Unexpected Blessing
Good Lord, Im thirtyeight and living alone, just me and my kettle. In all my life Ive never caused anyone harm, never let a rude word slip. Everything I ownmy onebed flat in Manchester, my modest cottage in the Cotswolds Ive earned myself. No point complaining, especially since my parents did what they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends, Agnes and Winifred, whom Ive known since school. We meet rarely now; theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a few pints in, start spouting lewd jokes, thinking theyre brightening my solitude while keeping the wives in the dark. I had to put each of them on the ear and explain that a friends husband is not a suitable companion for me. Thank the Lord they finally understood.
Nora, my neighbour, paused by the window, eyes dim with melancholy, watching the world of happy couples and lonely souls beyond the glass. Turning back to the Almighty she whispered:
Lord, Ive never asked you for anything, now I come humbly. Give me what I cannot find on my own. Im tired of being alone. Send me a little creature, a stray dog perhaps, or an orphaned child. Im timid, Lord, insecure. Everyone thinks Im sourtempered, lost in my own thoughts, but Im just indecisive, afraid to say the right thing lest I be laughed at. Father always told me to behave, to keep my head down so they wouldnt be embarrassed. So I live like a candle in the wind, never quite fitting in. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a early spring Sunday. A faint glow flickered in a few upstairs windows across the street. I prayed sincerely for the first time; when I stepped away from the small icon, two fresh tracks of tears appeared on my cheeks. I dabbed them with the backs of my hands, grabbed two heavy grocery bagsone with paint for the fence, the other with assorted household bitsand headed out.
My cottage is my sanctuary. There Im not alone: I work, I chat over the fence with the neighbours about the upcoming harvest. The bags weigh my arms down to the floor, but its a relief to live close to the bus stop. The stop is deserted; I stand there an hour, watching a solitary coach pass, then another, both jampacked. If a third bus rolls by, Ill know it isnt meant for me today, and Ill have to stay at the cottage. With that crowd, I wont be able to drive home in the evening, nor make it to work in the morning.
Then a miracle: a fullsize coach slowed, shoved a drunken man out after a row, and cheerily invited me aboard. I exhaled, squeezed through the doors which shut with a groan, pinching me like an accordion, and the stale, mixedup smells nearly knocked me unconscious.
Fortyfive minutes of clinical death later I was back at my beloved cottage. By threepm there was smoked ham on the back, a pristine white cake in front, and by sixpm a lifeless heap of leftovers. I shuffled back with my back hunched, knees dragging, eyes dim, yet feeling oddly triumphant. I winked at my reflection, hopped into a quick shower, and decided to lounge in front of the telly for an hour.
I dozed the moment my head hit the pillow, exhausted. I woke up in the middle of the night; the television was playing some drab drama. I switched it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to sleep again, but slumber eluded me. After a brief wash I rose, cooked a simple lunch for work.
Two days later I took the familiar route back to the cottage. Stepping inside, I was stunned: the electric kettle was steaming, my favourite mug sat with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag. I touched the mug, shook my head, went outside, and stared at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I was baffled.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother? I reached out and brushed a picket; a streak of green paint lingered. It wasnt my motherthis was brandnew work. On the neighbouring plot I glimpsed Mrs. Kittys scarf fluttering among the raspberry bushes. I walked the narrow garden path to the shared fence and called out:
Mrs Kitty!
A muffled voice replied from the garden shed:
Its you, Nora? Hold on, Ill be right out. You lot! Blimey, the mess! Nothing ever gets put back where it belongs.
Mrs Kitty, a retired builder from the old union, emerged, wiping her hands on a wellworn apron.
Morning, Norrie. Up early, eh? You didnt have a day off yesterday? Looks like youve given the fence a facelift.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
Wasnt you? I didnt see anyone; I spent the night here. Why are you all flustered? Maybe your mum dropped by? She always pops in for a cuppa.
I cant make sense of it. Fence painted, kettle hot, mug waiting with tea.
Hold on, lets have a look together.
She waddled to the gate of my cottage. We peered over the garden beds, at my modest little house that clearly lacked any masculine handiwork.
