Good heavens, Im thirtyeight, living alone in a tiny flat, and Ive never raised my voice at anyone. Ive earned every penny myself a onebedroom flat in Manchester and a modest cottage in the Cotswolds. My parents helped where they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two longstanding girlfriends, Claire and Violet, both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a bit tipsy, start spouting lewd jokes about spicing up my solitude as if I didnt know they were trying to keep it from their wives. I had to whisper into each ear that the husband of my friend is not a romantic prospect for me. Thank the Almighty, they finally got the picture.
A moment of silence, and then Nadine, eyes glistening, turned to the window and thought of all the happy people and the equally miserable ones beyond the glass. She turned back to the Almighty and said,
Never have I asked for anything, so now I pray with humility. Give me, Lord, what ordinary folk wont. Im tired of being alone. Send me a creature, a stray, maybe an orphan. Im timid, Lord, insecure. Everyone thinks Im sullen and selfabsorbed, but Im really just indecisive, terrified of saying the wrong thing and being laughed at. Father always told me to guard my reputation so the family wouldnt be embarrassed. So I live like a moth in a candle, no fire to warm me. Help me, guide me onto the right path. Amen.
It was a Sunday, early spring. The house opposite ours had a few lights flickering in the windows. I prayed earnestly, and when I stepped away from the small icon, two fresh tracks of tears appeared on my cheeks. I dabbed them with the back of my hands, lifted two heavy grocery bags one with provisions, another with fencepainting supplies and assorted household odds and headed for the door.
My cottage is the joy of my life. There Im never truly alone: I can work in the garden and chat over the fence with the neighbours about the harvest. The bags pulled my arms down to the floor, but Im lucky to live close to the bus stop. At the stop there was nobody, and I stood there for about an hour. A couple of Stagecoach buses roared past, packed to the brim. If a third one passed, Id take it home but fate had other plans, and I was destined to stay at the cottage today. With that many people on the road, getting back in the evening would be impossible, and I still had to go to work in the morning.
Then a miracle: a fullsize bus finally slowed, flung a drunken sculler shouting about a fight onto the pavement, and politely invited me aboard. I exhaled, squeezed my way in, and the doors shut with a creak, compressing me like a accordion. The lack of fresh air and the cocktail of smells almost knocked me out.
Fortyfive minutes later I was back at my beloved cottage. By threeintheafternoon there was a smoked ham on the back porch, a pristine snowwhite cat on the front step, and by sixintheevening I felt like a walking corpse. I shuffled back into the flat, shoulders hunched, eyes dim, and thought, What a miracle! I winked at my reflection, jumped into a quick shower, and flopped onto the sofa for a short TV break.
I dozed the moment my head hit the pillow utterly exhausted. I woke in the dead of night, the telly blaring some film, turned it off, set the alarm, and slipped back into my nightie. Sleep refused to come, so I refreshed, made a simple lunch for work, and went out again two days later on the same route to the cottage.
When I entered the garden shed, I was stunned: the electric kettle was still steaming, my favourite mug sat with a spoonful of sugar and a tea bag inside. I touched the mug, shook my head, stepped outside and stared at the freshly painted fence. Painted? I had no idea.
The question begged an answer. Had Mum visited? I brushed a finger along the picket; a dab of fresh green paint clung to it. Not Mum the paint was brand new. I couldnt make sense of it. Across the lane, I glimpsed Mrs. Carter, the neighbour, waving a handkerchief. I walked the narrow path to her garden and called,
Mrs Carter!
From the back of her garden cottage came a muffled reply,
Its you, Nadine? Hold on, Ill be out in a minute. You lot! Rubbish! They never tidy up.
The oldtimer, a retired builder from the old union, grumbled while wiping her hands on a threadbare apron and shuffled onto her porch.
Morning, Nadie. Why so early? Yesterday was a day off, wasnt it? I see youve freshened up the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted it?
Dont tell me it was you? I didnt see anyone; I was up late last night. Could it be your mother? She always drops by for a cuppa.
I have no clue. The kettles hot, the tea is ready, the fence is newly green.
Hold on, lets have a look together.
She trudged to the gate of my plot, and together we examined the modest garden, which still bore the marks of a single set of hands.
