“Well then, Mr. Housekeeper, off to our new place. Youll be living with mejust a one-bed flat, mind you, but well manage.”
“Good Lord, Im thirty-eight, living alone. Never done anyone harm in my life, never said a cross word. Everything Ive got, I earned myself: this poky flat, my little garden shed in Kent.”
Not that Im complainingmy parents helped where they could, bless them. Im the youngest of five. Got two close girlfriends from school, though we dont meet often now theyre married.
Cant stand it when their husbands get a few pints in and start making crude jokes about fixing my loneliness behind their wives backs. Had to slap sense into them, one after the other, and explain that a friends husband is *not* an option. Thank heavens they got the message.
Nadinesorry, *Daisy*paused, eyes wistful as she gazed out the window at the world outside, full of people who were either blissfully happy or just as miserable as her. Turning back to the little icon on her shelf, she murmured,
“Never asked You for much, but here I am, humbled. Give me something others wouldnt dare takeIm tired of being alone. Send me a little creature, a stray, maybe even an orphan.”
“Im a coward, