Two decades ago my world turned upside down. My father passed away and, after twenty years of marriage, I found myself divorced.
With no job and my thirties behind me, I moved into my father’s cottage in a small Yorkshire village, convinced there was little hope left for a fresh startno good work and no chance of love.
Misfortune seemed to follow me. The roof, patched by a local handyman, leaked profusely, and I lacked the strength to haul timber. The carpenters who replaced the joinery left the job halfdone, so the wind whistled through the gaps. To keep warm I gathered pine cones and burned the countless books I owned in the stove. Then the power failed and I was forced to turn the heating off.
Across the lane, the landlord of the village pub kept sending me tempting offers. I wondered whether to laugh or weep I thought things could not get any worse, yet suddenly everything improved.
One cold morning, at the rural bus stop, a man stepped off the coach. His hair was rumpled, his overalls stained, and he carried a toolboxhe was a roofrepairer. He asked if I needed a hand. I admitted I did, but confessed I had no coin to pay him. He smiled and said we could settle the debt when I could afford a few pounds.
He fixed the roof, the faucet, the water meter, the garden fence, the steps, and the windows. One bitter night, I returned home to find a warm hearth alight and, beside it, a steaming mug of herbal tea.
It was as if a miracle had delivered exactly what my chilled throat and freezing feet required. I knew then who my hero was and how I might thank him. Though capable, he was modest, so I keep his name secret lest he be embarrassedour village is small, and everyone knows him.
Now the cottage and garden have been transformed; his sturdy, masculine touch is evident in every nail and stone. With my knight by my side I feel warmth and happiness, though my greatest fear remains losing him.
