Unexpected Joy
Lord, Im thirtyeight, living alone. In all my years Ive never harmed a soul, never uttered a harsh word. Everything I own I earned with my own hands: a onebedroom flat in London, a weekend cottage in the Cotswolds. It isnt a sin to complain, and my parents helped where they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends Ive known since school. We meet rarelyboth are married.
I cant bear it when their husbands, after a few pints, make lewd jokes trying to brighten my solitude, hoping their wives dont hear. I had to tell each of them firmly that those men are nouse to me. Thank you, Lord, they finally understood.
Silencing herself for a heartbeat, Grace turned to the window, eyes heavy with longing, and thought of all the happy faces outside the glass and the equally miserable ones like herself. She turned back to the Almighty and whispered:
Ive never asked you for anything; now I beg with humility. Give me what mortals cannot. Im weary of loneliness. Send me some creature, a stray person, perhaps an orphan. I am timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im sullen and selfabsorbed, but Im just indecisive, afraid to speak the right words, fearing ridicule. My father always warned me to keep my head down, to be proper, so he wouldnt be embarrassed. So I live like a candle without a flame, a lantern without oil. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, early spring. In the house opposite, a few windows glowed. I prayed sincerely for the first time, and when I stepped away from the small icon, two fresh tracks of tears streamed down my cheeks. I wiped them with the backs of my hands, grabbed two heavy grocery bagsone with paint for the fence and the other with assorted household itemsand headed for the door.
My sanctuary is the cottage. There I am not alone: I work, and over the fence I chat with neighbours about the harvest. The bags pull my arms to the floor; thank goodness I live close to the bus stop. At the stop nobody is there; I stand alone for an hour. A few vans pass, jampacked, and I think if a third passes Ill have to go backmaybe todays not the day for the cottage. With so many people, I cant return home in the evening, and I must work the next morning.
Then miracle: a full coach brakes, shoves a drunken man out who was yelling, and politely invites me inside. I exhale, squeeze in; the doors slam shut, compressing me like an accordion, and the lack of air and the mixture of smells almost make me faint.
Fortyfive minutes of clinical death later Im back at my beloved cottage. By threepm the back wall smells of smoked ham, the front table holds a pristine white cake, and by sixpm a lifeless body lies in the kitchen. I stumble back, spine hunched, hands below my knees, eyes dim, thinking how marvelous this miracle is! I wink at my reflection in the mirror, dash to the shower, and decide to lie on the sofa and rest an hour before the television.
I fell asleep midflight, barely touching the pillow. Exhausted. I woke in the night. The television was playing some film; I turned it off, set an alarm, stripped off my robe and tried to sleep again. Sleep wouldnt come. After a while I got up, made myself a lunch for work.
Two days later I took the familiar route to the cottage again. Inside the garden shed I was stunned: the electric kettle was still steaming, my favourite mug sat with sugar and a tea bag. I couldnt believe my eyes; I touched the mug, shook my head, stepped outside, and stared at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I have no idea.
The question begged an answer. Who? Maybe my mother? I reached out and pressed a finger to the picket; a streak of green paint lingered. It wasnt my mother; the paint was fresh. Im baffled. From the neighbouring plot, I glimpsed Auntie Kates scarf fluttering among the raspberries. I walked the narrow path of my vegetable garden, approached the neighbours fence and called:
Kate!
A muffled voice drifted from the garden cottage.
Is that you, Grace? Hold on, Ill be out in a sec. Those blokes! Always leaving a mess, never cleaning up.
The old woman, a retired builder from the old union, wiped her hands on a wellworn apron and stepped onto her porch.
Hello, dear. Up early today? Didnt you have a day off yesterday? I see youve repainted the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted it?
You think it was you? Im sure nobody was around; I spent the night here. Why are you so rattled? Maybe your mother visited? She always drops by, or I could invite her for tea.
I have no idea. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug sits with tea.
Wait a minute. Lets have a look together.
The old lady shuffled to the gate of my cottage. We examined the fence with the determination of a goose protecting her nest, noticing the complete lack of a mans touch.
Show me!
Thats it, thats all.
Look, nothings gone missing or added.
Except the sack of breadonly a few slices left, now gone.
Oh dear! A household spirit must have moved in.
Right! He even washed the brush and left it in an empty jar.
Stop fretting! Call your mother, or Ill.
I fetched my phone from my handbag, dialed Mums number. After several rings, a breathless voice asked:
Why so early? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Were you here yesterday?
No, we hadnt arranged anything. Whats wrong? Did someone rob you? Theres nothing to steal.
No, Mum. Someone painted the fence.
Well, God bless the neighbour who helped. Be grateful, dear.As the sun set behind the Cotswolds, Grace finally understood that the invisible hand she had prayed for was the kindness of strangers, and she whispered a grateful sigh, letting the quiet peace settle over her oncelonely heart.
