Lord, Im thirtyeight and Im living on my own in a little onebed flat in Manchester. Ive never done anyone any harm in my life, never let a nasty word slip. Everything I have the flat, the little cottage I keep up in the Cotswolds I earned myself, with a little help from my parents when they could; Im the youngest of five. Ive got two close friends, Megan and Lucy, weve known each other since we were kids. We dont see each other often now theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, after a few pints, start spouting dirty jokes, trying to spice up my solitude while keeping it hidden from their wives. I had to tell them straight that I dont see a friends husband as a man at all. Thank God they got the point.
Grace, my dear friend, paused for a beat, looked out the window and sighed. She thought about all those happy faces and the lonely ones just like her on the street below. Turning back to the Lord she whispered:
Ive never asked you for anything, and now Im asking with humility. Give me what ordinary folk cant have. Im weary of being alone. Send me a little creature, a stray person, maybe an orphan. Im timid, Lord, Ive never felt confident. Everyone thinks Im a sourpuss, lost in my own head, but Im just indecisive, scared to speak up, afraid of being laughed at. My father always told me to mind my manners, to keep my shame in check. So I live like a ghost, no candle for God, no fire for the devil. Help me, give me sense, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, early spring. Light flickered in a few windows across the road. I knelt before my tiny icon, prayed sincerely, and when I stepped back I felt two fresh tracks on my cheeks from tears I hadnt shed before. I wiped them with the back of my hand, grabbed two heavy grocery bags one full of food, the other with paint for the fence and assorted bits of household stuff and headed out.
My cottage is the best part of my life. Im never truly alone there: I work in the garden, chat over the fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The bags drag my arms down to the ground, thank goodness the bus stop is just a stones throw away. I stand there for about an hour, watching the road. A couple of coachbuses rumbled past, packed to the brim. If a third one rolls by, Ill head home; if not, Ill stay, fate saying Im meant to be at the cottage today. With this many people, I cant get back in the evening, and I still have work the next morning.
Then a miracle: a fullsize bus snarled to a halt, threw a drunken bloke with a shouting match out the rear, and politely invited me in. I exhaled, squeezed my way aboard, the doors slammed shut on me like a squeezebox, and I nearly blacked out from the lack of fresh air and the cocktail of smells.
Fortyfive minutes later I was back at my beloved cottage. By threepm a smoked ham was hanging in the back, a whiteblossomed rabbit in front, and by six it felt like a living corpse. I shuffled back inside, shoulders hunched, hands below my knees, eyes dim, but wow, what a day! I winked at my reflection, hopped into the shower, and decided to flop on the sofa for a quick rest before the telly.
I barely hit the pillow before I fell asleep. I was exhausted. I woke up in the middle of the night, the TV blaring some film. I turned it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to sleep again, but the sand didnt settle. After a while I got up, made myself a lunch for work.
Two days later I was back on the familiar route to the cottage. I walked in the garden shed and my head nearly exploded: the electric kettle was steaming, my favourite mug sat with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag waiting. I couldnt believe my eyes. I touched the mug, shook my head, went outside and stared at the freshly painted fence. Painted? I have no idea.
Who could have done it? Maybe my mum stopped by? I reached out and brushed a finger along the picket; a dab of green paint lingered. It wasnt my mum the paint was fresh. I was clueless. Then, from the neighbours garden, I spotted Kats scarf fluttering among the raspberries. I walked the narrow path to the boundary and called out:
Hey Kat!
A muffled voice floated from the garden shed.
Is that you, Grace? Hold on, Ill be out in a sec. You lot! Blimey, never tidy up, never put things back where they belong.
Kat, a spry former council worker with a stained apron, pushed herself out onto the little porch.
Morning, love. Youre up early, didnt you have the day off yesterday? I see youve given the fence a fresh coat.
Good morning. I was at work yesterday. Have you seen anyone paint my fence?
Not me, love. I was just here last night. Who else could it be? Maybe your mother came round? She always drops by for a cuppa.
I cant make sense of it. The fence is painted, the kettles hot, the mugs ready.
