38April2025 Dear Diary,
Im thirtyeight now and still living alone in my little flat on a quiet street in Manchester. In all my life Ive never meant anyone harm, never let a harsh word slip. Everything I own Ive earned myself: a onebedroom flat, a modest cottage out in the Cotswolds. Im the youngest of five, so my parents helped wherever they could. I have two close friends, Molly and Jenny, whom Ive known since school. We meet only rarely now; theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a little tipsy, try to say lewd jokes, to liven up my loneliness while pretending the wives dont hear. I had to tell each of them plainly that their spouse is not a man for me. Thank heavens they finally understood.
Molly, eyes heavy with melancholy, turned to the window and stared at the world beyond the glass, at the countless happy faces and the lonely ones just like hers. She then faced me, humbled, and whispered:
God, Ive never asked you for anything before, but I come now with a meek heart. Give me what ordinary folk cant have. Im tired of my solitude. Send me some creature, a stray, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, Lord, insecure. Everyone thinks Im sourmouthed, lost in my own thoughts, but Im merely indecisive, scared to speak the right thing lest they laugh at me. Father always warned me to keep my modesty, to avoid shame. I live like a candle in the wind, with no firm footing. Help me, guide me, set me on the right path. Amen.
Sunday, early spring. Dawn was just breaking over the garden of the house opposite, a few windows flickering with light. I prayed sincerely for the first time, and when I stepped away from the small crucifix, two fresh tracks of tears glistened on my cheeks. I brushed them away with the backs of my hands, grabbed two heavy shopping bagsone full of groceries, the other of paint for the fence and assorted household bitsand headed out.
My sanctuary is that cottage. There Im never truly alone: I work in the garden, chat over the fence with neighbour women about the upcoming harvest. The bags pull my arms down to the ground; thank goodness the bus stop is just a short walk away. I stand there for an hour, watching no one pass. A couple of country coaches rumble by, packed to the brim. If a third passes, Ill turn back, convinced its not meant to be today. With so many people, I cant expect a ride home in the evening, nor catch a train for work in the morning.
Then a miracle: a full coach slowed, expelled a drunken fellow shouting and stumbling, and cheerfully invited me inside. I exhaled, squeezed in; the doors clanged shut, pressing me like a folded accordion, and the stale, mixed odours nearly stole my breath.
Fortyfive minutes of clinical death later I was back at my beloved cottage. By threeoclock my back ached from hauling a smoked ham, and by six the kitchen looked like a battlefieldnothing but a living corpse of a meal. I shuffled back on bent knees, my spine hunched, arms below my knees, eyes dim. I gave myself a quick wink in the mirror, leapt into the shower, and resolved to rest a hour in front of the telly.
I drifted off the moment my head met the pillow. Exhausted. I awoke in the dead of night; the television was playing some old drama. I turned it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to sleep again, but rest eluded me. After a brief wash, I rose, made myself a simple lunch to take to work.
Two days later I returned to the cottage along my familiar route. Stepping into the garden shed, I was stunned: the electric kettle was still hot, my favourite mug sat with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag. I could hardly believe my eyes. I touched the mug, shook my head, stepped outside, and stared at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I knew nothing of it.
Who could have done this? Perhaps my mother? I reached out and brushed a single picket; a streak of green paint clung to my fingertip. It wasnt my mothershed visited weeks agobut the paint was fresh. I was baffled. Then, from the neighbours garden, I saw a flash of a scarf belonging to old Mrs. Katya. I walked the narrow path of my vegetable beds, leaned over the fence and called:
Katya!
A muffled voice replied from the adjoining garden hut:
Is that you, Eleanor? Hold on, Ill be out in a tick. Those lads! Never tidy up anything.
Mrs. Katya, a retired builder from the old union, shuffled onto her doorstep, wiping her hands on a wellworn apron.
Morning, love. Up early, arent you? Didnt you have a Sunday off? I see youve freshened up the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen anyone paint my fence?
Not me, dear. I was here last night, but no one else was. Could it be your mum? Shed have dropped by, wouldnt she?
I cant say. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the tea lies waiting.
Give us a sec, lets have a look together.
She trudged up to the gate of my little cottage. We stood side by side, eyeing the fresh coat of paint on the low wall that had never known a mans hand.
Show me, she said.
Nothings missing, nothings added, I replied, feeling a chill.
