Unexpected Joy
Good Lord, Im thirtyeight now, living alone as a spinster. In my whole life Ive never done anyone harm or utter a harsh word. Everything I own I earned with my own hands a singleroom flat in London, a modest cottage out in the Cotswolds. It would be a sin to complain, especially since my parents did what they could; I was the fifth, the youngest of their brood. I have two close friends, Mary and Joan, whom Ive known since school. We meet rarely now; theyre both married.
I cannot abide it when their husbands, a little tipsy, make lewd jokes, trying to spice up my loneliness while keeping their wives in the dark. I had to pull each of them aside and make clear that their partners are no men for me. Thank the Almighty, they finally understood.
Silence fell for a heartbeat, and Evelyn, my name, turned to the window with longing in her eyes, thinking of the happy faces and the forlorn ones beyond the glass. Turning back to the divine, she whispered:
I have never asked you for anything, now I kneel in humility. Grant me, O Lord, what mortal folk cannot give. Im weary of solitude. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. I am timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Folk think Im dour, selfabsorbed, but Im merely indecisive, afraid to speak the right thing lest I be laughed at. My father always warned me to guard my reputation. So I live like a candle in the wind, no fire to warm me. Help me, enlighten me, set me upon the true path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, early spring. From the opposite house a few windows glowed. I prayed earnestly for the first time, and when I stepped away from the little icon, two fresh tracks of tears traced my cheeks. I dabbed them with the backs of my hands, shouldered two heavy grocery bags one with paint for the fence, the other with assorted household items and left my flat.
My cottage is my solace. There I am not alone: I work, and I chat over the fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The bags pull my arms to the ground; thank heavens I live close to the bus stop. At the stop no one is there; I stand alone for about an hour. A couple of coaches rumble past the first a local Paz, the second packed to the brim. If a third passes, Ill know its not meant to be, and Ill stay on the cottage. With such a crowd I couldnt return home at night, let alone go to work in the morning.
Then a miracle: a full coach slowed, thrust a drunken man with a quarrel out, and cheerfully invited me aboard. I exhaled, squeezed in, the doors shut with a harsh creak, pressing me like a folded accordion, and the stale air and mingled odours nearly stole my consciousness.
Fortyfive minutes of clinical death later I was back at my beloved cottage. By threepm the back was stacked with smoked ham, the front with a pristine loaf, and by sixpm I felt like a living corpse. I returned on halfbent legs, my back hunched, hands below my knees, gaze dimmed, yet marveling at how wonderful it all was. I winked at my reflection in the mirror, hurried into the shower, and decided to lie on the settee and rest a hour before the telly.
I drifted off the moment my head hit the pillow. Exhausted, I woke in the middle of the night. The television was playing some film; I switched it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my dressing gown and tried to sleep again. Yet slumber eluded me. After a brief wash I rose, made myself a simple lunch for the next days work.
Two days later I took the familiar route to the cottage again. Stepping into the little garden house, I froze: the electric kettle was steaming, my favourite mug sat with sugar and a tea bag inside. I touched the mug, shook my head, ran outside, and stared at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I could not make sense of it.
The question demanded an answer. Who? Perhaps my mother had visited? I reached out, brushed a slat of the picket fence, and felt a smear of green paint. It wasnt my mother the coat was brandnew. I was baffled. From the neighbouring plot I glimpsed the scarf of Mrs. Kay, the local Baba. I walked the narrow path of my vegetable beds, approached the fence, and called:
Mrs. Kay!
A muffled voice answered from the garden shed next door.
Is that you, Evelyn? Hold on, Ill be right out. Ah, you lot! Darn lot of rascals, never tidy up.
The old builder, a veteran of the former union, shuffling out in a threadbare apron, grumbled:
Good morning, dear Evelyn. Up early today? Wasnt it a holiday yesterday? I see youve refreshed the fence.
Good morning. No, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
Not me, love. There was no one here; I was staying over last night. Why the fuss? Maybe your mother dropped by? She never does, unless shes coming over for a cuppa.
I cant explain it myself. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug is ready.
Wait a tick, lets have a look together.
Mrs. Kay shuffled to the gate of my plot. Together we examined the modest garden, the modest outbuilding that bore the unmistakable absence of any mans hand.
Show me!
Thats it, thats all.
Look, nothing missing or added?
