Unexpected Joy
Dear God, Im thirtyeight, living alone in my little flat. In my whole life Ive never harmed anyone, never uttered a harsh word. Everything I own I earned myself: a onebedroom flat, a modest cottage out of town. Im not one to complain, and my parents helped as best they could; Im the youngest of five. I have two close friends Ive known since school. We meet seldom now; theyre both married.
I cant stand it when their husbands, a little tipsy, make lewd jokes trying to brighten my solitude, while their wives remain oblivious. I had to whisper into each ear, explaining that those men are not what Im looking for. Thank heavens they understood.
Hope, her eyes clouded with melancholy, turned to the window and thought of the countless happy faces beyond the glass, and the equally forlorn ones like herself. She then addressed the divine portrait:
Ive never asked you for anything; now I come humbly. Give me what ordinary folk cannot have. Im weary of loneliness. Send me a creature, a stray soul, perhaps an orphan. Im timid, Lord, lacking confidence. Everyone thinks Im sullen, selfabsorbed, but Im merely indecisive, scared to speak at the right moment for fear of ridicule. Father always warned me to guard my reputation. So I live like a candle without a flame, a rag without a handle. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the true path. Amen.
Sunday, early spring. Across the street a few windows flickered with light. I prayed sincerely for the first time, and when I stepped away from the small icon, two fresh trails of tears glistened on my cheeks. I brushed them away with the backs of my hands, grabbed two heavy grocery bagsone with paint for the fence and the other with assorted household bitsand headed for the door.
My solace is the cottage. There Im not alone: I work, I chat over the fence with neighbours about the harvest. The bags drag my arms to the ground, thank goodness the bus stop is close. At the stop no one is around; I stand there an hour. A couple of holiday coaches rattle past, packed to the brim. If a third passes, Ill return homeperhaps it isnt my destiny to stay at the cottage today. With so many people, I cant leave in the evening, and I must work the next morning.
Then a miracle: a full coach brakes, shoves a drunken man with a quarrel out, and cheerfully invites me aboard. I exhale, squeeze in; the doors slam shut, pressing me like an accordion, and the stifling air and cloying smells nearly steal my breath.
Fortyfive minutes of clinical death later Im back on my beloved cottage. By threepm a smoked ham looms behind me, a snowwhite lamb ahead, and by sixpm a living corpse. I limp back inside, spine hunched, hands below my knees, gaze dimmed, yet marveling at the wonder. I wink at my reflection, dash to the shower, then decide to lounge before the telly for an hour.
I drift off midflight, barely touching the pillow. Exhausted, I wake in the night. The television blares some film; I turn it off, set the alarm, slip out of my robe and lie down again. Sleep refuses. After a while I wash, get up, and make myself a work lunch.
Two days later I follow the familiar route to the cottage. Inside, Im stunned: the electric kettle is boiling, my favourite mug sits with a sachet of tea and a spoonful of sugar. I touch the mug, shake my head, step out, and stare at the freshly painted fence. Painted? I cant make sense of it.
Who could have done it? Perhaps my mother? I poke a picket with a finger; a streak of green paint clings to it. Not my motherthis was done just now. Im baffled. Across the neighbours garden, I glimpse a scarf belonging to Mrs. Kay. I wander the narrow paths of my vegetable patch, approach the neighbours fence and call out:
Mrs. Kay!
From the depths of her garden shed a muffled voice replies.
Is that you, Hope? Hold on, Ill be out in a tick. You lot! Blighters. Never tidy up anything.
The old builder, a veteran of the former union, grumbles, wiping his hands on a worn apron, and steps onto his porch.
Morning, Nadie. Up early today? No holiday yesterday? I see youve freshened the fence.
Good morning. Yes, I was working yesterday. Have you seen who painted it?
You? No, I was here last night. I didnt see anyone. Could it have been your mother? Shes always popping round for a cuppa.
I cant say. The fence is painted, the kettle is hot, the mug is waiting.
Wait here. Lets have a look together.
She shuffles to the gate leading to my cottage. We crawl between my beds and the ramshackle shed, which still bears the marks of never having a mans hand.
Show me!
Thats it, really.
Look, nothings missing or added?
No, only a sack of bread was left, a few slices, now its gone.
Ah, a houseelf, perhaps?
Indeed! And the fence, brush washed, put on an empty tin.
Stop fretting! Call your mother, or Ill.
I fumble for my handbag, dial Mums number. After a long ring, a breathless voice asks:
Why so early, love? Whats happened?
Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage, alls well. Were you here yesterday?
No, we never arranged that. Whats the matter? I hear something in your voice. Stolen? Youve got nothing to lose.
No, Mum. Someone painted the fence.
Bless the folk who helped neighbourly. Why the fuss? Thank them. And help them if you can. Were off to the market for paraffin, your dad and I.
Bye, Mum, tell Dad I said hello.
Right, love, goodbye.
Gran Kay, shifting from foot to foot, asks impatiently:
So?
Not them. Maybe Granddad Martin? When I was hauling paint, he threatened to come over and help. I thought he was joking. Ill go thank him.
Good thinking. Come along, dear. When youve sorted it, drop by for lunch. Ive made broth on a bone; it turned out lovely.
I circle the neighbours, none have seen or heard anything. Slowly they begin to snicker, spinning tales of sprites and houseelves. Two days at the cottage pass without incident. When I leave, I leave half a loaf, a couple of tins of fish, a jar of stew, and a note that says Thank you.
The next weekend I fly back to the cottage as if on wings, hopeful for a surprise. A miracle greets me: two shelves bolted to the wall, the floor polished, everything in perfect order. Again, no one has been seen.
A hunting thrill overtakes me; I start taking random trips, organising a silent watch with the neighbours, taking days off to track the unseen helper. Nothing. The beds are watered, the weeds pulled, berries canned, fresh wildflowers in a vase, the cottage spotless, even my old garden boots repaired. Food disappears, yet the fridge holds soups and salads made from my own garden. What else could I do?
Like a fool, I stand in the middle of the little house and thank my invisible benefactor aloud. By late summer I grow bold, issuing commands for what I want done before my next visit. I tell the spirit Ill take it home for winter, so it wont have to starve alone. In spring well return, so it wont worry. The neighboursmarried, widowed, familiesenvy me:
Look, even the unseen has a mind. It knows its hard for a lone lady.
I even visited a fortuneteller, left a saucer of milk on the step, which Mrs. Claras cat drank greedily. Autumn arrived, the harvest was gathered, the soil turned. On my final trip, I sat on the porch, placed an old mens bootborrowed from Granddad Martinbefore me, and said:
Well then, housekeeper, lets move on. Youll live with me, in my onebed flat, I think well make it.
From my left a boisterous male voice rang:
I jumped, startled, and turned. A man in a threadbare, yet clean, coat stood barefoot, his black curls falling to his shoulders, eyes the colour of cornflowers, fists trembling. A silent tableau.
Sorry to startle you. I didnt mean to. Youre leaving next summer, right? You promised to take me with you.
Unbidden tears streamed down my face. I stared, mute.
Awakening as if from a dream, I barked:
Halt! Where do you think youre going? And quieter, I ask:
Hungry?
A little. Youve been off the grid all day; I havent had a bite.
Hold on a bit longer; there are dumplings at home. How shall I get there? Sit tight, dont wander. Ill ask Granddad Martin for shoes, or perhaps Sam will drive me into town.
I darted at breakneck speed to the neighbours, convinced this could not be real. It felt like a fever dream. A vagrant had helped me all summer, and now I was bringing him home. Such things never happen
Years later, hand in hand with my husband Victor, we stroll the dawnlit avenues of the city park. Autumn, my favourite season, crowns the trees gold. We recall how we met by some strange twist of fate, how we babbled stories of our lives with simple honesty. Mine is a tangle; his is straightforward: born, educated, two degreesone fulltime, one parttimemarried, ten years together, the recession hit, he lost his job, struggled long, I rose as a businesswoman and eventually asked him to leave.
He first slept on friends couches, feeling unwanted, wandering from cottage to cottage, stealing food to survive. One day he spotted me lugging bags, felt pity, started helping, hiding in my attic. He feared Id discover him and chase him away. Over time he grew bold, seeing my detective skills as useless. He even dreamed Id find him. Now its funny to look back. When our son grows up and thinks of marrying, well tell him the saga of our lives.
Its time to go home; my husbands work van pulls up. Evening draws near.
