I was thirtyeight when I first whispered my prayer, the same one I have repeated ever since. I lived alone in a modest onebed flat in a terraced house on the outskirts of Manchester, and I owned a small cottage down in the Kentish countryside. All that I possessed I had earned with my own two hands: the flat, the garden shed, the patch of rosemary by the kitchen window. My parents had helped where they could; I was the youngest of five children, the baby of the family.
Two friends, Eleanor and Margaret, had been my companions since school. We saw each other only on rare occasions now, their lives tied up with husbands and children. I could not stand it when their spouses, a little too cheersloving, would whisper crude jokes, hoping to brighten my solitary evenings while keeping their wives in the dark. I had to step in, gently but firmly, and tell them that those men were not my suitors. Thank God they understood, and the awkward conversations fell away.
One quiet Sunday morning, as the first light filtered through the lace curtains, I sat by the window and watched the world outside. The street bustled with couples handinhand and solitary figures wrapped in coats, each a story of happiness or loneliness much like my own. I turned my gaze upward, toward the ceiling where a small crucifix hung, and spoke in a hushed tone:
Lord, I have never asked for anything before. Now, with a humble heart, I beg for a companion, for a creature or a lost soul, perhaps an orphan child. I am timid, Lord, lacking confidence. People think Im dour and selfabsorbed, but I am merely indecisive, afraid to speak the right words lest I become a laughingstock. My father taught me to guard my reputation, to behave so I would not bring shame upon the family. I live without a candle for God or a brass kettle for the devil. Guide me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
The next day, a crisp spring morning, a faint glow flickered in the farright windows of the house opposite mine. I knelt before the modest icon on my bedside shelf and prayed earnestly. When I rose, two fresh tracks of tears glistened on my cheeks. I brushed them away with the backs of my hands, picked up two heavy grocery bags one filled with vegetables, another with paint for the cottage fence and assorted household bits and stepped out onto the cobbled street.
My refuge was the cottage. There, I was never truly alone; I tended the garden, and I chatted over the fence with the neighbouring ladies about the upcoming harvest. The bags tugged at my arms, pulling my elbows toward the ground, but I was grateful to live near the bus stop. I stood there for an hour, watching the empty shelter, when a lone summer bus, the number 42, rumbled past, packed tight with commuters. I thought, If a third bus comes, perhaps today is not meant for the cottage.
Miraculously, the bus halted, the driver thrust a stumbling, drunken man out onto the pavement, and then swung the doors open for me. I squeezed inside, the doors clangshutting around me like a tight accordion, and the stale air and mingled smells made me feel faint. I lay there, halfconscious, for what seemed fortyfive minutes before the bus lurched forward and deposited me at the cottage gate.
By threeoclock the scent of smoked pork hung in the air, and by sixoclock a silverwhite catmy new, unlikely companionstretched lazily across the hearth. I shuffled back into the house, my back hunched, my hands below my knees, my eyes dimmed, but a strange sense of wonder warmed me. I winked at my reflection in the cracked mirror, hurried to the shower, and then settled on the worn sofa to rest an hour before the television.
Sleep claimed me the moment my head touched the cushion. I awoke in the dead of night to the faint murmur of a film on the telly. I switched it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my nightgown, and tried to sleep again, but slumber evaded me. After a wash of tears, I rose, made myself a simple lunch for the next day’s work, and went back to my duties.
Two days later I returned to the cottage along the familiar path. Stepping inside, I was stunned: the kettle on the stove boiled, my favourite teacup sat on the table with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag, as if waiting for me. I touched the cup, shook my head, and went outside, only to stare at my fence, freshly painted a bright emerald. I could not fathom who had done it.
Who could it be? I muttered aloud. Perhaps Mother? I reached out and brushed a finger along the picket; a streak of green paint lingered. It could not have been my mothershe lived in Leeds and had not visited in years. The paint was still wet.
From the next garden over, I caught sight of a familiar kerchief belonging to Mrs. Katya, the elderly neighbour who tended her roses with a fierce pride. I crossed my own tidy rows and called out:
Mrs. Katya!
A hushed voice drifted from the adjoining garden cottage.
Its you, Elsie? One moment, Ill be right out. Those rascalsnever tidy up after themselves.
Mrs. Katya, a retired carpenter from the old union, shuffled onto her porch, wiping her hands on a threadbare apron.
Morning, dear Elsie. What brings you here early? Yesterday was a holiday, wasnt it? I see youve repainted the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted it?
I wasnt here, love. I was out last night, but I didnt notice anyone. Could it have been your mother? She always drops by for a cuppa.
