I was thirtyeight when I first wrote it down, living alone in my modest flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. In all my years I had never meant anyone harm, never let a harsh word slip. Everything I owned the onebedroom flat, the modest garden cottage in the Cotswolds I earned with my own two hands. I was the youngest of five, my parents having helped where they could, though I never complained. Two dear friends from my schooldays still kept in touch, though they were now married and we met only rarely.
I could not abide it when their husbands, after a few pints, began saying lewd jokes in the hope of lightening my solitude while keeping their wives in the dark. I had to step in, one after another, and make it clear that a husband of a friend was no romantic prospect for me. God, I thought, you have heard them; they finally understood.
Emily, my own reflection, once stood by the window, eyes heavy with longing, and wondered how many happy faces were looking out from the panes opposite, and how many, like her, were merely coping. She turned back to the Almighty and whispered:
I have never asked you for anything, and now I come in humility. Grant me, O Lord, that which people deem unimportant. I am weary of being alone. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. I am timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Folks say I am sourtempered, that I keep to myself, but truly I am indecisive, unsure of what to say, afraid of becoming the butt of a joke. My father always warned me to guard my reputation, lest I bring shame upon us. So I live, neither blessed nor cursed. Teach me, guide me onto the right path. Amen.
It was a early spring Sunday. Light flickered in a few upstairs windows across the road. I knelt before a small wooden cross and, for the first time, prayed earnestly. When I rose, damp tracks of unshed tears glistened on my cheeks. I dabbed them with the backs of my hands, gathered two heavy sacks one full of groceries, the other with paint for the cottage fence and assorted household bits and stepped out.
My little haven was the garden cottage. There I was never truly alone: I could tend the beds and chat over the fence with the neighbouring ladies about the upcoming harvest. The sacks tugged at my arms, dragging my hands close to the ground, but it helped that the bus stop was a short walk away. I waited an hour in the empty shelter. A couple of lorries rumbled past, each packed to the brim. If a third lorry passed, I would return home, convinced that the days work at the cottage was not meant to be.
Then a miracle: a full coach slowed, a drunken man tumbled out amid a quarrel, and the driver opened the doors for me. I breathed out, squeezed in, and the doors shut with a clang, compressing me like a folded accordion. The stale air and mingled odours nearly stole my senses.
Fortyfive minutes later I was back at my beloved cottage. By three oclock I was slicing smoked ham, by five I was polishing the old family portrait, and by six I felt like a living corpse, collapsing back into the house on halfbent legs. My back hunched, my arms dangled below my knees, my gaze dimmed, yet I still marveled at the days odd grace. I winked at my reflection, rushed to the shower, and settled in front of the telly for a brief rest.
I dozed the moment my head touched the pillow, exhausted. I awoke in the dead of night, the television still humming a film. I switched it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to sleep again, but the night was restless. After a short wash, I rose, prepared a simple lunch for the next day’s work, and went back to sleep.
Two days later I returned to the cottage on my usual route. Stepping inside, I was startled to find the electric kettle boiling, my favourite teacup waiting on the table with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag. I touched the cup, shook my head, stepped outside, and stared at the freshly painted fence. Painted? I muttered. I could not make sense of it.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother? I reached out and brushed a finger along the picket, feeling a streak of fresh green paint. It wasnt my mothers work the paint was new. A neighbor, Mrs. Martha, appeared over the hedge with a kerchief fluttering. I walked to her garden fence and called:
Mrs. Martha!
From her little cottage came a muffled reply:
Emily? One moment, Ill be out. Those wretched lads have been messing about again, never tidying up.
Mrs. Martha, a retired carpenter from the old union, emerged, wiping her hands on a threadbare apron.
Good morning, love. Up early today? Yesterday was a holiday, wasnt it? I see youve refreshed the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted it?
Not me. No one was around; I was staying over last night. Perhaps your mother visited? Shed usually drop by.
Im not sure. The fence is painted, the kettles hot, the cups waiting.
