Im thirtyeight, living on my own in a modest flat in London. In my whole life I havent hurt anyone or uttered a harsh word. Everything I own the onebedroom flat, the little cottage in Kent I earned with my own hands, though my parents gave what they could; Im the youngest of five. I keep two lifelong friends, Helen and Clare, whom Ive known since school. We meet rarely now because theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a few drinks in, make lewd jokes about spicing up my solitude as if I wouldnt hear. I have to step in, put a finger on their lips and tell them plainly that a friends spouse is not a suitor for me. Thank heavens they finally understand.
Helen pauses, her eyes clouded with melancholy, and looks out the window, thinking of all the happy and unhappy faces she can see beyond the glass. She turns back to me, trembling, and says, Ive never asked you for anything, so now I come to you humbly. Give me, Lord, what others cant. Im tired of being alone. Send me a creature, a stray animal, maybe an orphan. Im timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im dour and aloof, but Im just indecisive, scared to say the right thing, afraid of being laughed at. My father always warned me to keep my dignity, so I live like a candle in the wind, never quite fitting in. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
Its Sunday, early spring. In the house opposite mine a few lights flicker in the windows. I pray earnestly, and when I step away from the small crucifix, two fresh tracks of tears appear on my cheeks. I wipe them with the backs of my hands, grab two heavy grocery bags one with paint for the fence and another with assorted household items and head for the door.
The cottage is the joy of my life. Im not lonely there: I work, and I chat over the fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The bags drag my arms to the ground, but it helps that the bus stop is close. I stand there alone for about an hour; the bus passes empty, then a couple of coaches fill to the brim. If a third one comes, Ill have to turn back perhaps todays not the day for the cottage. With so many passengers, I cant get home in the evening and still make it to work in the morning.
Then a miracle occurs: a fullsize coach brakes, shoves a drunken man with a ruckus out, and politely invites me inside. I exhale, squeeze in, the doors slam shut, compressing me like an accordion, and the stale air and mixed smells nearly make me faint.
After fortyfive minutes of feeling like Im dying, Im back at my beloved cottage. By threefifteen Im carving a smoked ham, by sixpm a fresh roast chicken, and by eightpm I feel like a living corpse. I limp back into the house, hunched, arms below my knees, eyes dim, but the miracle still feels wonderful. I wink at my reflection, jump into a quick shower, and decide to lie on the sofa for an hour.
I drift off the moment I hit the pillow Im exhausted. I wake in the middle of the night; the TV is playing some film, I switch it off, set the alarm, peel off my dressing gown and try to sleep again, but the sand never comes. After a while I sit up, make myself a simple lunch for work.
Two days later I repeat the familiar route to the cottage. I step into the little house and freeze: the electric kettle is steaming, my favourite mug sits on the table with sugar and a tea bag. I cant believe my eyes. I touch the mug, shake my head, step outside, and stare at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I have no idea.
The question asks itself. Could it be my mother? I reach out and press a finger to the picket; a streak of green paint sticks to it. It isnt my mothers hand the paint is brand new. Im bewildered. Across the lane, I glimpse the kerchief of my neighbour, Mrs. Kate, among the raspberry bushes. I walk the narrow path of my garden, approach the fence and call, Mrs. Kate!
A muffled voice replies from the neighbours garden shed, Is that you, Margaret? Hold on, Ill be right out. You lot! Blokes! Never tidy up anything.
Mrs. Kate, a retired builder from the old union, shuffles out, wiping her hands on a wellworn apron. Well, hello, Nads. Why are you up so early? Was yesterday a day off? I see youve patched the fence.
Good morning, I say. I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
Wasnt you, was it? I havent seen anyone; I was up here overnight. Whats got you so flustered? Maybe your mother came? Shed have stopped by, or Id have invited her for tea.
I cant tell. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug with tea sits on the table.
Hang on, lets have a look together, she says, heading to the gate.
We walk to the gate of my cottage. We stare at the fence, my garden beds, the modest building that shows no sign of a mans hand at work.
Show me, she says.
I point out that the bread bag is empty now it used to hold a few slices, but theyre gone. What, a houseelf moved in?