Anything missing? she asked.
Just the bread in the sack a few slices and its gone.
Ah, youve got a household spirit then.
She laughed, Well, call Mum, or Ill do it myself.
I fumbled for my phone, dialled Mums number. After a few rings, a breathless voice asked, Whats the rush, love? Whats happened?
Hi, Mum. Im at the cottage, everythings fine. Were you here yesterday?
No, we didnt arrange that. Anything stolen? Youve got nothing to lose.
No, Mum, someone just painted my fence.
Bless them, dear. Someone helped you out. Say thank you, and maybe lend a hand yourself. Im off to the market with Dad for some paraffin.
Bye, Mum, say hi to Dad.
Mrs Carter, still impatient, asked, So, whats the story?
It wasnt them. Maybe Granddad Martin? He promised to help when I was lugging paint out. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Good on you. Come over for lunch Ive made cabbage soup on a bone, it turned out lovely.
I canvassed every neighbour around my plot. No one saw or heard a thing. Rumours of sprites and poltergeists started to swirl. Two days on the farm passed without further incident. When I left, I placed half a loaf, a couple of tins of sardines, a jar of stewed meat, and a note that simply read Thank you.
The following weekend I flew back to the cottage as if on wings, hopeful for another surprise. The miracle didnt disappoint. Two new shelves were nailed to the walls, the floor was scrubbed, everything was spickspan. Still, no one had witnessed any of it.
I even felt a hunters thrill, so I began to take random trips to the cottage, arranging an informal neighborhood watch with the locals, taking a few days off to track down my unseen helper. Nothing. The beds were sown, the rows weeded, berries jammed into jars, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage perpetually tidy, even my old garden boots repaired. Food never vanished; the fridge was always stocked with soups and salads made from my own veg.
What else could I do? I even, like a fool, stood in the middle of the tiny kitchen and thanked my invisible benefactor out loud. By late summer I grew bold and began issuing orders for what should be ready by my next visit. I told the unseen helper that he could stay with me over winter; Id bring him indoors so he wouldnt have to freeze alone. In spring wed return, so he wouldnt worry. The neighbourhood women, both divorced and married, muttered enviously, Look at her, shes got a spirit that actually understands a lonely lady.
I visited a local tarot reader, left a saucer of milk on the porch that Mrs. Clarkes cat would lap up every evening. Autumn arrived, the harvest was in, the soil turned over. On my final trip, I sat on the step, placed an old mens boot borrowed from Granddad Martin before me and said,
Well then, dear lady of the house, lets move on. Ill give you a flat, onebedroom, in London. Well make it work.
From my left a cheerful male voice shouted, startling me. I turned to see a man in a wellworn but clean coat, barefoot, his black curls spilling to his shoulders, eyes the colour of a summer sky, his fists alternating between clenching and opening.
Sorry to frighten you, he said, I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Tears welled up uninvited. I stared, speechless.
I snapped out of my daze and barked, Hold it! Where do you think youre going? I softened, Are you hungry?
A bit. Youve been out all day and I havent had a bite.
Hang on, theres stew at home. How shall we get you there? Stay put, dont wander off. Ill ask Granddad Martin for some shoes, or perhaps Sanjay will drive you home.
I rushed to the neighbours, halfbelieving I was dreaming. No one ever experiences a summer like this a drifter helping all year and now I was taking him in.
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Victor, we stroll through the leafy avenues of HydePark. Autumn has returned, my favourite season. We reminisce about the improbable way we met, how we babbled for hours, swapping life stories that were anything but ordinary. My story is a mess of mishaps; his is a tidy list of two degrees, a steady job, a decadelong marriage that survived the recession, a period of unemployment, and a stint as a nightshift dishwasher after I turned him into a successful entrepreneur. He once crashed on a friends sofa, feeling unwanted, and roamed the countryside begging for scraps. One day he saw me juggling bags, felt sorry, and started hiding in my attic to help. He was terrified Id discover him and kick him out, but slowly he got used to being the invisible handyman. Now its funny to recall. When our son grows up and decides to marry, well surely tell him the legend of how we survived on a painted fence and a mysterious barefoot helper.
Its time to go home; Victors work van pulls up. Until tomorrow, dear world.