She led me to the gate of my little garden. We stood together, peering at the fence as if hoping for a miracle.
Show me!
She shrugged.
Thats all there is.
Nothings gone, nothings appeared?
Except the loaf of bread in my basket; its vanished.
Ah, a household spirit, perhaps.
Yes! And the brush, I washed and left it on an empty jar.
Stop fretting! Call your mother, or Ill.
I fumbled for my mobile in my handbag, dialed Mums number. After several rings, a breathless voice answered:
Why so early, love? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, alls well. Were you here yesterday?
No, we never arranged that. Whats the matter? Did someone rob you? You have nothing to steal.
No, Mum. Someone painted the fence.
Bless the souls who helped a neighbour. Be grateful, and perhaps lend a hand yourself. Im off to the market with Father for some coal.
Goodbye, Mum, say hello to Father.
She hung up. Mrs. Martha, impatient, asked:
So, what now?
Not them. Maybe old Arthur? When I was carrying the paint, he swore hed help. I thought he was joking. Ill thank him.
That sounds right. Go on, dear. When youre ready, come over for lunch. Ive made stew on the bone; it turned out lovely.
I asked every neighbour around my cottage if theyd seen anything. None had. Rumours began to swirl, whispers of sprites and houseelves. In the two days I spent on the farm, nothing remarkable occurred. When I left, I left half a loaf, two tins of fish, a jar of stew, and a note that read simply Thank you.
The following weekend I flew back to the cottage with hope that a surprise awaited. A miracle indeed: two shelves had been nailed in, the floor swept, the rooms immaculate. Still no one had been seen.
I even felt a hunters thrill, arranging covert watches with neighbours, taking days off to watch for the unseen helper. Nothing. The beds were watered, the weeds pulled, berries jammed into jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage spotless, my old garden boots repaired. The fridge held soups and salads made from my own garden produce. What more could I ask?
I began, like a fool, to speak aloud to the invisible benefactor in the centre of my little living room, thanking him. By late summer I grew bold, issuing orders for what should be done before my next visit. I told him that when winter came I would bring him inside, that he need not linger alone in the cold. The neighbourswives, widows, familiesenvied me:
Look at her, talking to spirits, understanding him. Its hard for a single lady.
I even visited a local seer, placing a saucer of milk on the step, which the neighbours cat, Mrs. Claras, drank gratefully. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned. On my final return, I sat on the cottage step, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Arthurbefore me and said:
Well then, mistress, shall we move on? I have a onebedroom flat in town, though cramped, I think well manage.
From my left a cheerful male voice called out. I jumped, turning to see a man in worn but clean clothes, barefoot, hair black and curling to his shoulders, eyes the colour of cornflowers, fists trembling. He stammered:
Sorry to frighten you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears welled unbidden. I stared, silent. He snapped awake as if from a dream and shouted:
Stand there! Where are you going? And quieter, Ill get you something to eat.
A little, please. Youve been out all day; I havent had a bite.
Hold on a moment, we have stew at home. Stay here, dont wander. Ill fetch something from Arthur, maybe Sam will drive it to the town.
I bolted to the neighbours, disbelief flooding me. Surely this was a dream; such things never happen. A tramp had helped me all summer, now I was to bring him homeabsurd!
Years later, hand in hand with my husband William, we stroll the treelined avenues of our city park. Autumn, my favourite season, drapes everything in gold. We recall how, long ago, we met by chance, how we struggled to speak, sharing simple stories of our lives. My tale is tangled; his is straightforward: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one parttimemarried, ten years together, the upheavals of the eighties, joblessness, a wife who built a business and drove him from home. He spent nights with friends, felt unwanted, roamed the countryside hunting for food, once saw me burdened with sacks and felt pity, began to hide in my attic, fearing I would cast him out. He grew clumsy, thought himself a poor detective, and now we laugh at those memories. When our son grows and thinks of marriage, we will tell him this odd chronicle of our lives.
At last it is time to return home; Williams work car pulls up, and the evening settles over us, familiar and comforting.
