Sunday, 28th October
Im thirtyeight now, living alone in my cosy onebed flat in Manchester. In my whole life Ive never hurt anyone, never raised my voice. Everything I have the flat, the little country cottage in Yorkshire I earned myself. My parents helped where they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends, Megan and Lucy, whom Ive known since school. We meet rarely; theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a few drinks in, make lewd jokes trying to spice up my solitude, hoping their wives wont hear. Ive had to tell each of them firmly that a friends husband is not a romantic prospect for me. Thank God they finally understood.
After a brief pause, I stared out the window, watching happy couples and solitary figures passing by. I turned my thoughts to the Almighty and whispered:
Lord, I have never asked for anything before; now I come with humility. Give me what people lack. Im weary of this loneliness. Send me a little creature, a stray animal, perhaps an orphaned soul. Im timid, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im sourmouthed and secretive, but Im just indecisive, afraid to say the right thing and be laughed at. Father always warned me to guard my reputation. I live like a candle with no wind and a fire without a hearth. Please guide me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
Early spring morning. In the flat opposite mine a few lights flickered in the windows. I knelt before a small crucifix, prayed sincerely, and felt two fresh tracks of tears on my cheeks. I wiped them away, shouldered two heavy grocery bags one with flour for the garden fence, the other with assorted household items and headed out.
My cottage is the highlight of my life. There Im not alone: I work the garden and chat over the fence with neighbours about the harvest. The bags pull my arms down to the ground; thank heavens the bus stop is a short walk away. At the stop there was no one, I waited alone for an hour. A couple of coaches passed, packed to the brim. If a third one comes, Ill have to turn back; perhaps today the cottage will stay empty. With such crowds, I wont be able to return in the evening, and I still have work the next day.
Then, miracle: a full coach finally slowed, a drunken man was tossed out after a quarrel, and the driver welcomed me aboard. I exhaled, squeezed in; the doors shut with a creak, squeezing me like an accordion, the stale air and mixed smells almost stole my breath.
Fortyfive minutes later I was back at my beloved cottage. By threepm the table held smoked ham on the left, a fresh loaf of bread on the right, and by sixpm the leftovers looked like a living corpse. I shuffled back to the flat, spine bent, arms drooping, eyes dimmed, yet grateful for the miracle. I winked at my reflection, jumped in a quick shower, and plonked onto the sofa to rest an hour in front of the telly.
I dozed off as soon as my head hit the pillow. I was exhausted. A wakeup call in the dead of night found the television playing some film. I switched it off, set my alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to sleep again, but sleep would not come. After a brief wash I rose, made myself a simple lunch for the next day’s shift.
Two days later I returned to the cottage on my usual route. Inside, the kettle was still steaming, my favourite mug sat with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bagstill warm. I touched the mug, shook my head, stepped outside and stared at the freshly painted fence. Painted? I couldnt understand.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother? I reached out and brushed a finger along the picket; a streak of green paint clung to it. It wasnt my mothershe hadnt visited. The paint was fresh. A neighbour, Mrs. Pettigrew, was sweeping near her own garden when I called out:
Mrs. Pettigrew!
From her little cottage came a faint reply:
Is that you, Emily? Hold on, Ill be right out.
She shuffled onto her porch, wiping her hands on a wellworn apron, and said:
Morning, Em. Out early today? Didnt you have the day off yesterday? I see youve repainted the fence.
I did, but I didnt do it myself. Did you see anyone?
Didnt see anyone, love. I was here last night, staying over. Maybe your mother stopped by?
I dont know. The kettle is hot, the tea is readynone of it makes sense.
She went to the gate and together we examined the fence, the garden beds, and the small shed that looks as if no mans hand has touched it in years.
Look, nothings missing or added, she said, peering at the ground.
Just a few slices of bread that were in the sack. Theyre gone now.
Ah, youve got a houseelf! she chuckled.
What? I asked, halflaughing, halfconfused.
She suggested I call my mother. I fumbled for my phone, dialed Moms number. After a few rings, a breathless voice asked:
Emily, why so early? Whats happened?
Im at the cottage, Mum. Everythings fine. Did you come by yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange anything. Did someone break in? Youve got nothing but a fence and a kettle.
Just someone painted the fence.
Bless the neighbour who helped. Say thankyou, and maybe lend a hand yourself. Your dad and I are heading to the market for kerosene, you know.
Will do, love. Say hi to Dad for me.
After hanging up, Mrs. Pettigrew asked:
So, who do you think did it?
Maybe old Mr. Thompson? He threatened to help when I was carrying paint up the lane. I thought he was joking.
She nodded. Right then, go thank him.
I thanked Mrs. Pettigrew, tucked the phone away, and walked back to the cottage, still puzzling over the mysterious painter. Over the next two days, no one else saw or heard anything. Rumours of mischievous sprites began to float around the village.
When I left the cottage, I left a halfloaf of bread, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stewed meat, and a note that simply read Thank you.
The following weekend I flew back to the cottage, hopeful for a surprise. The small house now had two shelves, the floor was freshly mopped, and everything seemed in perfect order. Still, no one had been seen painting.
I even felt a hunters thrill, making secret patrols with neighbours, taking occasional days off to keep an eye out for a helpful spirit. Nothing changed. The beds were watered, the berries jammed into jars, fresh wildflowers arranged in a vase on the table, the house spotless, even my old gardening boots repaired. Food kept disappearing, yet the fridge was always stocked with soups and salads made from the gardens bounty.
So I found myself, in a moment of desperation, standing in the middle of the cottage, speaking aloud to an unseen host, thanking it for its unseen kindness. By late summer I grew bold, even ordering it to tidy up before my next visit. I told it that when winter came Id bring it inside because it shouldnt have to shiver alone.
Neighbors, both single and married, whispered enviously:
Look at her, talking to the air as if she understood some secret.
I even visited the local fortuneteller, leaving a saucer of milk on the step, which Mrs. Clarkes cat lapped up greedily. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned over. On my final return, I sat on the porch, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Mr. Thompsonbefore me and said:
Alright, dear keeper, lets move on. I have a tiny onebed flat in the city, but perhaps well share it.
From my left a cheerful male voice called out. I jumped, turned, and saw a man in a worn but clean coat, barefoot, his dark curls hanging to his shoulders, eyes the colour of cornflowers, fists trembling.
Sorry to startle you. I didnt mean to frighten you. Youre leaving next summer, right? I came because you promised to take me with you.
Tears welled in my eyes. I looked at him, silent.
Then, snapping back to reality, I barked:
Stop! Where do you think youre going? I added, softer:
Hungry?
A little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hold on, Ill get you something. There are dumplings at home. Sit tight, Ill ask Mr. Thompson for some boots, maybe Sanjay can give you a lift.
I hurried to the neighbours, halfbelieving this was a dream. It felt impossiblehow could a homeless man have helped me all summer and now Id bring him home? Yet life does strange things.
Years later, hand in hand with my husband, Victor, we stroll through the leafy paths of Hyde Park in early autumn, my favourite season. We reminisce about how we met by chance years ago, swapping simple stories of our lives. My story: a lonely woman who prayed for companionship, worked hard, and eventually found love. His: born, educated twiceonce fulltime, once parttimemarried, lost his job after the recession, lived on the streets, then found a place at my cottage when a neighbour showed him kindness. He slept on friends sofas, felt unwanted, roamed the countryside looking for a bite. When he saw me struggling with bags, he helped, even hidden in my attic for a while, terrified Id discover him. Over time he became a fixture, and now we laugh about those dark days.
Tomorrow Ill drive home in Victors work van, the day winding down, feeling content.
Emily Harper.
