Dear Diary,
Today I reflected on the most astonishing turn of events that has unfolded in our little village in the Cotswolds. A few months ago we took in an elderly woman, practically a strangera distant relative, barely more than a name on a family tree. She was blind, frailminded and, truth be told, seemed to have slipped completely out of her own head. It felt like a fantastical act of charity, yet we welcomed her anyway.
We are a modest lot, living in a stonecottage on the edge of the parish. My husband, the boys and I barely scrape enough to keep the hearth warm; our three children are growing fast, and my eldest son already has two grandchildren. Were rough around the edges, not highly educated, but we carry a good conscience. We didnt think of sending her to the old folks home or leaving her alone at night; her own cottage lay at the far end of the lane, and she could no longer tend to herself at all. So we brought her here.
Eleanor Whitfieldher name now feels like a gentle windarrived in a threadbare coat and a patched shawl. We gave her a fresh dress, wrapped a clean kerchief around her head as proper, fed her from a spoon and settled her onto the narrow bed in our sittingroom. We hung a simple rug with deer motifs on the wall, though she could not see it. Life went on: we cooked cabbage soup, oat porridge, even the occasional packet of instant noodles, and brewed tea sweetened with a spoonful of sugar. We escorted her to the loo, helped her change if needed, and listened to her endless mutterings, spoken in a thin, trembling voice.
One evening, with that same frail timbre, she declared, A thief has gotten into the outbuilding! We rushed to the shed and found our drunken neighbour, Tom, rummaging through the pantry, pilfering our potatoes and cabbages. The coincidence was almost comical.
A few weeks later she warned, Dont let Harry go into town; his car will crash! Trusting the old woman, we stopped our son Harry from travelling with his mate. The friends car indeed went off the road in a terrible smash, and Harry would have been in the passenger seat had we let him go. The relief that washed over us was enormous.
Eleanor kept on spouting predictionsnothing she could actually see, remember, or even lift a spoon to her mouth. Yet one day she begged for a lottery ticket. My husband drove to the nearest market town, bought a scratchoff, and, to our disbelief, we won a sizeable sumsomewhere between three and five hundred thousand pounds, as we shyly said, a heap. Simple folk like us speak of money in vague terms; a heap was enough.
With the winnings we bought Eleanor a new, brightcoloured robe, a tin of ginger biscuits, and a lovely quiltthough she cannot see its pattern, she seems to perceive something else entirely. Everyone in the village now looks after her with fondness.
Even now she drifts in and out of reverie, forgets things, cannot feed herself or reach the lavatory alone. Yet her smile is genuine, and she sits on that beautiful quilt, dressed in her clean robe and dainty kerchief, like a porcelain doll. She strings together a rosary, murmurs something kind in her thin voice, and gently shakes her head as if approving the world around her.
It is strange how life can change when you open your home to someone considered almost a stranger. I cant help but feel both humbled and grateful for the bewildering blessings Eleanor has unintentionally brought into our lives.
Emily.