She laughs, And painted the fence, washed the brush, left it in an empty jar.
Dont suffer in silence! Call your mother, or Ill do it for you. I fumble for my phone in my handbag, dial my mothers number. After a few rings, a breathless voice answers, You calling so early? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Did you come by yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange that. Whats wrong? Did someone rob you? Youve got nothing there to steal.
No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.
May God bless those neighbours who helped. Be grateful, give thanks, perhaps lend a hand yourself. Ive got to rush to the market with dad for oil.
Bye, Mum, tell dad I say hello.
I shift from foot to foot while Mrs. Kate impatiently asks, So, whats the story?
Not them. Could it be Granddad Mathew? When I was carrying the paint, he threatened to help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Thats right. Go on, dear. When youre done, drop by for lunch; Ive made stew on the bone, nice and hearty.
I canvass all the neighbours around my cottage. No one saw or heard anything, and slowly whispers start, suggesting goblins or household spirits. Two days pass at the cottage without any more oddities. When I leave, I leave half a loaf of bread, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stew, and a note that simply reads Thank you.
The next weekend I fly back to the cottage on hopeful wings, expecting a surprise. A miracle appears: two shelves are nailed into the walls, the floor is spotless, everything is in order. Again, no one saw anything.
I even feel a hunters thrill, returning at varied times, organising a silent watch with the neighbours, taking days off to track the invisible helper. Nothing. The beds are watered, the weeds pulled, the berries jarred, fresh wildflowers sit in a vase, the cottage stays clean, my old gardening boots are repaired. Food disappears, yet the fridge is always stocked with soups and salads made from the gardens produce. What else can I do?
As a last resort I stand in the middle of my little house, thank the unseen host out loud. By late summer I become brazen, issuing orders for what should be ready before my next visit. I tell the spirit Ill take it home for the winter, so it wont have to endure the cold alone. In spring well return together, so it wont worry. The neighbours both single and married whisper enviously, Look at her, talking to the unseen. She knows its hard for a lone old lady.
I even visit a local seer, leaving a saucer of milk on the step that Mrs. Kates cat, Whiskers, drinks greedily. Autumn arrives, the harvest is gathered, the soil turned over. On my final trip to the cottage I sit on the porch, place an old mens boot (borrowed from Granddad Mathew) before me and say, Alright, dear keeper, lets move to a new place. I have a onebed flat in London, but I think well both fit.
A cheerful male voice bursts from my left, startling me. I turn and see a man in a wellworn yet clean coat, barefoot, hair a wild tumble of black curls to his shoulders, eyes as blue as cornflowers, fists gripping and releasing nervously. The scene is silent.
Sorry to frighten you, he whispers. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears I didnt ask for roll down my cheeks. I stare at him, speechless.
I snap back as if from a dream and bark, Stop! Where are you going? Then softer, Are you hungry?
Just a bit, he says. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hang on, we have dumplings at home. Stay here, dont dare leave. Ill go ask Granddad Mathew for a pair of shoes, maybe Sanja can drive us to town and drop us off.
I rush to the neighbours at breakneck speed, unable to believe the turn of events. Surely Im dreaming; no one lives like this. Some vagrant helped me all summer, and now Im bringing him home. It feels impossible.
Years roll on. Hand in hand, my husband Vladimir and I stroll the morning avenues of the city park. Autumns golden hue returns, my favorite season. We reminisce about the improbable way we met, how we used to babble about our lives, simple stories. My story is messy; his is tidy: born, educated, two degrees (one fulltime, one parttime), married, ten years together, the upheaval of the 80s, losing a job, struggling to find another, then being cast out when I became a successful businesswoman.
He first crashed on friends couches, feeling unwanted, wandering the countryside, stealing food to survive. One day he saw me, burdened with grocery bags, felt sorry and began to help, hiding in my attic, fearing Id discover and shoo him away. Slowly he grew bolder, realizing I wasnt the detective he imagined. In hindsight its funny. When our son grows up and thinks about marriage, well tell him the tale of our lives.
Its time to go home; Vladimirs work van pulls up. The evening draws near.
