Im sixty now, have been retired for ages, and live a peaceful, quiet life. Its been a decade since I started living on my ownno husband, the children are grown and long gone, friends scattered or lost in the shuffle of time. My children live with their own families in other towns and my husband passed away some years back. My main joy is my little cottage in the countrysidea true retreat, my slice of happiness.
Every spring, as soon as theres even a hint of warmth, I move out there and set myself to work: cleaning the cottage, tidying the garden, planting flowers, arranging beds and borders. Theres a deep satisfaction and comfort to that place, and I often feel the weight of years simply melt away when Im nestled in my garden.
Winter, however, is another story entirely. The cold is biting, the snow too much for me to manage, and with no one around to lend a hand, Im forced back into town for the season. I can manage in autumnjust about. This September, I caught a bit of a cold and stayed in the city for a week to recover, but as soon as I felt better and the cold let up, I couldnt wait to head straight back to my beloved cottage.
It all felt strange as I approached: the gate stood wide open. I thought perhaps someone had wandered into the garden, though all seemed more or less as Id left it. But then I saw the front door ajar. My heart leaptI worried the place had been robbed. I crept quietly inside. To my relief, everything seemed untouchedexcept for one odd thing: a blanket, which I never use, was lying out, and a mug sat on the table. I always wash and tidy away the dishes. Something was off.
The initial shock died off, replaced by indignationwho had been helping themselves to my mug at my own table? I looked out the window, and there, out behind the house, I saw a strange boy. Hed made a little fire, warming his hands over the flames. Well, there was my uninvited guest.
I stepped outside and coughed to make my presence known, watching to see his response. The lad started, clearly frightened, but instead of running off, he came right over to me.
Sorry, miss, please forgive me. Ive only been here a short while
He was so quiet and meeksomething about him tugged at my heart.
How long have you been here? Have you eaten? I asked.
Just a couple of days I didnt have much, only a bit of bread left, just crumbs now, he replied.
With a touch of pride, he pulled out a fishing rod, a slice of white bread still attached.
Whats your name, young man? And how did you come to be here? I pressed gently.
Oliver, he said. Mum and her boyfriend made me leave. I dont want to stay with them
Surely the local lot must be looking for you! I said.
No one’s bothered. It’s always the same. Ive run off before, gone missing for weeks, but no one bats an eyelid even when Im back. Didnt get a welcome from them, ever
Turned out, the boy wasnt even from our villagejust another sad, ordinary tale. His mother never worked, the men in her life changed like the weather, meals were rare in their homewhisky and trouble more common.
After hearing his story, I felt a wave of sadnessand a strong urge to help. Of course, I took Oliver in and gave him a proper meal, and I hardly slept for thinking what to do next. By morning, I remembered an old friend, Margaret, who works for the council. I rang her up, hoping for advice if nothing else.
Margaret assured me she could help and promised to take up the matter herself. It did mean traipsing around, filling in paperwork, but after several weeks, I became Olivers legal guardian. He couldnt believe his luck, and his mother never so much as enquired after him.
Now, our life runs a bit like grandmother and grandsonwinters in the flat, the rest out at the cottage. Soon Oliver will be starting school, and I know hell do well. He already writes, reads, counts with ease, and has a real gift for drawing! I marvel at his pictures. Hes a true little artist.
