15th October
I cannot shake the feeling that my life has always been marked by fire and ash, even before I could understand the world around me. When I was five, a shell fell in the fields near our hamlet of Ashby, blowing the Thompson homestead to smithereens. The blast took my entire family; only I survived, a singed silhouette with a charred crescent on my chest where a small wooden cross had once been sewn. The village elders whispered that I had been spared by a miracle, that the cross had been removed in haste to hide the sin. My grandmother, Agnes Whitaker, the matriarch of a nearby farm, took me in that very day.
A decade later, long after the wars shadow had receded, a thunderstorm hit our little village. A bolt struck the wooden pole of the local power station, and fire erupted like a beast on the righthand side of Main Street. Roofs collapsed, barns were reduced to timber and soot; only one low, squat cottage my Grans stood untouched, as if some invisible hand had brushed the flames aside. Children began to whisper that I was the cursed one, that the fire had avoided my home for a reason. The rumor clung to me like a second skin.
Gran Agnes was a devout woman, her faith as sturdy as the stone walls of her cottage. She taught me prayers in the hush of the corner where a few faded icons were hidden behind a lace curtain. The prayers were simple, secret, hardly ever spoken aloud in the village square. She baked scones for St. Michaels church in the neighboring parish and earned a modest stipend from the rector, which kept us afloat together with the occasional egg from our hens.
School was a brief, bewildering episode. I sat at the back bench, eyes wide, a hesitant smile on my face, as if I were watching a play I could not follow. The lessons passed through me like wind through wheat; I heard the words, but none took root. My blond hair, a tumble of curls topped with a small tuft, became a source of mild teasing. Gran liked to say, God keeps an eye on you through that little tuft, my boy.
When the village held its annual river festival, tragedy struck again. A halffinished raft, overloaded with five boys, broke free and drifted downstream. Mothers screamed, men scrambled for a rope, and Gran, clutching my small hand, shouted for prayers. One frantic mother cursed me, Your idiot grandfather sent that raft! Gran hushed her, Pray, Mary, and thank the Lord that my boy is on that raft; He will save him. The raft capsized, and as I began to sink, a luminous figure my mother, I am certain reached out, guiding my trembling hand to safety. All the boys were pulled from the water.
Gran passed away not long after, her frailty finally succumbing to the harsh winter. I stayed behind in Ashby, first as a shepherd, then as a night watchman on the farm. The wages that came in each fortnight vanished quickly: I bought sweets and fresh rolls, handing them out to anyone who asked. I visited the sick and the elderly, buying them tea, blankets, even my own portion at times. When asked what I would keep for myself, I would smile and answer, The Lord will provide; I shall not hunger. Somehow, He always did.
Soon the village clerk began to pay part of my wage in kind flour, butter, a sack of potatoes and I continued to distribute these as well. My work was diligent; when I lay on my back in the fields, eyes closed to the sun, I would see Grans gentle face urging, You are not to be broken, Eddie; be a joy to the people.
In the spring of 72, Mr. Ivan Carpenter, the local builder who was always looking for cheap labour, hired me to help erect a new cottage for a wealthier farmer. He paid me in food, heavy sacks of potatoes and stale bread, and set me to the toughest tasks. I grew gaunt, my skin darkened, my posture hunched under the weight of his expectations. He would murmur, Ill settle my account later; he wants to work. One cold night, after a night of relentless toil, I was found by the village constable, halfconscious and feverish, and rushed to the infirmary. The doctors diagnosed a burst appendix peritonitis and performed an emergency operation that saved my life.
Mr. Carpenter later suffered a horrific accident: his combine harvester snagged his leg, leaving him a lifelong invalid. The village gossiped, but I kept my thoughts to myself. An inebriated local, Kenny, once tried to give me a drink laced with something stronger, claiming it would cheer me up. The plan backfired; Kenny drowned himself in the pond later that night, a tragic end to his foolishness.
I returned to my watchman’s post, but the seasons first thaw brought a new dispute. A delegation from the agricultural board arrived to inspect our fields, and I, weary and restless, barred their entry with a wooden staff, demanding they not trample the newly sown barley. My outburst sparked a village scandal. The collective farm manager, Mr. Lewis, roared, Enough! Hes a fool and a cursed lad! His deputy, Valentina Hughes, pleaded, Perhaps we should not dismiss him; his presence has coincided with four years of bumper harvests. Yet the decision was made: I was dismissed.
That winter, an unexpected frost killed the winter wheat. With no income, I was a man adrift. The parish vicar, Father William, heard the story from the villagers and invited me to his church for confession. He then offered me a humble role as the churchs handyman. I took comfort in the stone walls and the scent of incense, and soon I was tasked with cleaning the interior before the next service. I scrubbed the stone floors until they gleamed like polished marble, polished the pews, and restored the ancient lanterns. Father William would smile, Eddie, your work is a prayer in itself.
My sincere devotion did not go unnoticed. Word spread through the surrounding hamlets that a young man, once deemed cursed, was now a beacon of quiet holiness. People began to visit St. Michaels not only for worship but to catch a glimpse of the blessed Eddie. Wealthy ladies sent donations; philanthropists funded a new wing for the church, and the building was restored, wired for electricity, fitted with a modest car park, and surrounded by a manicured garden. It looked a world apart from the crumbling stone chapel of my childhood.
When a regional television crew arrived to film the renovation, Father William modestly told the camera, He does not speak much; he lets his deeds do the talking. The reporter persisted, Can you say a few words for our viewers? I was digging a new flowerbed, planting lilies, when a microphone was thrust toward me. I raised my eyes, pointed to the earth, and said, Here I plant lilies so they may bloom for your delight. Then I returned to my work, the camera crew bewildered, the operator turning off the lens.
Even now, as I write these lines by the glow of a lowburning lamp, I hear Grans voice echoing in my mind: You, Eddie Whitaker, will be a joy to the people. I can only hope I have kept that promise, planting not just lilies but hope wherever my hands may work.