No, just a sack of bread that was there before, now gone.
Ah, a household spirit perhaps.
Indeed! And the fence was repainted, the brush cleaned, put in a tin.
Stop fretting! Call your mother; Ill help.
I fumbled for my little leather handbag, dialed my mothers number. After a long pause, a breathless voice finally answered:
Whats the hurry, love? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, alls well. Did you come yesterday?
No, we hadnt arranged that. Whats the matter? I hear trouble in your voice. Robbed? You havent got much here.
No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.
Bless those good neighbours who lend a hand. Be grateful, dear, and perhaps offer them a bit of help yourself. Im off to the market with Father for kerosene.
Bye, Mum, say hello to Father.
Mrs. Kay, shifting from foot to foot, asked impatiently:
So, whats the story?
Not them. Perhaps Grandfather Martin? When I was carrying paint to the cottage he swore hed help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Thats right. Go on, dear. When youve settled, drop by for lunch. Ive made broth on a bone; it turned out lovely.
I checked with every neighbour around my plot. No one had seen or heard anything. Whispers grew, with suggestions of sprites or housespirits. Over the next two days at the cottage nothing unusual occurred. When I left, I left on the table half a loaf, a couple of tins of fish, a can of stew, and a note that simply read Thank you.
The following weekend I flew to the cottage as if on wings, hopeful for a surprise. The miracle did not disappoint. Two shelves were nailed to the inside, the rooms were immaculate, even the floorboards shone. Again, no one was seen.
A sort of hunting thrill seized me; I began visiting the cottage at odd hours, organising an unspoken watch with the neighbours, even taking days off to track the unseen helper. Nothing! The beds were tended, the rows weeded, berries jammed, fresh wildflowers set in a vase, the cottage perpetually tidy, my old gardening boots repaired. Food never vanished; the fridge held soups and salads made from my own veg. What else could I do?
I even, like a fool, stood in the middle of my little cottage and thanked the invisible landlord aloud. By summers end I grew bold, issuing orders for what should be ready when I returned. I told him he could stay with me for the winter, lest he freeze alone. In spring wed come again, so he wouldnt worry. The other womendivorced, marriedenvied me:
Look at her, talking to spirits, understanding them. She knows its hard for a lone old lady.
I visited a local seer, set a saucer of milk on the step, which the neighbours cat, Mrs. Claras, drank gladly. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned. On my final visit, I sat on the step, placed before me an old mens boot, lent by Grandfather Martin, and said:
Well then, my dear, lets move to a new place. Youll live with me, a oneroom flat, but I think well manage.
From my left a cheerful male voice called out. I startled, leapt to my feet. Turning, I saw a man in worn but clean clothes, barefoot, his black curls shoulderlength, eyes the colour of cornflowers, fists clenching and relaxing. The scene was silent.
Forgive me for startling you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? I came because you promised to take me with you.
Tears I hadnt asked for welled in my eyes. I stared at him, speechless.
Snapping back as if from a dream, I barked:
Halt! Where do you think youre going? And softer, I added, Are you hungry?
A little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hold on a moment, theres stew at home. How shall we get you? Sit here, dont even think of leaving. Ill ask Grandfather Martin for a pair of shoes, maybe Sanya can drive you to town.
I raced to the neighbours at a breakneck pace, unable to believe what was happening. Surely I was dreaming; such things never occur in real life. A tramp had helped me all summer, and now I was bringing him home. It was beyond belief
Years later, hand in hand, I stroll with my husband Victor along the treelined avenues of the city park. Autumn, my favourite season, paints the leaves gold. We reminisce how, many years ago, we met in the most extraordinary way, how we fumbled through stories of our lives, simple yet profound. My story is yours, and his is straightforward: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one parttimemarried, ten years of marriage, the upheaval of the 80s, jobless, long searches. I became a thriving entrepreneur and drove him out.
At first he slept on friends couches; they said nothing, but he felt unwanted, a burden. He roamed the countryside, pilfering food to survive. One day he saw me, burdened with bags, felt pity, began to help, hiding in the loft of my cottage. He feared I would discover him and chase him away. Gradually he grew bold, seeing I was nothing like a detective. In the end, he even dreamed of being found. Its funny now to recall. When our son grows and thinks of marriage, well surely tell him the tale of our life.
Its time to go home; Victors work car pulls up. Until evening, dear friend.