Only the sack of bread is gone, she noted, pointing to an empty corner.
Ah, a household spirit, I muttered.
She laughed, Well, call your mother then, or Ill.
I fished my mobile from my handbag, dialed Mums number. After a few rings, her breathless voice asked:
Eleanor, why so early? Something happen?
Hello, Mum. Im fine at the cottage. Were you there yesterday?
No, we didnt plan it. Did someone rob you? Theres nothing there to steal.
Nothing, Mum. Someone just painted my fence.
She sighed, May the good folk who helped you be blessed. Thank them. And lets have a cuppa later; Im off to the market with Dad for some paraffin.
Bye, Mum. Give Dad my love.
I shifted from foot to foot as Mrs. Katya, impatient, asked:
Whats the story?
It wasnt them. Maybe Granddad Matvey? When I was carrying paint, he threatened to help. I thought he was joking. Ill thank him.
She nodded, Do that, love. Come over for lunch; Ive made stew on the bonedelicious.
I knocked on every neighbours door around my plot. No one saw or heard anything. Whispers started, suggesting mischievous sprites. The two days I spent at the cottage yielded nothing extraordinary. When I left, I left half a loaf, a couple of tins of sardines, a can of pâté, and a note that simply read Thank you.
The next weekend I flew back, hopeful for a surprise. The miracle didnt disappoint. Two shelves had been installed, the floor swept spotless, everything in order. Still, no one else seemed to have witnessed it.
A strange thrill of a hunt took hold of me. I began visiting at odd times, organising an unofficial watch with the neighbours, even taking a day off to track the mysterious helper. Nothing changed: the beds were watered, weeds pulled, berries jarred, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage perpetually tidy, my old garden boots mended. The fridge, always stocked with my own leftovers, now held soups and salads made from the gardens produce. What else could I do but thank the unseen hand aloud, voice my gratitude to the invisible host?
By late summer I grew bold, even issuing orders to the unseen: Next time I arrive, have everything ready. Ill bring you inside for the winter; you cant be left out here alone. The neighbours, both single and married, envied my resolve:
Look at her, talking to spirits like theyre real. She knows its hard for a lady on her own.
I even consulted a local fortuneteller, leaving a saucer of milk on the porch which Mrs. Clives cat lapped up every evening. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned over. On my final visit, I sat on the porch, placed an old mens shoeborrowed from Granddad Matveybefore me and said:
Alright, housekeeper, lets move to a new place. Ill have a flat, one bedroom, but well make it work.
A deep, cheerful male voice rose from my left:
I jumped, startled, and turned. Before me stood a man in worn but clean clothes, barefoot, his black curls reaching his shoulders, eyes a startling blue, fists alternately clenched and opened. He seemed frozen in a silent tableau.
Sorry to scare you. Honestly, I didnt mean to. Youre leaving before next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears welled uninvitedly. I stared, speechless.
Then, snapping out of the stupor, I barked:
Stop! Where are you going? And
Want a bite? he asked.
Just a little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a snack.
Hold on a bit longer, Ive got some pies at home. How shall I get you? Sit here, dont move. Ill ask Granddad Matvey for a pair of boots, maybe ask Sanjay to drive us back.
I raced to the neighbours at breakneck speed, halfbelieving Id gone mad. A homeless man had helped me all summer, and now I was to bring him home. Such things never happen
Years have passed. Hand in hand, my husband Vladimir and I now stroll through the earlymorning avenues of Hyde Park. Autumn, my favourite season, wraps the city in gold. We reminisce about the unlikely way we met, how we fumbled through conversations, sharing the simple story of our lives. Mine is a tangle of hardships; his, a straightforward path: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one parttimemarried, ten years of marriage, the upheaval of the 80s, job loss, long unemployment. When I struck out as a businesswoman, he was driven out of his own home.
He first crashed on friends couches; they said nothing, but I could feel his uselessness, his weight on their lives. He drifted between cottages, pilfering food. One day he saw me, burdened with shopping bags, felt pity, started helping, even hiding in my attic. He feared Id discover him and shoo him away. Gradually he grew bolder, and the detective in me realised he wasnt a menace. Now, looking back, its funny. When our son grows up and thinks of marriage, well tell him the story of how we survived.
Evening draws near; Vladimirs work car pulls up. Tonight, home awaits.
