Im Tom, a thirtyeightyearold bachelor living alone in a snug onebedroom flat in the outskirts of Norwich. Ive never hurt anyone, never uttered a harsh word. Everything I own the flat, a modest weekend cottage in the Norfolk countryside Ive earned with my own two hands, with a little help from my parents who still think of me as their youngest child. I have two longstanding friends, Emily and Claire, both married, and we meet only now and then.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a bit too merry, try to make lewd jokes about spicing up my single life while hoping their wives dont hear. Ive had to tell each of them plainly that the husbands arent the kind of men Im looking for. Thank heavens they finally understood.
One evening, after a quiet prayer, Maud my dear neighbour and companion in solitude turned to the window with a wistful look, thinking of all the happy faces and the lonely ones beyond the glass. She turned back to me and said, Ive never asked you for anything before, and now I come to you with humility. Give me, Lord, what ordinary folk cant have. Im tired of being alone. Send me a little creature, a stray, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, Lord, insecure. Everyone thinks Im sourmouthed, deep in my own world, but Im just indecisive, scared that Ill be laughed at. My father always warned me to guard myself, to keep my dignity. I live like a candle without a flame, a hammer without a handle. Help me, guide me, set me on the right path. Amen.
It was a crisp spring Sunday morning. Light flickered in the few windows of the house opposite. After kneeling before a small icon, I felt two fresh tracks of tears on my cheeks. I brushed them away, grabbed two heavy grocery bags one with provisions, another with paint for the garden fence and assorted household items and headed for the door.
My favourite refuge is the cottage. There Im never truly alone: I can work, and I can chat with the women next door over the garden fence about the harvest. The bags tugged my arms down to the ground, but at least the bus stop is a short stroll away. I waited there for about an hour; the shelter was empty. A couple of country buses, the Bramble and the Cotswold, roared past, packed to the brim. If a third bus turned up, Id head back home; otherwise, it seemed fate had sent me to the cottage today. With that many passengers, I knew I wouldnt get back by night, but Id be ready for work in the morning.
Then a miracle: a fullsize coach slowed, an inebriated man was ushered out with a rant, and the driver swung the doors wide for me. I squeezed in, the doors slammed shut with a creak that pressed me like a concertina. The stale air and mingled smells almost stole my breath away.
After what felt like fortyfive minutes of clinical death, I was back on my beloved cottage porch. By three oclock the backyard held a smoked ham, the front a pristine snowwhite rabbit, and by six I felt like a walking corpse. I shuffled back inside, hunched, arms dragging below my knees, eyes dim. I winked at my reflection, jumped into a quick shower, and resolved to lounge in front of the telly for an hour.
I drifted off the moment my head hit the pillow, exhausted. I awoke in the night; the TV was blaring some film, so I turned it off, set the alarm, slipped out of my robe and tried to sleep again. Rest eluded me. After a brief wash, I rose, made a simple lunch for the next day’s work.
Two days later I returned to the cottage via the familiar route. Stepping into the little garden house, I was stunned: the electric kettle was still steaming, my favourite mug sat on the table with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag inside. I touched the mug, shook my head, went outside, and stared at my freshly painted fence. Painted? I muttered, bewildered.
Who could have done it? Had my mother visited? I brushed a fingertip along the picket, a streak of green paint clung to it. It couldnt have been my mother the paint was brandnew. On the neighbouring plot, I caught a flash of a kerchief belonging to Mrs. Katya, the elderly lady next door. I walked the narrow path of my vegetable garden, halted at the fence and called out, Mrs. Katya!
A muffled voice drifted from the garden shed, Its you, Maud? Hold on, Ill be out in a minute. Those rascals, always leaving a mess.
Mrs. Katya, a retired tradeswoman from the old union days, shuffled to the porch, wiping her hands on a threadbare apron. Morning, love. Youre up early. Wasnt yesterday a halfday? I see youve given the fence a fresh coat.
Good morning, I replied. I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted my fence?
She squinted, Wasnt you? I didnt see anyone I was here overnight. Maybe your mother came? Shed always drop by for a cuppa.
I cant make sense of it, I admitted. The kettles hot, the teas ready.
