I am thirtyeight years old and live on my own in a modest onebed flat in Manchester. In all my life I have never harmed anyone, never raised my voice in anger. Everything I own the flat, the small cottage in the Cotswolds I earned with my own hands; my parents helped where they could, being the youngest of five. I have two lifelong friends, Emily and Charlotte, whom I have known since school. We meet only rarely now because they are both married.
I cannot stand it when their husbands, a few drinks in, start making crude jokes, trying to brighten my solitude while pretending the wives arent listening. I had to tell each of them plainly that those men are not men to me at all. Thank heavens, they understood.
Nadine that is what I call myself in prayer paused, her eyes turning wistful as she gazed out the window at the world beyond the glass, full of happy faces and others as lonely as she felt. She turned back to the Almighty and whispered:
Lord, I have never asked you for anything. Now I come with humility. Give me what the world denies me. I am tired of being alone. Send me a creature, a stray animal, perhaps an orphaned child. I am timid, insecure. Everyone thinks I am sourmouthed and aloof, but I am simply indecisive, afraid to say the right thing for fear of mockery. My father always warned me to guard myself so I would not bring shame upon him. I live like a candle without a flame, a tool without a handle. Help me, give me wisdom, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a spring Sunday morning. In the house opposite my flat a few lights flickered on. I prayed earnestly, and when I stepped away from the little crucifix, fresh tracks of tears glistened on my cheeks. I brushed them away with the back of my hands, grabbed two heavy grocery bags one with food, another with paint for the garden fence and headed for the door.
My cottage is the bright spot in my life. There I am never truly alone: I work in the garden, chat over the fence with neighbours about the harvest. The bags pull my arms down to the ground, but its convenient that I live close to the bus stop. I stand there alone for an hour; a handful of coaches whiz past, packed to the brim. If a third one passes, Ill take it home, but today the fates seem to keep me at the cottage.
Then a miracle: a full coach brakes, hurries a drunken man out with a rant, and opens its doors for me. I squeeze inside; the doors slam shut, compressing me like a sandwich, and the stale air and mixed smells nearly steal my breath.
After what feels like fortyfive minutes of a neardeath experience, Im back at my beloved cottage. By threeintheafternoon Im slicing smoked ham, by six the house feels like a living tomb. I limp back inside, my back hunched, my hands below my knees, my eyes dim. I glance at my reflection, wink, dash to the shower, and decide to rest in front of the television for an hour.
I drift off as soon as I hit the pillow, exhausted. I wake in the night, the TV humming a film I turn off, set the alarm, slip out of my robe and try to sleep again, but sleep eludes me. After a brief wash, I rise, make a simple lunch for work, and head out.
Two days later I return to the cottage on my usual route. Inside, the electric kettle is steaming, my favourite mug sits on the table with sugar and a tea bag. I stare, touch the mug, shake my head, step outside, and my eyes land on the freshly painted fence. Painted? I cant make sense of it.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother? I touch a picket and feel a streak of green paint. It isnt my mother the paint is fresh. I cant explain it. Across the lane, I spot a scarf belonging to Mrs. Kate, the neighbour. I walk the narrow garden path, approach the fence and call:
Mrs. Kate!
A muffled voice answers from the garden shed:
Is that you, Nadine? Hold on, Ill be right out. Those rascals! Never tidy up anything.
Mrs. Kate, a retired builder from the old union, wipes her hands on a stained apron and steps onto the porch.
Good morning, Nadine. Whats got you up so early? Didnt you have the day off yesterday? I see youve touched up the fence.
Morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen anyone paint my fence?
Not me, love. I was here last night. No one else around. Could it have been your mother?
I cant say. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug is ready with tea.
Wait a moment. Lets have a look together.
Mrs. Kate heads to the gate of my property. We walk side by side, eyes scanning the garden, where the lack of any male hand is obvious.
Show me.
Nothings missing or added, really.
Just the bread bag, a few slices, now gone.
Oh dear, a houseelf perhaps?
Right, and the fence was repainted. I washed the brush and left it in an empty jar.
What are you doing? Call your mother, or Ill.
I fumble for my mobile in my handbag, dial my mothers number. After several rings, a breathless voice answers:
Why so early? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Did you come by yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange that. Did someone break in? Youve got no valuables there.
No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.
May God bless the neighbour who helped. Be grateful, thank them, and perhaps give something back. Im off to the market with Dad for some paraffin.
Bye, Mum. Send my love to Dad.
I shift from foot to foot, and Mrs. Kate impatiently asks:
Whats the story?
It wasnt them. Maybe old Mr. Mathew? When I was carrying paint, he promised to help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Good idea. Come along, dear. Ive got stew on the bone, nice and hearty.
I knocked on every neighbours door around my cottage. No one saw or heard anything. Rumours of sprites and housespirits began to float. Over two days on the plot, nothing unusual occurred. When I left, I placed half a loaf of bread, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stewed meat, and a note that read simply Thank you on the kitchen table.
The following weekend I flew to the cottage like it were a winged hope for a surprise. A miracle arrived: two shelves had been nailed in, the floor was spotless, even the windows shone. Again, no one claimed it.
I felt a thrill of a hunter, visiting the cottage at odd hours, organising a silent watch with neighbours, taking occasional days off to keep an eye out for a helpful spirit. Nothing. The garden beds were watered, the berries harvested into jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage immaculate, even my old gardening shoes repaired. Food vanished, yet the fridge held soups and salads made from the gardens bounty. What else could I do?
I even, like a foolish child, stood in the middle of my little house and thanked the unseen host aloud. By late summer I grew bold, issuing instructions for what should be ready when I returned. I told the spirit I would bring it inside for winter, so it would not have to endure the cold alone. Neighbours, both single and married, whispered with envy:
Look at her, talking to the air, as if she understands the lonely old ladys plight.
I visited a local fortuneteller, left a saucer of milk on the step, which the neighbours cat, Whiskers, lapped up gratefully. Autumn came, the harvest was stored, the soil turned over. On my final visit I sat on the porch, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Mr. Mathewbefore me and said:
Well then, dear hostess, lets move on. Ill take you to a new place. My flat is oneroom, but well make it work.
From my left a cheerful male voice called out. I jumped, heart racing, and turned to see a man in worn yet tidy clothes, barefoot, with shoulderlength dark curls and striking blue eyes, fists alternating between clenched and relaxed. The scene was silent.
Sorry to startle you, he said, nervous. I didnt mean to frighten you. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears I hadnt asked for welled up. I stared, unable to speak.
Suddenly I snapped back, shouting:
Stop! Where are you going? I softened, Are you hungry?
A bit. Youve been in the garden all day, I havent had a bite.
Just hold on a moment, Ill get some stew. Stay here, dont wander off. Ill ask Mr. Mathew for a proper pair of shoes, perhaps ask Sam to drive you home.
I rushed to the neighbours, halfbelieving it was a dream. Such things never happen. A vagrant had helped me all summer, and now I was taking him home. It felt impossible.
Years passed. Hand in hand, my husband James and I strolled through the city parks treelined avenues. Autumn, my favourite season, painted everything gold. We recalled how we first met, how we struggled to speak, sharing simple stories of our lives. My story: I was born, went to school, earned a degree, worked hard, bought my flat and cottage. Jamess story: he earned two degrees, one fulltime, one parttime, married, lost his job during the recession, wandered, was thrown out by his former businesspartner, slept on friends sofas, survived by begging, eventually found me pushing grocery bags, and hid in my attic out of shame. He was terrified I would find him and chase him away. Over time he grew confident, even laughing at his own mishaps. When our son grows up and thinks of marriage, well tell him the tale of our unlikely journey.
Even now, as the service car pulls up to our home, I feel a quiet gratitude. I have learned that wishing for a phantom companion only deepens loneliness; true comfort comes from the small acts of kindness we give and receive, and from opening our hearts to the people who walk beside us. In the end, the lesson is clear: the warmth we seek is not a wish granted by a silent helper, but the love we nurture in the real world around us.
