn’t soft.”

“No,” Mavis says. “But he’s steady. And steady men don’t like loose ends.”

Irma looks out at the street. “He wanted me to say yes to something I wasn’t sure about.”

“Did he ask outright?”

“No,” Irma says quietly. “That was the problem.”

Mavis sighs. “Men don’t ask. They assume. Or they wait for you to say it first.”

Irma’s face tightens. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Mavis reaches across the table to touch her hand. “Then don’t wait. Decide.”

Irma pulls her hand back gently. “I’m trying.”

They both sip their tea as the wireless announces the news headlines: the Queen’s Christmas broadcast preparations, fog warnings for the weekend, talk of rationing finally easing next year.

Irma stands, gulping down the last mouthful. “I should get home. Mum’s doing mince pies.”

Mavis nods. “You’ll see him before Christmas.”

Irma hesitates. “Maybe.”

She steps out into the cold, the air sharp on her cheeks, the sky already deepening into darkness.

*

A thin fog hangs over the Market Place, softening the lamps and making the air smell of coal dust with a hint of sulphur. The market is bustling. Stallholders call out their wares. Children tug at their mothers’ coats, pointing at the lights and decorations.

George turns the corner and pauses outside the Co‑op; collar up around his ears, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He’s been Christmas shopping – bed socks for his mum, a fancy tin of toffees for his sister - but he hasn’t gone home yet. He keeps looking down South Street, as if expecting someone to appear.

A voice behind him says, “You all right, mate?”

It’s Bob from the Electricity depot, with his arms full of parcels and scarf tucked at a crooked angle.

George nods. “Yeah.”

“You look like you’re waiting for a bus that ain’t coming.”

George huffs a laugh. “Something like that.”

Bob studies him. “You seen her?”

“No.”

“You going to?”

George shrugs. “Don’t want to make things worse.”

Bob shifts his parcels. “Sometimes doing nothing makes it worse.”

George doesn’t answer. The fog thickens slightly, turning the street into a soft blur of lights and movement.

Bob says, “Look. It’s Christmas. People get… you know. Sentimental.”

George snorts. “Not her.”

Bob smiles. “You’d be surprised.”

George looks down at his boots, scuffed from work. “She said she didn’t know.”

“Then ask again.”

George shakes his head. “She won’t want me turning up out of the blue.”

Bob raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

George doesn’t reply. The Salvation Army band strikes up a carol. People drift past carrying parcels, laughing, calling to each other through the fog.

Bob says, “Come on. Walk with me. You look like you’ll freeze to the pavement.”

George hesitates, then falls into step beside him.

*

A pale winter sun hangs low over Raphaels Park, turning the frost on the grass into a thin silvery shimmer. The lake is partially iced over, the ducks picking their way around the edges. Families walk slowly, wrapped in coats and scarves, children skidding across frozen puddles.

Irma walks along the path by the water, hands in her pockets, breath trailing her in a streaming cloud. She still looks tired, but feels calmer than she did in the run-up to Christmas. She stops near the bandstand, watching the play of light reflecting from the frozen water.

Footsteps crunch on the frosted path behind her. She turns to see George standing a few yards away, hat in hand, his rapid breath visible in the cold air. He looks uncertain, as if he’s not sure whether to come closer.

“I didn’t know if you’d be here,” he says.

“I come here New Year’s Day,” she says. “Always have.”

He nods. “Right.”

They stand in silence, the cold seeping through their coats.

George clears his throat. “I wrote again.”

“I know,” she says. “I got it.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He nods, looking down at the frost. “I’m not good with words.”

“I know.”

He looks up at her. “But I meant what I wrote.”

She studies him. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

A child runs past laughing, almost slipping on the ice. A dog barks somewhere near the trees.

George says quietly, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Irma looks back at the lake. “I don’t want to be… taken for granted.”

He swallows. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” she says. “But you did.”

He nods, accepting it. The wind picks up a few dead leaves and scatters them across the lake.

George says, “I’m not asking for an answer now.”

Irma turns to him. “Good.”

He manages a small smile. “But… will you walk with me?”

She hesitates, then nods. “All right.”

They fall into step slowly, the frost crunching under their boots. Just two people strolling in the cold, the distance between them a little smaller than it was, but not gone; the new year stretching ahead of them.