Hang on, she said, heading to the gate. She and I peered over the fence, the space between my modest bedsides and the shabby structure clearly lacking any mans touch.
Look, she said, nothings missing, nothings added.
Exactly, I muttered. Only a sack of bread was left, a few slices, now gone.
Oh dear, a household spirit mustve moved in.
Right, she laughed, maybe it even washed the brush and left it in a tin.
Dont worry, just call your mum, she suggested.
I fished my mobile from my handbag, dialling my mothers number. After a few rings, a breathless voice asked, Whats this early call? Anything wrong?
Hi, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Were you here yesterday?
No, love, we didnt arrange that. Did something happen? I hear a hint of trouble in your voice. Did someone rob you? Youre not short of things, are you?
No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.
Bless the folks who helped out. Say thankyou. Maybe lend a hand yourself. Ive got to dash to the market with your dad for some paraffin.
Take care, love. Say hi to Dad for me.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot, while Mrs. Katya, impatient, asked, Whats the story?
It wasnt them. Could it be old Mr. Matvey? When I was hauling the paint, he promised to help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Thats sensible. Go on, dear. Drop by later for lunch Ive made a stew on the bone, it turned out lovely.
I canvassed the neighbours, but none had seen or heard anything. Rumours of sprites and housespirits began to float around me. Over the next two days at the cottage, nothing extraordinary occurred. Before leaving, I left half a loaf, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stew, and a note that simply read Thank you.
The following weekend I flew to the cottage with hopeful wings, expecting a surprise. The miracle arrived: two shelves installed, the floor spotless, everything in order. No one had witnessed it.
A sort of hunting thrill took hold of me; I began to visit the cottage at odd hours, organising a silent watch with the neighbours, even taking a few days off to catch any unseen helper. Still, nothing changed. The beds were made, the hedges trimmed, berries jammed into jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage immaculate, my old garden boots repaired. The fridge was stocked with soups and salads made from my own produce. What else could I do?
I started speaking aloud to the invisible benefactor, thanking him from the centre of my little cottage. By late summer I grew bold, issuing orders for what should be ready by my next visit. I told him Id take him home for the winter, so he wouldnt have to freeze alone, and that wed return in spring so he wouldnt worry. The local women widows, single mothers, married couples whispered, Look at her, talking to spirits. She knows its hard for a single lady.
I even tried a local fortuneteller, left a saucer of milk on her porch, which Mrs. Claras cat lapped up eagerly. Autumn came, the harvest was collected, the soil turned. On my final return, I sat on the porch, placed an old mens boot lent by Mr. Matvey before me and said, Alright, mistress, lets move to a new place. Ive a onebedroom flat, but well make it work.
A cheerful male voice rose from the left. I jumped, startled, and saw a man in a worn but clean coat, barefoot, hair a tangled mass of black curls to his shoulders, eyes a bright blue, fists clenched then relaxed. He said, Sorry to frighten you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears welled in my eyes. I stared silently.
Snapping back to reality, I snapped, Hold it! Where are you going? then softer, Hungry?
A little, he replied. Youve been out all day; I havent had a bite.
Hang on a bit, Ive some stew at home. Stay here, dont wander off. Ill ask Mr. Matvey for some shoes, maybe ask Sanjay to drive us back.
I raced to the neighbours, halfbelieving I was dreaming. It felt impossible a drifter had helped me all summer, and now I was bringing him home. Such things never happen
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Vladimir, we stroll through the city parks earlymorning avenues. Autumn, my favourite season, surrounds us in gold. We reminisce about the improbable way we met, how we struggled to find words, each sharing the simple story of our lives. Mine is messy, his is straightforward: born, educated, two degrees one fulltime, one parttime married, ten years together, the Thatcher years left him jobless, he drifted, I built a business and eventually sent him away. He lived with friends, felt unwanted, roamed country cottages, stole food. One day he saw me, overloaded with bags, felt pity, helped, hid in my attic, fearing Id throw him out. Over time he grew bolder, realizing I wasnt the detective I pretended to be. Now we laugh about it. When our son grows up and thinks of marrying, well tell him our story.
Evening draws near; Vladimirs work van pulls up outside. Home at last.
