“Well then, master, lets go to our new home. Youll be living with meits just a one-bedroom flat, but I reckon well manage.”
“Good Lord, Im thirty-eight years old and live alone. Ive never done anyone harm in my life, never spoken a harsh word. Everything I have, I earned myself: this flat, the cottage in Kent.”
No use complaining. My parents helped where they couldIm the youngest of five. Ive got two close friends from my school days, though we dont meet oftentheyre married now.
I hate it when their husbands, after a few pints, make crude jokes about cheering up my loneliness behind their wives backs. Ive had to slap them both, one after the other, and explain that a friends husband is no man of mine. Thank heavens they got the message.
Falling silent for a moment, Emily turned her sorrowful gaze to the window, thinking of all the happy people outsideand the miserable ones, just like her. She turned back to the small icon on her wall and continued:
“Ive never asked You for anything before, but now I come to You humbly. Give me, Lord, what isnt fit for others. Im tired of loneliness. Send me a little creature, a stray, maybe even an orphan.”
“Im timid, Lord, unsure of myself. Everyone thinks Im gloomy, lost in my own thoughts, but Im just hesitantnever sure whats right to say, afraid of being laughed at. My father always warned me to mind myself, to keep proper, so I wouldnt shame them. Thats how Ive lived. Help me, guide me, set me on the right path. Amen.”
Sunday. An early autumn morning. The house across the street has only a few lights on. For the first time, shed prayed sincerely, and as she stepped back from the little icon, tears shed never shed before traced down her cheeks.
Wiping them away with the backs of her hands, she grabbed two heavy bags of groceries, paint for the fence, and other odds and ends, then headed out.
The joy of her life is the cottage. There, she isnt aloneshe works, chats with the neighbours over the fence about the harvest. The bags drag her arms down, but at least she lives close to the bus stop. No ones there when she arrives. She waits nearly an hour. One bus passes, then another, both packed. If a third goes by, shell turn backtoday just isnt the day.
Then, a miracle: a full bus screeches to a halt, shoves out a drunk bloke mid-argument, and cheerfully waves her aboard.
She squeezes in, the doors barely closing behind her, and nearly faints from the lack of air and the mix of smells.
Forty-five minutes later, shes at her beloved cottage. By three in the afternoon, her back is stiff as smoked bacon, her legs barely holding her up. She stumbles to the house, hunched over, arms dangling, eyes dull. A wonder shes still standing!
Blinking at her reflection, she showers quickly and decides to nap for an hour in front of the telly. Shes out before her head hits the pillow.
She wakes in the middle of the night. The tellys playing some old film. She turns it off, sets the alarm, and tries to sleep againbut its no use. After tossing and turning, she gets up and packs lunch for work.
Two days later, shes back at the cottage. Stepping inside, she freezes: the kettles still warm, her favourite mug sits on the table with sugar and a teabag.
Touching the mug in disbelief, she shakes her head and steps outsideonly to stop dead. The fence. Its been painted.
Who?
Mum? She walks over, presses a finger to the wood. Green paint smudges her skin. Too fresh. Not Mum.
Next door, old Mrs. Jenkins scarf flickers between the raspberry bushes. Emily weaves through her garden and calls out, “Mrs. Jenkins!”
A muffled reply comes from the depths of the neighbours shed. “That you, Emily? Hold on, Ill be out. Bloody clutternever put anything back where it belongs!”
The old woman emerges, grumbling, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hello, Emily. Youre earlyday off yesterday? Fence looks smart.”
“Morning. No, worked yesterday. Did you see who painted it?”
“Wasnt you? Didnt see anyone. Slept here last night. Why, whats wrong? Your mum visit?”
“Not her.” Emily explainsthe fence, the kettle, the mug.
Mrs. Jenkins frowns. “Right. Lets have a look.”
They march through the garden to the cottage. “Show me.”
Emily points. “Thats it. Nothings missingbut the bread I left is gone.”
Mrs. Jenkins clicks her tongue. “Brownie, is it? Painted your fence, washed the brush, left it tidy.”
“Ring your mum,” the old woman insists. “Go onor I will.”
Emily digs out her phone. Her mum answers on the last ring. “Youre up early. Whats wrong?”
“Hi, Mum. Im at the cottage. Did you come by yesterday?”
“No. Why? You sound odd. Been robbed?”
“Someone painted the fence.”
“Well, bless whoever helped. Say thank you, and lend a hand when they need it. Sorry, loveoff to the market with your dad.”
“Bye, Mum. Say hi to Dad.”
Mrs. Jenkins taps her foot. “Well?”
“Not her. Maybe old Mr. Wilkins? When I brought the paint last time, he joked about helping. Ill go thank him.”
“Do that. Come by afterIve made stew.”
Emily asks every neighbour. No one saw a thing. Slowly, they start teasing her about brownies and house spirits.
Two days pass without incident. She leaves half a loaf, some tins, and a note: “Thank you.”
Next weekend, she rushes to the cottage, half-expecting a surprise.
And there it is: shelves put up, floors scrubbed, even her old garden shoes repaired.
The game is on. She comes at odd hours, enlists the neighbours as lookouts, takes days off to catch her helper.
Nothing. The gardens weeded, berries picked, wildflowers in a vase. Leftovers vanishreplaced with soups and salads made from her own vegetables.
What else can she do?
She even stands in the middle of the room like a fool and thanks her invisible caretaker.
By summers end, shes bold. She leaves instructions, tells him shes taking him home for winterno use him sitting here alone. Theyll come back in spring.
The neighbours are jealous. “Look at thateven the spirits know a woman shouldnt be alone.”
She visits a fortune-teller, leaves milk on the steponly for Mrs. Jenkins cat to lap it up.
Autumn comes. The harvest is in, the earth turned. On her last visit, she sits on the step with an old boot borrowed from Mr. Wilkins and says, “Right then, master. Time to go. Youll live with me nowone-bedroom flat, but well manage.”
A mans voice chuckles beside her.
She jumps. Turning, she sees a man in worn clothes, barefoot, with wild black curls and cornflower-blue eyes, nervously flexing his hands.
“Sorry. Didnt mean to scare you. You said youd take me. I came.”
Tears spill down her cheeks. She stares, speechless.
Then she snaps, “Wait! Where dyou think youre going?” She softens. “Hungry?”
“A bit. You didnt leave todayI missed my chance.”
“Hold on. Ive got dumplings at home. How do we get you there? Stay heredont move. Ill borrow shoes from Mr. Wilkins, maybe hitch a lift with Jake.”
She runs to the neighbours, hardly believing it. This doesnt happen in real life. A homeless man helped her all summer, and now shes taking him home.
Years later, hand in hand, Emily and her husband, William, stroll through the park. Golden autumn again. They laugh about how they methow they talked for hours, sharing their stories.
Hers, you know. His is simple: born, studied, got two degrees, married, stayed ten years until the recession cost him his job. His wife, a successful businesswoman, kicked him out.
He couch-surfed at first, but felt like a burden. Started drifting, sleeping in sheds, stealing to eat.
Then he saw her struggling with bags, took pity, and helped. Hid in her loft, terrified shed find him and send him packing.
Slowly, he settled inrealised shed never notice. Even started hoping she would.
Now, its just a
