“Well then, master, lets move to the new place. Youll live with mejust a one-bedroom flat, mind, but I reckon well manage.”
“Good Lord, Im thirty-eight years old, living alone. Never in my life have I done anyone harm or spoken a harsh word. Everything I havemy little flat, my cottageIve earned myself.”
Not that Ive any right to complain. My parents helped where they could; Im the youngest of five. Ive two close friends from girlhood, though we meet rarely nowboth married. I cant stand it when their husbands, half-seas over, make lewd remarks about brightening my solitudealways behind their wives backs.
Ive had to box their ears in turn and remind them a friends husband is no husband of mine. Thank heaven, they took the hint.
For a moment, silence. Hopefor that was her nameturned to the window with weary eyes, thinking of all the happy folk beyond the glass, and those as wretched as herself. Then, facing the icon again, she went on:
“Never asked you for anything before, Lord. Now I beg humbly. Give me whats unfit for others. Im tired of loneliness. Send me some little creaturea stray, perhaps, or an orphan.”
“Im timid, Lord, unsure. Folk think me gloomy, wrapped up in myself, but Im only hesitantnever know whats proper to say, fearing theyll laugh at me.”
“My father always warned me to mind myself, lest I shame them. So Ive lived. Help me, enlighten me, set me on the right path. Amen.”
Sunday. An early spring morning. Lights showed in the sparse windows of the house opposite. For the first time, shed prayed earnestly, and as she stepped back from the small icon, she felt two trails of long-unshed tears on her cheeks.
Wiping them with the backs of her hands, she hefted two heavy bagsgroceries, fence paint, and other odds and endsand left the flat.
The joy of her life was the cottage. There, she wasnt alone: work to do, and over the fence, neighborly chats about the prospects of the harvest.
The bags dragged her arms earthward. At least she lived near the bus stop. No one else waited. She stood alone nearly an hour. Two packed holiday buses passed. If a third went by, shed turn backfates decree.
With such crowds, shed never get home that evening, nor to work next morning.
Then a wonder: a crammed bus halted, ejecting a drunken fellow amid shouts, and gladly took her in.
Gasping, squeezed tight, the doors barely shut behind her. The reek of sweat and ale near stole her senses.
Three-quarters of an hour, and she was at her dear cottage. By three oclock, her clothes clung: smoked ham at her back, a floury front like a bakers apron. Bent double, she hobbled home, spine curved, hands past her knees, gaze dullmarvelous, really!
Winking at her reflection, she showered quickly and lay before the telly for an hours rest.
Sleep took her mid-fall, cheek barely grazing the pillow. Worn out. She woke in the small hours. The telly droned some film. She switched it off, set the alarm, shed her robe, and tried again. But sleep wouldnt come. After tossing, she rose and packed lunch for work.
Two days later, she took the familiar route to the cottage. Stepping inside, she froze: the electric kettle warm, her favorite cup set out with sugar and a teabag.
Disbelieving, she touched the cup, shook her head, and went out. Her gaze fixed on the freshly painted fence. Painted? None of it made sense.
The question formed itself. Who? Mother, perhaps? She touched a finger to the fencegreen paint came away.
Not Mother. The paint was fresh. She understood nothing. In the next garden, old Mrs. Kates scarf flitted among the raspberries. Picking through her own narrow plots, she neared the dividing fence and called:
“Mrs. Kate!”
A muffled reply came from the depths of the neighbors shed.
“That you, Hope? Wait, Ill come out. Blast theseugh! Never a thing put back proper.”
Grumbling, wiping her hands on a worn apron, the old woman emerged onto her porch.
“Morning, Hope. Youre early. Was yesterday your day off? I see youve freshened the fence.”
“Good morning. No, worked yesterday. Youve not seen who painted my fence?”
“Wasnt you? No ones been by. I slept here last night. Why so troubled? Your mum visit? Shed have stopped inalways does.”
“I cant fathom it. Fence painted, kettle warm, tea laid out.”
“Wait. Well look together.”
The old woman marched to the gate in the fence. They strode single file between Hopes beds to her humble cottage, where the lack of a mans touch was plain.
“Show me.”
“Well, here it is.”
“Seenothing gone, nothing added.”
“No, but I left half a loaf. Its gone.”
“Ah! A brownie, seems like youve got.”
“Aye! Painted the fence, washed the brush, and left it on an empty jar.”
“Bless us! Ring your mothershall I?”
Why hadnt she thought of it? Fumbling in her handbag, she dialed under the old womans muttering. No answer. At the last ring, her mothers voice:
“Youre up early. Whats wrong?”
“Hello, Mum. Im at the cottage. Alls well. Were you here yesterday?”
“No. Wed no plans. Whats happened? Your voicewere you robbed? Nothing there worth taking.”
“No, Mum. Someone painted my fence.”
“Well, bless their hearts for neighborly help. Why fret? Thank them. Do them a good turn back. Sorry, loveoff to market with your dad.”
“Goodbye, Mum. Give Dad my love.”
“Right. Bye.”
Shifting foot to foot, Mrs. Kate pressed:
“Well?”
“Not them. Old Matthew, maybe? When I brought the paint, he vowed to come help. Thought he joked. Ill thank him.”
“Thats right, dear. Come for dinner after. Made borscht.”
She asked every neighbor. None had seen or heard a thing. Soon, they chuckled over brownies and such.
Two days passed uneventfully. Leaving, she left half a loaf, tinned fish, stew, and a note: “Thank you.”
Next weekend, she flew to the cottage, hoping for another surprise. The wonder didnt tarry. Two shelves hung, order reigned, floors scrubbed. Again, no witnesses.
A huntresss zeal took her. She came at odd hours, neighbors keeping watch. She took leave to stalk her helper.
Nothing! Beds weeded, berries jarred, wildflowers in a vase, the cottage spotlesseven her old garden shoes mended.
Food vanished, but soups and salads from her garden appeared in the fridge. What could she do?
Like a fool, she stood in the cottage and thanked her unseen host aloud.
By summers end, she grew bold, leaving orders for her next visit. She vowed to take him home for winterno sense him staying alone. Theyd return come spring. The neighbors envied:
“Look at thata hobgoblin with sense. Knows a lone womans hardships.”
She even consulted a wise-woman, left milk on the stepwhich Mrs. Kates cat lapped up gladly.
Autumn came. Harvest in, earth turned. On her last visit, at the neighbors urging, she sat on the porch with an old boot borrowed from Matthew and declared:
“Well then, master, time to move. Youll live with mejust a one-bedroom flat, but well manage.”
A merry voice spoke at her left.
She started, twisting toward it. Before her stood a man in worn but clean clothes, barefoot, black curls to his shoulders, cornflower-blue eyes wide, fists clenching and unclenching. Silence.
“Sorry I frightened you. Truly didnt mean to. Youre leaving till next summer. So Ive come. You promised to take me.”
Unbidden tears fell. She stared, wordless.
Then, shaking off the spell, she barked: “Wait! Where dyou think youre going?” Softly, she added: “Hungry?”
“A bit. Youve been about all dayId no chance to eat.”
“Hold on. Theres dumplings at home. How to get you there? Sit. Dont dare move. Ill fetch shoes from Matthewmaybe Alex is driving back.”
She ran to the neighbors, hardly believing it. A dream, surely
