28May2025 Diary,
Im thirtyeight now, living alone in my little onebed flat in Camden. In all my life Ive never wished anyone ill, never let a harsh word slip. Every brick and piece of furniture I own I earned with my own hands: the flat, a modest cottage in the Cotswolds, a small garden. Im the youngest of five; my parents did what they could, but most of the load Ive carried myself.
Two close friends have been with me since school Emily and Charlotte. We meet only on rare occasions now; both are married and settled. I cant stand it when their husbands, after a few pints, start spouting lewd jokes, trying to brighten my solitude as if I were a barmaid. I had to pull each of them aside, tell them plainly that those men are not respectable partners for me. Thank the Almighty they finally got it.
Yesterday, after a quiet evening with Emily, she turned to the window, eyes distant, and whispered, Lord, Ive never asked for anything. Now I come before you humbly. Give me what my heart aches for a companion, perhaps a stray soul, even an orphan. Im timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Folks think Im sour, that I keep to myself, but Im just indecisive, scared of being laughed at. Father always warned me to guard my reputation, to keep my conduct spotless. Ive lived like a candle flickering in the wind, never truly lit. Guide me, grant me a true path. Amen. Her words lingered, heavy with longing.
It was a crisp Sunday morning, early spring. Across the street, a few windows glowed dimly. I knelt before my small crucifix, prayed earnestly, and felt two wet tracks on my cheeks tears long held back finally spilling. I dabbed them with the back of my hands, shouldered two heavy grocery bags, a tin of paint for the fence, and a few other household bits, and stepped out.
My cottage is the joy of my life. There Im not alone; I work the land, chat over the hedge with neighbours about the coming harvest. The bags pulled my arms down to the floor, but it helps that the bus stop is only a short walk away. I stood there for an hour, watching the road empty. A couple of local Paz minibuses rumbled past, packed tight. I told myself that if a third bus came, Id stay perhaps fate was nudging me back to the country today.
Then, miracle. A fullsize coach slowed, doors opened, and a drunken man, shouting and stumbling, was ushered out. The driver, with a grin, waved me in. I squeezed into the cramped aisle; the doors slammed shut, pressing me like a accordion. The stale air, mixed with the smell of stale coffee and sweat, made me feel faint. After what seemed like fortyfive minutes of clinical death, the bus jolted to a stop right outside my cottage.
By three in the afternoon I was sprawled on the back porch a smoked ham on my lap, a pristine white loaf beside me, and by six I felt like a walking corpse. I staggered back inside, shoulders hunched, knees aching, eyes dim. I caught my reflection, gave a weary grin, ran a quick shower, and flopped onto the sofa to watch telly for an hour.
Sleep overtook me before Id even reached the cushion. I awoke in the dead of night, the television still humming a latenight drama. I switched it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to drift back to sleep, but sleep refused. I got up, boiled some tea, and prepared a simple lunch for the next days work.
Two days later, back on the familiar route to the cottage, I pushed open the garden shed and froze. The electric kettle was still steaming, my favourite chipped mug sat on the table with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag waiting. My breath caught. I lifted the mug, turned it over, and stepped outside, only to stare at my fence, freshly painted a bright white. I could not fathom it.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother? I brushed my fingers over the picket, a thin line of fresh green paint left a trace. It wasnt my mother she hadnt visited. The paint was brand new. As I walked the garden path, I spied Aunt Kat, the neighbour from the next plot, fiddling with a raspberry bush. I called out, Kat! Her voice drifted from the garden summerhouse, Tom? Hold on, Ill be right out. She emerged, wiping her hands on a threadbare apron, eyes sharp.
Morning, Tom, she said, Whats got you all riled up? Did you see someone paint your fence? I nodded. Couldve been me, but I was out last night. No one else was around. Maybe your mum dropped by? She chuckled, Your mum never pops over unannounced. Lets have a look together.
We walked to the fence, examined the fresh coat. Looks like someones been generous, she muttered. She fetched a bottle of gin, and we sat on the steps, sipping and chatting about the oddness of it all. She suggested I call my mother, but my mobile rang with an unfamiliar number. I answered, and after a few rings, a breathy voice asked, Tom, love, you alright? Youre up early. It was my mother, Martha. Did you have someone paint the fence for you? she asked. No, Mum, I think its a mystery. She laughed, Well, thank the good folk next door, and keep your chin up. Well have a proper cuppa later.
I left a note on the kitchen table: Thanks for the help youre a star. The next weekend I flew out to the cottage, hopeful for a surprise. The shed was tidy, shelves fixed, floors gleamed. No one had been seen, yet the place felt cared for.
Days turned into weeks. I began timing my trips, even taking halfdays off to keep watch. Still, nothing. The garden thrived, berries were jammed, the cottage stayed spotless, the old country boots Id left out were repaired, and fresh soup simmered on the stove each evening. It was as if an unseen hand tended the place.
One evening, as autumn painted the leaves gold, I sat on the porch, a chipped shoe beside me, and whispered, If youre there, show yourself. A rustle in the hedgerow drew my eyes. A tall, thin man stepped forward, wearing a threadbare coat, bare feet dusted with mud, hair a tangled mop of black curls, eyes the colour of a stormy sky. He looked as startled as I felt.
Sorry to frighten you, he said softly, I didnt mean to startle you. Youre leaving next summer, arent you? Ive been waiting for you to take me with you. Tears welled unbidden. He seemed a ghost from another time, a man Id never known but felt oddly familiar.
He whispered a plea, Give me a chance, a roof for the night. Ill work for you, fetch firewood, tend the garden. I stared at his trembling hands, at the desperation in his voice, and felt a strange compassion rise.
Years later, I sit handinhand with my husband, Victor, strolling beneath the amber canopy of the city park. Autumn has returned, my favourite season. We reminisce about how we first met two strangers at a community centre, shyly swapping stories about our simple lives. He studied engineering, earned a degree and later a nighttime diploma in business, married, lost his job during the recession, and drifted for a time. I, a modest shop assistant, built my own modest nest. When the world turned its back on him, I took him in, gave him a roof, a purpose. He once roamed the countryside, stealing scraps, but after seeing my kindness, he changed. We laughed then, and now we look forward to the day our son will marry and well tell him of our unlikely beginnings.
The day is drawing to a close; Victors work van pulls up outside our flat. As I watch it disappear down the lane, I think back over the odd miracles, the painted fence, the mysterious helper, and the man who once stood in the garden, pleading for a chance.
Lesson learned: kindness, no matter how small, can echo louder than any grand gesture, and the universe often answers our quiet petitions in the most unexpected coats of paint.
