28March, Thursday Im thirtyeight and still living alone, just me in my little flat. Ive never harmed anyone, never raised my voice. Everything I own a onebedroom flat in Manchester and a modest cottage up in the Cotswolds I earned with my own hands. My parents helped where they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two lifelong friends, both married, whom I see only now and then.
Their husbands sometimes slip into crass jokes when theyre a bit tipsy, trying to cheer me up as if I didnt know my own wife. Ive had to tell each of them firmly that the men are not my suitors. Thank God they finally understood.
A quiet sigh escaped me as I stared out the window, watching the world beyond the glass people happy, others as lonely as I feel. I turned back to the picture on the wall and whispered:
God, I have never asked for anything before; now I come to you humbled. Grant me what mortals cannot give. Im weary of solitude. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im grumpy and selfabsorbed, but Im simply indecisive, fearing Ill say the wrong thing and be laughed at. My father always warned me to keep my head down, lest I bring shame on the family. So I live like a candle in the wind, never quite fitting in. Guide me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
Sunday, early spring. The house opposite mine flickered with a few lights in the windows. I prayed sincerely for the first time, and when I stepped away from the small crucifix, fresh tracks of tears glistened on my cheeks. I wiped them with the back of my hands, hoisted two heavy sacks of groceries, a tin of gardenfence paint and a bundle of household odds and ends, and headed for the door.
My cottage is the bright spot of my life. There Im not alone: I work the garden, chat over the fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The sacks pull my arms to the floor, but at least the bus stop is a short walk away. The shelter is deserted; I stand there for an hour, watching the occasional coach rumble past, packed to the brim. If a third one rolls by, Ill head home perhaps it isnt meant to be that day.
Then the miracle: a full coach brakes, shoves a drunken passenger out after his argument, and opens its doors for me. I exhale, squeeze inside; the doors slam shut with a hiss, pressing me like an accordion. The stale air and mingled smells nearly choke me.
After fortyfive minutes that felt like a clinical death, Im back at my beloved cottage. By threepm the smoke from a ham hangs in the air, by sixpm a pale snowwhite light filters through the curtains, and by eightpm Im a walking dead man. I limp back inside, shoulders stooped, hands trembling below the knees, eyes dim. I catch my reflection, smile at it, dash to the shower, then flop onto the sofa to rest a while before the telly.
I drift off the moment my head hits the pillow. Im exhausted. I wake in the night; the TV blares some film. I switch it off, set the alarm, pull off my robe and try to sleep again, but sleep eludes me. After a brief wash, I get up, make a simple lunch to take to work.
Two days later I return to the cottage along the same route. I step inside the garden hut and freeze the electric kettle is still steaming, my favourite mug sits on the table with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag. I touch the mug, shake my head, go outside, and stare at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I cant make sense of it.
Who could have done it? Maybe my mother? I run a finger along the picket; a smear of green paint remains. Its not my mother the coat looks brand new. Im baffled. On the neighbouring plot, I spot Mrs. Kate, the older lady who grows raspberries, and call out:
Mrs. Kate!
From her garden shed a muffled voice replies:
Is that you, Evelyn? Hold on, Ill be out in a minute. Those rascals never tidy up after themselves.
Mrs. Kate, a retired builder from the old union days, shuffles out, wiping her hands on a threadbare apron.
Morning, love. Why so early? Didnt you have a day off yesterday? I see youve freshened up the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen anyone paint my fence?
I didnt, dear. I was here last night. Could it be your mother? She always drops by for a cuppa.
Im not sure. The kettles hot, the mugs ready, and the fence is new.
Lets have a look together.
She trudges toward my gate. We walk side by side, peering over the rows of beans and the ramshackle shed that clearly lacks any male handiwork.
Show me.
She nods, points at the fence.
Nothings missing, but the bread bag is empty now.
Ah, a houseelf perhaps?
She laughs, wipes a tear, and says, Call your mum, love, if you like.
I fumble for my phone, dialing Moms number. After a few rings, a breathless voice answers:
Evelyn? Why so early? Whats happened?
Hi, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Did you visit yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange that. Did someone break in?
No, just someone painted the fence.
Bless those neighbours who helped. Say thank you, and give Mum a hand with the kerosene for the garden lantern.
Will do, love. Say hello to Dad for me.
Will do. Bye.
Mrs. Kate huffs impatiently:
So, whats the story?
Probably not them. Maybe old Mr. Matthew? He threatened to help when I carried the paint. I thought he was joking. Ill thank him.
Good idea. Come over later, well have a stew on the bone. It turned out lovely.
I canvassed the nearby cottages; no one saw or heard anything. Whispers about mischievous sprites began to swirl. Two days passed without incident. Before leaving, I placed half a loaf, two tins of sardines, a tin of stew and a note that simply read Thank you on the kitchen table.
The following weekend I flew to the cottage hopeful for another surprise. The hut now boasted two new shelves, the floor scrubbed clean, everything in order. Yet again, no one claimed the work.
I became almost obsessed, turning up at odd hours, arranging an informal watch with the neighbours, taking days off to track the unseen helper. Nothing. The garden beds were watered, weeds pulled, berries jammed into jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage spotless, even my old gardening boots repaired. The fridge held soups and salads made from my own produce. What else could I do?
I even found myself standing in the middle of the room, thanking the invisible benefactor out loud. By late summer I grew bold enough to issue orders for the next visit, telling the spirit Id bring it indoors for the winter, so it wouldnt have to shiver alone. Neighbours, both widowed and married, muttered enviously:
Look at her, talking to the unseen. She knows its hard for a lady on her own.
I once consulted a local fortuneteller, left a saucer of milk on the doorstep, which Mrs. Claras cat lapped up with gusto. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned over. On my final return, I perched on the porch, placed an old mens boot borrowed from Mr. Matthew before me and said:
Well then, dear keeper, lets move on. I only have a onebedroom flat, but I think well make it work.
A cheerful male voice called out from the lane:
Startled, I turned. A man in a worn but tidy coat, barefoot, hair curling to his shoulders, eyes bright as the sky, stood there, fists clenched and released in nervous rhythm.
Sorry to scare you. I didnt mean it. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears welled uninvitedly. I stared, speechless.
I snapped back, voice firm:
Stop! Where are you going? And
Hungry? he asked.
Just a little. Youve been out all day; I havent had a bite.
Hold on, we have stew at home. How shall we get you there? Sit tight, Ill ask Mr. Matthew for a pair of shoes, maybe Sanjay can drive us home.
I sprinted to the neighbours, halfbelieving it was a dream. Such things never happen. A vagrant had helped me all summer, and now I was taking him in. It felt absurd.
Years later, hand in hand with my husband, Victor, we stroll through the park of our new suburb in Leeds. Autumns gold drapes the trees, my favourite season. We reminisce about how we met by chance, how we shared our life stories in shy whispers. My own tale is simple: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one parttimemarried, ten years together, the economic downturn hit, I lost my job, struggled to find another, my thenhusband drifted into alcoholism, I became a successful smallbusiness owner and eventually left him. He spent nights on friends sofas, wandering from one cottage to another, stealing food. One day he saw me lugging bags, felt pity, and hid in my attic. He feared Id discover him and chase him away. Over time his jokes fell flat, and he became a laughingstock. We laugh now at those days. When our son grows up and thinks of marrying, well tell him this wild story.
Evening draws near; Victors work van pulls up. Time to go home.