I cant say. The kettles hot, the cup is set, and the fence is bright as new.
She peered at the fence and examined the paint.
Lets have a look together, she said, moving towards the gate.
We stood side by side, her cane tapping against the wooden slats. The paint was still wet, still smelling of linseed.
Nothings missing, except perhaps the loaf I left in the pantry. Its gone now, she remarked, a twinkle in her eye.
Perhaps a household sprite has taken up residence, I laughed weakly.
Call your mother, love, and thank whoever helped, she urged.
From my handbag I fished out a battered phone and dialled my mothers number. After a few rings, a breathless voice answered:
Girl, why so early? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Did you come by yesterday?
No, love, we didnt arrange that. Anything wrong? I hear a hint of trouble in your tone.
No, Mum, just someone painted my fence.
Bless the soul who helped. Give thanks, and maybe lend a hand yourself. Your fathers gone to the market for fuel, so well be back soon.
We exchanged goodbyes. Mrs. Katya, still restless, asked, Whats the story?
It wasnt them. Maybe old Mr. Mathew? When I was carrying paint, he threatened to help. I thought he was joking. Ill thank him now.
She smiled, Thats right, dear. Come by for a bitestew on bone broth is on the table.
I walked past each neighbours garden, but no one had seen or heard a thing. Rumours of mischievous sprites began to flutter through the hedges, but two days passed without further incident. Before leaving, I placed half a loaf, a couple of tins of sardines, a can of stewed beef, and a note that simply read Thank you on the kitchen table.
The following weekend, I returned to the cottage hopeful for a surprise. The interior was immaculate: shelves bolted to the walls, the floor swept, the curtains freshly laundered. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and still no one claimed credit.
A strange excitement grew in me; I began to visit the cottage at odd hours, arranging with the neighbours an unspoken watch. I even took occasional days off work to keep an eye out for the unseen helper. Yet nothing changed. The beds were made, the garden rows weeded, berries jarred, fresh wildflowers placed in a vase, and my old gardening boots repaired. The pantry held soups and salads made from the very vegetables I tended. What else could I do?
One evening I stood in the middle of my humble cottage, thanked the invisible benefactor aloud, and, as summer waned, began to issue gentle commands for what should be done before my next return. I promised that, when winter came, I would bring the helper indoors, lest they shiver alone. The local womenwidows and housewiveswhispered with envy:
Bless her, shes got a spirit that understands a solitary ladys plight.
I even tried the old village fortuneteller, leaving a saucer of milk on her doorstep, which the neighbours cat, Whiskers, would lap up with gusto. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned over. On my final visit, I sat on the cottage step, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Mr. Mathewbefore me and said:
Alright, mistress, lets find a new place. I have a onebed flat in Manchester, but well make it work.
From the left, a deep, cheerful voice called out. I startled, jumped, and turned to see a man in a threadbare coat, his shoes scuffed, hair a tangled mop of black curls, eyes the colour of cornflowers, fists clenched then relaxed. He looked as startled as I was.
Sorry to frighten you, he said softly. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears welled unbidden in my eyes. I stared at him, silent.
When I finally gathered my wits, I shouted, Stop! Where are you going? And
Hungry, he muttered. I havent eaten all day.
Just a moment. Theres stew in the house. Sit, dont wander off. Ill ask Mr. Mathew for a pair of shoes, or perhaps young Sam will fetch a carriage.
I bolted to the neighbouring cottages, halfbelieving this was a dream. A vagrant had helped me all summer, and now I was to bring him home. Such things never happen, I thought.
Years slipped by. Hand in hand with my husband, Victor, we stroll through the leafy avenues of Hyde Park each morning. Autumn paints the leaves gold, my favourite season, and we reminisce about the improbable meeting that set our lives on a new course. My story is simple: born in a modest town, educated at the local school, later earning two degreesone by night, one by correspondencemarried once, survived the economic downturn, lost my job, drifted between country homes, survived on scraps. Victor, a oncepromising engineer, fell on hard times, lived in friends guest rooms, begged for work, and eventually found his way back to me, offering shelter in my cottage when I was burdened with heavy bags.
Now, as we watch our son, James, growing tall and preparing for his own marriage, we will tell him of the night we found a stranger with paintstained hands and a hungry gaze, of the mysterious kindness that turned a lonely cottage into a home. The city bus that once disgorged a drunken man and a warm invitation still haunts my memory, a reminder that miracles sometimes arrive in the most ordinary of buses.
Even now, as Victors company car pulls up to the gate, the evening sky blushes, and the kettle whistles, I smile, knowing that the past, with its strange gifts and quiet prayers, has woven the tapestry of my life.