Show me!
She inspected, then shrugged.
Nothing missing, nothing extra.
Just a loaf of bread left in a sack, a few slices. Now its gone.
Oh dear, youve got a houseelf!
Right, and a freshly painted fence, a brush cleaned and left in an empty jar.
What are you doing, love? Call your mum, unless youd rather I do it.
I fumbled for my mobile, dialed Mums number. After a few rings, a breathless voice asked:
Whats the rush, dear? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, alls well. Did you visit yesterday?
No, we hadnt arranged anything. Whats wrong? Did someone rob you? Theres nothing to steal.
No, Mum. Someone painted the fence.
Bless those helpful neighbours. You shouldnt get upset; thank them, maybe pitch in a bit. Ive got to head to the market with Dad for some paraffin.
Take care, love, say hi to Dad.
Mum hung up. Mrs Kitty, tapping her foot, asked:
So, whats the story?
Not them. Could it be Granddad Mathew? When I was carrying paint, he promised to help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Exactly. Go on, dear. Come over for lunch; Ive made cabbage soup on a boneproper comfort.
I circled the neighbouring gardens; no one saw or heard anything. Whispers started, suggesting mischievous sprites or household spirits. Two days on the property passed without incident. When I left, I left half a loaf, a couple of tins of sardines, a jar of stewed meat, and a note that simply read Thanks.
The following weekend I flew to the cottage as if on wings, hopeful for a surprise. The miracle arrived: two new shelves nailed to the wall, the floor gleaming, everything spickspan. No one had witnessed it, yet the house felt livelier.
I even felt a hunters thrill, returning at odd hours, organising a covert neighbourhood watch, taking occasional days off just to keep an eye out for a helpful phantom. Nothing unusual occurred: the beds were watered, weeds pulled, berries jarred, fresh bouquets in a vase, the old cottage boots repaired, soups simmering, salads ready from garden veg. What else could I do?
I found myself, the last fool, standing in the middle of my little house, thanking my invisible benefactor out loud. By late summer I grew bold, even issuing orders for the next visit: Do whatever you like, and when winter comes Ill bring you inside; you cant be left out in the cold. Neighboursboth single and marriedenvied me:
Look at her, talking to the air, as if it were a friend who knows a lonely old womans troubles.
I even visited the local fortuneteller, leaving a saucer of milk that Mrs Claras cat would lap up. Autumn arrived, the harvest was packed, the soil turned over. On my final visit, I sat on the step, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Granddad Mathewbefore me and said:
Well then, dear master, lets move to a new place. Ive a onebed flat, but well manage.
From my left a cheerful male voice shouted:
Hold on!
Startled, I turned. A man in a threadbare yet tidy coat, barefoot, with shaggy black curls to his shoulders and huge cobalt eyes, clenched and unclenched his fists.
Sorry to frighten you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? Im here because you promised to take me with you.
Tears slipped down my cheeks uninvited. I stared, mute.
Regaining my composure I snapped:
Stand still! Where do you think youre going? I added more gently:
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 we get you there? Sit tight, dont wander off. Ill ask Granddad Mathew for some shoes, maybe ask young Sam to drive you back.
At a blistering pace I raced to the neighbours, convinced this was a dream. It felt absurdan itinerant whod helped me all summer now being taken home. Such things never happen, right?
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Vladimir, we stroll through the city parks earlymorning paths. Autumn, my favourite season, returns. We reminisce about the improbable way we met, the tangled stories we told each othermy life simple, his a string of titles: two degrees, one earned fulltime, the other parttime; marriage, ten years, the upheaval of the early nineties, job loss, a stint as a nightodd jobder, then being driven out by a successful businesswoman.
At first he couchsurfed with friends, feeling like a burden. He roamed the countryside, pilfering food where he could. One day he saw me, lugging bags, felt pity, started helping, even hiding in my attic. He feared Id discover him and chase him away. Gradually he grew bolder, his detective skills proving useless, but his heart stayed. Now its funny to recall. When our son grows up and thinks about marriage, well tell him the saga of our lives.
Its time to head home; Vladimirs work van pulls up. Good night, dear world.