Sit tight, well have a look together.
Kat shuffled to the gate on my side of the fence. We knelt down, peering between my vegetable rows at the modest shed that never saw a man’s hand.
Show me!
She examined, then said, Thats it, nothings missing or added.
Did the bread in the sack disappear?
No, just a few slices left, now gone.
Ah, a little houseelf, perhaps?
Right, and the fence got a new coat, brush washed, left on an empty jar.
Dont worry, call mum, or Ill do it.
I fumbled for my phone, dialed Mums number. After a few rings, a breathless voice asked:
Why so early, love? Whats happened?
Hi Mum, Im at the cottage, alls well. Were you here yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange anything. Did someone rob you? Youve got nothing to steal.
No, Mum, someone painted my fence.
Bless the good folk who help neighbours. Be grateful, maybe pitch in yourself. Ive got to run to the market with dad for the oil.
Okay, love, say hi to Dad for me.
I shifted from foot to foot as Kat impatiently asked, So?
Maybe it was Granddad Matt? When I was hauling paint I thought hed help. Ill thank him.
Good on you, love. Come over later, Ive made stew on the bonenice and hearty.
I went round the whole dozen neighbours, nobody saw or heard a thing. Rumours started about sprites or housespirits. Two days at the cottage passed without anything spectacular. When I left, I left half a loaf, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stewed meat and a note that simply read Thanks.
The next weekend I flew out to the cottage, hopeful for a surprise. The miracle arrived: two shelves were nailed in, everything spotless, even the floors were mopped. Still, no one had been seen.
I even felt a hunters thrill, started popping up at odd hours, set up a secret watch with the neighbours, took a few days off just to track any mysterious helper. Nothing. The beds were made, the berries jammed in jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the kitchen tidy, even my old garden shoes were patched. Food vanished, yet the fridge was always stocked with soups and salads made from the gardens bounty. What else could I do?
I started talking out loud to the invisible benefactor, thanking him. By late summer I was bold enough to give orders, telling him what to do before my next visit. I even promised to bring him inside for winter, so he wouldnt have to freeze out there. The neighbourssingle ladies, divorced, familiesenvied me:
Look at her, shes got a spirit that understands. Its hard being on your own.
I even visited a local psychic, left a saucer of milk on the step, which Mrs. Clarkes cat would lap up every day. Autumn came, the harvest was in, the soil turned over. On my final trip to the cottage I sat on the porch, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Granddad Mattbefore me and said:
Alright, dear keeper, lets go somewhere new. Ill get you a flat, onebed, but well make it work.
From my left a cheeky male voice called out. I jumped, turned and saw a man in a wellworn but clean coat, barefoot, hair a tangled black mop down to his shoulders, eyes bright as cornflowers, fists trembling.
Sorry to scare you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears I didnt want to shed rolled down my cheeks. I stared at him, speechless.
Then I snapped out of it, shouting:
Hold it! Where do you think youre going? I softened, Hungry?
Just a bit. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hang on, Ive got stew at home. How do we get you here? Stay put, dont wander. Ill ask Granddad Matt for a pair of shoes, maybe Sasha can drive you back.
I bolted to the neighbours, halfconvincing myself it was a dream. Such things never happen, right? A drifter helped me all summer, and now Im taking him in. Its absurd
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Victor, we stroll through the city parks treelined avenues. Autumns gold is fallingmy favourite season. We reminisce about how we met years ago, how we fumbled through stories of our lives. Mine is a mess, his is neat: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one parttimemarried, ten years together, the 90s, lost his job, struggled to find a new one. I became a successful businesswoman and gave him the boot.
He first crashed on friends sofas, feeling useless, wandering from cottage to cottage, stealing food. One day he saw me, overloaded with bags, felt sorry, started sneaking into the loft of my house. He was always scared Id find him and chase him away. Over time he got a laugh out of it, thinking he was a terrible detective. Now its funny to look back. When our son grows up and wants to marry, well tell him the tale of our wild life.
Its getting late, Victors work van is pulling up. Time to head home.
