I was thirtyeight years of age, a solitary spinster in my little flat on the outskirts of Manchester. In all my life I had never harmed a soul nor uttered a harsh word. Every possession I owned the onebedroom flat, the modest country cottage in the Cotswolds I had earned with my own hands. My parents had helped when they could; I was the youngest of five children. Two close friends, companions since childhood, now married, visited me only rarely.
I could not abide it when their husbands, a little tipsy, tried to whisper lecherous jokes, as if to chase away my loneliness while their wives remained in the dark. I had to tell each of them firmly that these men meant nothing to me. By Gods grace they finally understood.
One evening Eleanor, my steadfast friend, turned to the window with a sigh, her eyes heavy with longing, and thought of the countless happy faces beyond the glass as well as the many who, like her, were left forlorn. She faced the picture of the Almighty and whispered:
Never have I asked you for anything, now I come with humility. Grant me, Lord, that which mortal folk cannot give. I am weary of my solitude. Send me a creature, a stray animal, perhaps an orphaned child. I am timid, lacking confidence. People think me sourmouthed and solitary, but I am merely indecisive, fearing I might say the wrong thing and be laughed at. Father always warned me to guard my reputation, lest I bring shame upon the family. So I live like an unlit candle, a torch without flame. Guide me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, a crisp early spring morning. Lights flickered in the occasional upstairs window of the house opposite. I knelt before a small wooden cross and prayed earnestly; when I rose, two fresh tracks of tears traced my cheeks. I dabbed them away with the backs of my hands, shouldered two heavy sacks one of groceries, the other of paint for the garden fence and assorted household odds and ends and made my way to the door.
My cottage was the very heart of my existence. There I was never truly alone: I could labour in the garden, chat over the fence with the neighbours about the forthcoming harvest. The sacks weighed my arms to the ground, but living close to the bus stop helped. I stood there for an hour, waiting for a coach that never came. A local minibus, the PennyVan, whizzed past, packed and cramped; another followed, and a third might have, but fate told me to stay put today was not the day the coach would arrive.
Then, miraculously, a fullsize coach lumbered to a halt, disgorged a drunken man bellowing his grievances, and, with a grin, invited me aboard. I exhaled, squeezed inside; the doors slammed shut, pressing me like a folded accordion, and the stale air and mingling odours threatened to choke me.
After what felt like fortyfive minutes of neardeath, I staggered back onto the familiar path to my cottage. By three oclock I was nursing a smoked pork joint, by six a steaming bowl of soup, and by eight I felt like a walking corpse. I returned, halfcollapsed, my back hunched, my hands drooping below my knees, my gaze dim. Yet, a strange miracle lingered: I winked at my reflection in the cracked mirror, slipped into a quick shower, and resolved to lie down before the telly for a brief rest.
I drifted off almost the moment my head met the pillow, exhausted. I awoke in the dead of night to a film flickering on the screen; I switched it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my nightdress and tried to sleep again, but slumber would not come. I rose, washed my face, and prepared a simple lunch for the next day’s work.
Two days later I took the familiar route back to the cottage. Stepping inside, I gasped: the electric kettle was still boiling, my favourite tea cup sat on the table with sugar and a tea bag inside. I touched the cup, shook my head, stepped outside, and stared at the freshly painted fence. Painted? I could not fathom it.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother had visited? I brushed a finger along the picket, feeling a streak of fresh green paint. It was not my mothers handiwork; the paint was new. I could not understand.
From the neighbouring plot I spotted a glimpse of Mrs. Kitty, the elderly neighbour, adjusting a headscarf among the raspberry vines. I walked the narrow garden path to her fence and called:
Mrs. Kitty!
A muffled voice answered from her little garden cottage.
Is that you, Eleanor? One moment, Ill be out. Those rascals! Never tidy up anything.
Mrs. Kitty, a retired builder of the old union, wiped her hands on a threadbare apron and shuffled onto her doorstep.
Good morning, dear. Why so early? Didnt you have a day off yesterday? I see youve repainted the fence.
Morning, I replied, I was just working yesterday. Have you seen who painted it?
Not I, she said, no one was here. I spent the night out here. Why are you so rattled? Was your mother around? Shed have come by, she always does, if only for a cup of tea.
I cant say. The kettle is hot, the tea cup is ready, the fence is fresh.
Hold on, lets have a look together.
She trudged to the gate leading to my cottage. We stood by the fence, the paint still glossy, the garden looking as if no mans hand had ever tended it.
Show me! she demanded.
Theres nothing missing, nothing added, I muttered.
Only a sack of bread remains, a few slices, and now theyre gone.
Oh dear, perhaps youve a houseelf now.
Indeed! And the fence was repainted, the brush washed, and the empty tin set aside.
Stop fretting! Call your mother, or Ill.
I fumbled for my purse, dialed my mothers number. After a long ring, a breathless voice answered:
Whats this early call? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im fine at the cottage. Were you here yesterday?
No, we never arranged that. Whats the matter? I hear you sound troubled. Were you robbed? You have nothing of value there.
No, Mum. Someone painted the fence.
May God bless anyone who helped you. Be grateful, and perhaps lend a hand yourself. You must be off, Im taking your father to the market for coal.
Goodbye, love, tell dad I say hello.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot as Mrs. Kitty, impatient, asked, So, what then?
It wasnt them. Could it be Grandfather Arthur? When I was carrying the paint, he threatened to help. I thought he was joking. Ill thank him.
Right you are. Go on, dear. When youre settled, drop by for lunch. Im making broth on the bone, its turned out lovely.
I went round the whole settlement, asking each neighbour if theyd seen anything. No one had. Whispers started, people muttering about sprites and housespirits. The two days I spent at the cottage yielded nothing remarkable. When I left, I left half a loaf of bread, a couple of tins of sardines, a jar of stewed meat, and a note that read simply Thank you.
The following weekend I flew to the cottage with the hope of a surprise. The miracle arrived promptly: two shelves had been nailed to the wall, the floor swept clean, everything tidied as if a new owner had moved in. Still, no one had been seen.
A strange hunting thrill grew within me. I began to visit the cottage at odd hours, the neighbours forming a silent watch. I even took days off work to track the unseen helper. Nothing changed; the beds were made, the garden watered, berries collected in jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the house spotless, my old cottage shoes repaired. Food never vanished; the fridge always held soup and salads made from the very vegetables I grew. What else could I do?
I found myself, like a fool, standing in the middle of my little hovel, speaking aloud to the invisible host. By late summer I grew bold, issuing commands for what should be ready when I returned. I told the spirit that come winter I would take it in, that it had no place to shiver alone. In spring well be together again, so you wont have to worry, I said. Neighbouring women, both single and married, envied me:
Look at her, talking to unseen folk. She knows its hard for an old lady to be alone.
I even consulted a local fortuneteller, left a saucer of milk on the porch, which Mrs. Claras cat lapped up with gusto. Autumn came, 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 Grandfather Arthur, and said:
Well then, dear keeper, lets move to a new place. Youll live with me, in a onebedroom flat, but I think well manage.
From my left a cheerful male voice called out. I jumped, startled, and turned to see a man in a worn yet clean coat, barefoot, his dark curls reaching his shoulders, eyes as blue as cornflowers, fists trembling.
Sorry to scare you, he said, I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears I hadnt asked for welled up. I stared silently.
Rising as if from a dream, I shouted:
Stop! Where do you think youre going? Then softer, Are you hungry?
A little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hold on a moment, theres stew at home. How shall we get you there? Sit here, dont wander. Ill fetch Grandfather Arthur for a pair of shoes, perhaps ask Tom to drive you home.
I bolted to the neighbours, halfbelieving it was a hallucination. Such a thing never happened in my life. A vagrant had helped me all summer, and now I was bringing him home. It seemed impossible.
Years later, hand in hand with my husband James, we stroll down the treelined lanes of Hyde Park in the golden autumn, my favourite season. We reminisce about the wondrous way we met long ago, the awkward stories we traded, his simple tale of birth, schooling, two university degreesone fulltime, one by correspondencemarriage, ten years together, the upheaval of the early nineties, loss of work, long unemployment, and I, a fledgling businesswoman, sending him out. He first slept on friends sofas, feeling unwanted, wandering from cottage to cottage, stealing a bite when hunger struck. One day he saw me, burdened with bags, felt pity and began to aid me, hiding in my attic, always fearing Id discover him and chase him away. Gradually he grew bold, seeing that I was no great detective, and even dreamed of finding a proper life. Now we laugh at those memories. When our son grows up and thinks of marriage, we shall tell him the tale of our strange, tangled lives.
At last the evening draws near; Jamess work van pulls up outside our home, signalling the end of another day.
