Oh Lord, Im thirtyeight and I live alone, just me in my little flat. In all my life Ive never hurt anyone, never uttered a harsh word. Everything I ownI earned it myself: a onebedroom flat in London, a modest cottage in Kent. It isnt a sin to complain, and my parents have helped where they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends, Agnes and Mabel, whom Ive known since school. We meet rarely now because theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, after a few pints, start whispering lewd jokes, trying to spice up my solitude while keeping it hidden from their wives. Ive had to confront each of them, making it clear that a friends husband isnt a potential partner for me. Thank you, God, for opening their eyes.
Nightingale, my inner voice, pauses, looks out the window and sighs at the countless happy faces and the lonely ones like herself reflected in the glass. She turns back to me and says, Ive never asked you for anything, now I speak humbly. Give me, Lord, what ordinary folk cant have. Im tired of being alone. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, Lord, insecure. Everyone thinks Im sullen and selfabsorbed, but Im simply indecisive, fearing Ill say the wrong thing and be laughed at. My father always warned me to guard my reputation. So I live like a candle without a flame, a stub without a wick. Help me, guide me, set me on the right path. Amen.
Its Sunday, early spring. Light flickers in the rare windows of the house opposite. I kneel before a small crucifix, pray sincerely, and when I step away I feel two fresh tracks of tears on my cheeks. I wipe them with the backs of my hands, grab two heavy shopping bagsone filled with groceries, another with paint for the fence and assorted household bitsand head for the door.
My cottage is my sanctuary. Im not alone there; I work in the garden and chat over the fence with the neighbours about the upcoming harvest. The bags pull my arms down to the floor, but its handy that I live close to the bus stop. At the stop I stand alone for about an hour; a couple of local coaches, a Paz and a Mini, pass by, packed to the brim. If a third bus shows up, Ill head homeperhaps today isnt meant for the cottage. With that many people, I cant get back tonight and still make it to work tomorrow.
Then a miracle happens: a fullsize bus slows, the driver shoves out a drunken man arguing with a friend, and politely invites me aboard. I exhale, squeeze in, the doors slap shut, compressing me like a accordion. The lack of fresh air and the mix of smells nearly make me lose consciousness.
After about fortyfive minutes of what feels like clinical death, Im back at my beloved cottage. By threepm the back of the house smells of smoked ham, the front houses a pristine white teacup, and by sixpm the whole place feels like a living corpse. I shuffle back inside, shoulders hunched, knees drooping, eyes dim, yet think how wondrous life is. I wink at my reflection, dash into the shower, then decide to lie on the sofa and rest for an hour.
I drift off as I barely touch the pillowexhausted. I awaken in the middle of the night, the television blaring a film. I switch it off, set the alarm, pull off my dressing gown and lie down again, but sleep evades me. After a short wash, I get up, make a quick lunch for work.
Two days later I take the familiar route to the cottage again. Stepping into the garden summerhouse, Im startled: the electric kettle is steaming, my favourite mug sits with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag inside. I cant believe my eyes; I touch the mug, shake my head, step outside, and stare at my freshly painted fence. Painted? Im baffled.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother visited? I reach out and tap a slat of the fencegreen paint leaves a mark. It cant be my mother; the paint is brand new. I cant make sense of it. Across the lane, I glimpse Aunt Kates scarf among the raspberry bushes. I tread the narrow path to the neighbours fence and call, Aunt Kate!
From the back of her little garden shed a muffled voice replies, Is that you, Ethel? Hold on, Im coming out. You lot! Blighters. Never tidy up anything.
Aunt Kate, a retired builder from the old union, shuffles out, wiping her hands on a wellworn apron. Morning, love. Up early, arent you? Didnt you have a day off yesterday? I see youve replastered the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
Wasnt you, was it? I didnt see anyone; I spent the night here. Why are you so startled? Maybe your mother dropped by? She always drops in, or I could have a cuppa with her.
I cant tell. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug is stewing.
Give me a minute, well have a look together.
She walks over to the gate of my property. We peer over the garden, the makeshift shed that looks like a mans work never done. Show me! she says.
Right, thats it.
I point out the missing loaf of bread that used to sit in a sack. Its gone.
Aha! A household spirit must have moved in.
Well call your mother, then.
I fumble for my phone in my handbag, dial my mothers number. After a few rings, a breathless voice answers: Whats happened, love? Youre up early.
Hi, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Were you here yesterday?
No, dear, we didnt arrange that. Whats wrong? Did someone rob you? Theres nothing there to steal.
No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.
Well, bless the folk who helped out. Thank them, love. Im heading to the market with your father for some paraffin.
Bye, Mum. Say hello to Dad for me.
Aunt Kate, shifting from foot to foot, asks, So, whats the story?
It wasnt them. Maybe Uncle Martin? I was carrying paint to the garden and he threatened to help. I thought he was joking.
Right then. Go on, dear. Come over for lunch, Ive a pot of stew on the bone, its lovely.
I walk round the neighbours, asking if anyone saw or heard anything. No one does, and whispers start about garden sprites and household gremlins. Two days pass at the cottage without incident. Before leaving I leave half a loaf of bread, a couple of tins of sardines, a jar of stew, and a note that reads simply Thank you.
The following weekend I fly to the cottage with hope of a surprise. A miracle arrives: two shelves are nailed in, everything is spotless, the floor is mopped. Still no one has been seen.
A hunting thrill builds inside me; I start coming at odd times, organising an informal watch with the neighbours, even taking a few days off work to track the mysterious helper. Nothing. The beds are tended, the rows are weeded, berries are jammed, fresh wildflowers sit in a vase, the cottage stays immaculate, my old gardening boots are repaired. Food disappears, yet the fridge holds soups and salads made from garden produce. What else can I do?
I find myself, the last fool, standing in the middle of the cosy room, thanking the unseen owner out loud. By late summer I grow bold, issuing commands for what should be ready by my next visit. I tell the spirit it can stay with me through winter, that Ill bring it home, that Ill come back in spring so it wont feel lonely. The neighbours widows and families mutter enviously, Look at her, she talks to the air, she knows its hard for a lone old woman.
I even visit a local psychic, leaving a saucer of milk on the porch for Mrs. Clarkes cat, who licks it gratefully. Autumn arrives, the harvest is gathered, the soil turned over. On my final trip to the cottage I sit on the step, place an old mens shoe borrowed from Uncle Martin before me and say, Well then, dear landlord, lets move to a new place. Ill live with you; the flat is only a onebedroom, but I think well manage.
A deep male voice booms from my left:
I jump, startled, and turn. A man in worn but clean clothes, barefoot, with shoulderlength black curls and striking blue eyes, clenches and releases his fists.
Sorry to frighten you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears I didnt ask for spill from my eyes. I stare, silent.
Suddenly I snap, Stop! Where are you going? And are you hungry?
A little. Youve been out all day, I havent had a bite.
Hold on, there are dumplings at home. Stay here, dont move. Ill ask Uncle Martin for some boots, maybe Sanya can drive into town and bring you over.
At a breakneck pace I race to the neighbours, halfbelieving Im dreaming. A homeless man has helped me all summer, and now Im taking him in. It feels impossible, but I do it.
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Victor Hughes, we stroll through the earlymorning paths of the city park. Autumn returns, my favourite season. We reminisce about how we met by chance years ago, how we fumbled through stories of our livesmy life simple, his full of degrees, jobs lost during the recession, a stint as a businessmans outcast. He spent nights on friends sofas, drifted between cottages, stole food to survive. One day he saw me lugging shopping bags, felt sorry, and began to help, hiding in the attic of my cottage. He feared Id discover him and chase him away, but slowly he grew comfortable, even joking about being a useless detective. Now its funny to recall. When our son grows up and thinks of marrying, well tell him the tale of our strange, winding road.
Its time to home; Victors work van pulls up. The evening settles in, familiar and warm.
