Unbidden delight
Oh Lord, Im thirtyeight, living alone in my little flat. In all my life Ive never done anyone harm, never cursed a soul. Everything I own I earned with my own two hands: a onebedroom flat in Camden, a modest cottage out in the Kentish countryside. It would be a sin to complain, and my parents did what they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends, companions from my school days. We meet rarely now; theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a little under the influence, make lewd jokes, trying to spice up my solitude without their wives knowing. I had to put each of them on the ear and explain that a friends husband isnt a man for me. Thank you, Almighty, for making them understand.
Silence fell for a heartbeat, and then Blythe, eyes heavy with melancholy, turned to the window, gazing at the bustling world beyond the glasshappy folks and the equally forlorn, like herself. Turning back to the divine, she whispered:
Ive never asked you for anything before; now I beg, humbled. Give me what mortals cant have. Im weary of loneliness. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im sullen, lost in my own head, but Im simply indecisive, afraid to speak the right thing, fearing mockery. My father always warned me to guard my reputation, to keep my shame hidden. So I live like a candle without flame, or a rusted shovel. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, early spring. In the house opposite, a few windows flickered. I prayed earnestly for the first time; when I stepped away from the tiny icon, two fresh tracks of tears glistened on my cheeks. I brushed them away with the back of my hands, grabbed two heavy grocery bagsone full of paint for the fence, the other with assorted household bitsand headed for the door.
My solace is the cottage. There Im not alone: I can work, and chat over the fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The bags dragged my arms to the floor, but Im lucky to live close to the bus stop. At the stop there was no one, and I stood there for an hour. A solitary Paz coach, then another, passed bumpertobumper. If a third came, Id turn back homeperhaps destiny had other plans for me at the cottage. With so many passengers, I couldnt get back in the evening, and Id have to go to work the next morning.
Then a miracle: the fullsize coach halted, shoving a drunken man with a shouting fit out of its doors and welcoming me aboard with a grin. I exhaled, squeezed in; the doors slammed shut, pressing me like a concertina, and the stale air and mixed smells nearly stole my breath.
Fortyfive minutes of clinical death later, I was back at my beloved cottage. By threepm a smoked ham slumped on my back, a porcelain doll named Snow White perched in front, and by sixpm a living corpse loomed. I shuffled back, halfbent, spine curled, arms dangling below my knees, eyes dimmed, yet the miracle seemed wonderful. I winked at my reflection, hopped into a quick shower, and resolved to lie down in front of the telly for a brief rest.
I drifted off midflight, barely touching the pillow. Exhausted, I awoke in the dead of night. The television was playing some vague film; I switched it off, set an alarm, tossed my dressing gown aside, and tried to sleep again. Sleep eluded me. After a brief wash, I rose, prepared a simple lunch for work.
Two days later I took the familiar route to the cottage. Inside the little garden house I gasped: the electric kettle was steaming, my favourite mug sat with sugar and a tea bag waiting. I could not believe my eyes; I touched the mug, shook my head, stepped outside, and stared at the freshly painted fence. Paint? I didnt understand.
A question rose by itself. Who? Perhaps my mother had visited? I reached out, pressed a finger to the picket; a streak of green paint lingered. It wasnt my motherthe coat was brand new. I was baffled. Across the way, the neighbour, Mrs. Katya, flashed a scarf among the raspberry bushes. I walked the narrow garden path, approached the boundary, and called:
Katya!
From the depths of the neighbours garden cottage a muffled voice replied.
Is that you, Blythe? Hold on, Ill be right out. You lot! Blasted lot. Never tidy up.
The old woman, a veteran builder of the old union, muttered as she wiped her hands on a worn apron and stepped onto her porch.
Good morning, Bly. Why so early? No holiday yesterday? I see youve repainted the fence.
Morning. Yes, I worked yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
You? I thought nobody was here; I just stayed the night. Why the fuss? Maybe your mother came? Shed have dropped by, wouldnt she?
I cant tell. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug is waiting.
Wait a tick. Lets have a look together.
She shuffled to the gate of my cottage. We trudged together, a determined goosestep between my vegetable rows and the ramshackle shed that bore the absence of any male hand.
Show me!
Thats it, thats all.
Look, nothing missing or added?
No, just a sack of bread left, a few slices, now gone.
Oh dear! A household spirit must have moved in.
Right! He even cleaned the brush and set it on an empty jar.
Stop fretting! Call your mother, or Ill.
I fumbled for my purse, dialed Mums number. After a long ring, a breathless voice finally asked:
Why so early, love? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, all fine. Were you here yesterday?
No, we hadnt arranged that. Whats wrong? Did someone rob you? Youve got nothing there.
No, mum. Someone painted my fence.
Bless the neighbours who helped. Be grateful, and maybe lend a hand yourself. Im off to the market with your father for paraffin.
Bye, Mum, give Dad my love.
She hung up. Katya, impatient, asked:
So?
Not them. Maybe Granddad Matvey? When I was carrying paint, he threatened to help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Thats right. Go on, dear. Drop by for lunch; Ive made stew on a bone, proper comfort food.
I canvassed every neighbour around my cottage. Nobody saw or heard anything. Slowly, they began to snicker, spinning tales of sprites and houseelves. Two days at the farm yielded nothing remarkable. When I left, I left half a loaf 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 to the cottage as if on wings, hopeful for a surprise. The miracle arrived: two shelves nailed in, the floor scrubbed, everything in perfect order. Again, nobody witnessed it.
A hunting thrill rose inside me; I began to visit the cottage at odd hours, we and the neighbours set up an unspoken guard, I even took days off to track a secret helper. Nothing! The beds were made, the rows watered, berries jarred, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage spotless, even my old gardening boots repaired. Food vanished, yet the fridge always held soups and salads made from garden vegetables Id left. What else could I do?
I became, absurdly, the last fool who stood in the middle of my little thatched room and thanked an invisible lord aloud. By late summer I grew bold, issuing orders for what should be ready when I returned next. I told him to go wherever he pleased, and that in winter Id bring him into my home, so he wouldnt have to shiver alone. In spring wed return, so hed have no worries. The neighboursdivorced, married, allenvied me:
Look at her, talking to spirits, understanding. She knows its hard for an old lady alone.
I even visited a fortuneteller, left a saucer of milk on the step, which Mrs. Klaras cat drank greedily. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned over. On my final visit I sat on the porch, placed before me an old mens boot, borrowed from Granddad Matvey, and said:
Well then, housekeeper, shall we move to a new place? I have a onebedroom flat, but I think well manage.
From my left a cheerful male voice rang out.
I jumped, startled, and turned. A man in threadbare yet clean clothes stood there, barefoot, with shoulderlength black curls and striking blue eyes, fists clenching then relaxing. A silent tableau.
Sorry to scare you. I didnt mean any harm. Youre leaving next summer, right? Im here because you promised to take me with you.
Tears welled uninvitedly. I stared, mute.
Snapping back as if from a dream, I barked:
Stop! Where are you going? And softer, I added:
Hungry?
A little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hold on a bit longer; there are dumplings at home. How shall I get you? Sit here, dont stray. Ill ask Granddad Matvey for a shoe, or perhaps Sanya will drive from town and give you a lift.
At a breakneck pace I raced to the neighbours, unable to believe what had unfolded. Surely this was a dream; such things never happen. A vagrant had helped me all summer, and now I was bringing him home. It was absurd
Years slipped by. Hand in hand, my husband Victor and I stroll the morning avenues of the city park. Autumn, my favourite season, crowns the trees in gold. We reminisce about the improbable way we met, the tangled tales we shared, simple yet profound. My story is yours, his is straightforward: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one nighttimemarried, ten years of marriage, the Thatcher years, loss of a job, a long search, then ejected by a successful businesswoman. He first crashed on friends sofas, feeling unwanted, wandering the countryside, stealing food. One day he saw me, laden with bags, felt pity, began to help, hiding in my attic, fearing Id discover him and throw him out. Slowly he grew bolder, realizing I was no detective. He even dreamed of being found. Now its funny to recall. When our son grows up and intends to marry, we shall tell him the saga of our lives.
It is time to go home; Victors work van pulls up. Evening settles over the familiar street.
