Unexpected Joy
Lord, Im thirtyeight, living alone in my little flat. In all my life Ive never done anyone any harm, never uttered a harsh word. Everything I have I earned with my own hands: a onebedroom flat, a modest countryside cottage. Im not one to complain, and my parents did what they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends, Eleanor and Beatrice, whom Ive known since school. We meet rarely now; theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a little tipsy, start telling lewd jokes, trying to spice up my solitude without their wives noticing. I had to tell each of them, gently but firmly, that a friends husband isnt a prospect for me. Thank God they understood.
Eleanor, after a brief pause, turned to the window with a wistful look, thinking of the countless happy faces and the lonely ones just like hers beyond the glass. She faced the picture of the Lord again and continued:
Ive never asked you for anything, but now I come humbly. Give me, Lord, what mortals cant. Im weary of my loneliness. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im sourmouthed and full of myself, but Im merely indecisive, fearing Ill say the wrong thing and be laughed at. My father always warned me to mind my manners, so I live as if Im neither blessed nor cursed. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, early spring. Light flickered in a few windows across the street. I knelt before a small crucifix and, for the first time, prayed earnestly. When I stepped away, two fresh tracks of tears glistened on my cheeks. I brushed them away with the backs of my hands, grabbed two heavy shopping bagsone with groceries, the other with paint for the fence and assorted household bitsand headed for the door.
My sanctuary is the cottage. There Im not alone: I work, and I chat over the garden fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The bags drag my arms to the floor, but it helps that I live close to the bus stop. At the stop I stand for about an hour, alone. A couple of minibusses passno one gets on, theyre all packed. If a third one goes by, Ill head home; otherwise Ill wait, hoping todays a good day for the cottage. With that many people, I couldnt get back home in the evening, and Id still have to be at work in the morning.
Then a miracle: a full coach slowed, threw out a drunken man fighting with someone, and politely invited me aboard. I exhaled, squeezed in; the doors shut with a grunt, squeezing me like a accordion. The lack of fresh air and the mix of smells nearly knocked me out.
After a harrowing fortyfive minutes, I was back at my beloved cottage. By threeintheafternoon a smoked ham rested on the back porch, a pristine roast on the front, and by sixintheevening a lifeless heap of leftovers. I staggered back into the house, back bent, hands lower than my knees, eyes dim, marveling at how wonderful it all was. I wiggled at my reflection in the mirror, hopped into a quick shower, and decided to lie on the couch for an hour.
I dozed the moment I hit the pillow. I was exhausted. I woke in the middle of the night; the telly was playing some film, I turned it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my nightgown and tried to sleep again. The sand didnt settle. After a while I got up, made myself a simple lunch for work.
Two days later I drove the familiar route back to the cottage. Stepping inside, I was stunned: the electric kettle was steaming, my favourite mug sat with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag inside. I couldnt believe my eyes. I touched the mug, shook my head, went outside, and stared at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I was baffled.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother had visited? I reached out and brushed a picket with a finger; a dab of green paint stuck. It wasnt my motherthis paint was brandnew. Still no clue. Across the lane, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Katyas scarf drifting among the blackberry bushes. I walked the narrow path of my garden, approached the neighbours fence and called out:
Mrs. Katya!
A faint voice answered from the garden shed:
Is that you, Elsie? Hold on, Ill be right out. Those rascals, always leaving a mess.
Mrs. Katya, a retired builder from the old union days, shuffled onto her porch, wiping her hands on a weathered apron.
Good morning, Elsie. Up early, are you? Yesterday was a day off, wasnt it? I see youve given the fence a fresh coat.
Morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
You think it was you? I didnt see anyone; I spent the night here. Maybe your mother came? Shed have stopped by, wouldnt she? Or perhaps I should pop over for a cuppa.
I cant make sense of it. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug is waiting.
Wait a minute. Lets have a look together.
Mrs. Katya trudged to the garden gate of my cottage. We peered over the little plot, the makeshift henhouse, the ramshackle shed that showed no sign of a mans hand.
Show me!
Thats all there is.
Anything missing or added?
No, just the sack of bread that used to sit there; its gone now.
Oh dear! A household spirit must have moved in.
Right! And the fence is repainted, the brush rinsed and left in an empty tin.
Stop fussing! Call your mum, or I will.
I fumbled for my purse, dialed my mothers number. After a long ring, a breathless voice asked:
Why so early, love? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Were you there yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange that. Whats the matter? Did someone break in? Youve got nothing there to steal.
No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.
Well, bless the neighbour who lent a hand. Be grateful, dear. Help them if you can. Im off to the market with your dad for some paraffin.
Bye, Mum, say hello to Dad.
I shifted from foot to foot as Mrs. Katya impatiently asked:
So, whats the story?
Not them. Maybe old Mr. Matthew? I was carrying paint to the cottage, and he threatened to help. I thought he was joking. Ill thank him.
Thats right. Go on, love. Come over for a meal; Ive made cabbage soup with a nice bone stock.
I went round the cottage, asking every neighbour if theyd seen anything. No one had. Rumours of garden sprites and house elves began to surface. The next two days passed without incident. When I left, I left half a loaf of bread, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stew, and a note that simply read Thank you.
The following weekend I flewwell, droveto the cottage with the hope of a surprise. The miracle came early: two shelves had been nailed in, the rooms were spotless, the floors washed. No one had been seen.
I even felt a hunters thrill, returning at odd hours, establishing an unofficial watch with the neighbours, taking occasional days off just to keep an eye out for a mysterious helper. Nothing. The garden was watered, weeding done, berries jammed, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage immaculate, even my old work boots repaired. Food never vanished; the fridge was full of soups and salads made from the gardens bounty. What else could I do?
Like a fool, I stood in the middle of my little house and thanked the unseen keeper aloud. By late summer I grew bold, ordering the spirit to prep things for my next visit, promising to bring it inside for the winter so it wouldnt freeze alone. Neighboursdivorced, marriedenvied me:
Look at that, a phantom with a heart. He knows its hard for an old lady to manage alone.
I even visited a local fortuneteller, set a saucer of milk on the porch which Mrs. Claras cat lapped up every day. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned. On my final trip, I sat on the step, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Mr. Matthewin front of me and said:
Alright, dear keeper, lets find a new home. Ive a onebedroom flat, youll fit right in.
From my left a cheerful male voice called out. I startled, turned, and saw a man in a wellworn but clean coat, barefoot, with shoulderlength black curls and bright blue eyes, fists twitching nervously. A silent tableau.
Sorry to frighten you. I didnt mean it. Youre moving out next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears I hadnt expected welled up. I stared at him, silent.
I snapped back as if from a dream:
Stop! Where are you going? And quieter, Ill get you something to eat.
Just a little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hold on, theres stew at home. How shall I get you? Sit here, dont move. Ill ask Mr. Matthew for shoes, maybe Sanya will drive in town and bring you home.
At a breakneck pace I ran to the neighbours, halfbelieving it was a dream. A tramp had helped me all summer, and now I was bringing him home. Such things never happen
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Victor, we stroll through the city parks treelined avenues. Autumn, my favourite season, returns. We remember how, many years back, we met in a most unlikely way, swapping life stories that were simple for him and tangled for me. My life: you know it; his is straightforwardborn, educated, two degrees (one fulltime, one parttime), married, ten years together, the upheaval of the 80s, out of work, long jobsearch, then his wife, a successful businesswoman, drove him out.
He first crashed on friends sofas, feeling unwanted. He roamed the countryside, scavenging for food. One day he saw me, burdened with bags, felt pity, began to help, hiding in my attic, fearing Id chase him away. Slowly he got used to my jokes, even when he was a lousy detective. Now its funny to recall. When our son grows up and thinks of marrying, well tell him our story.
Its time to head home; Victors work van pulls up. Good night, dear world.
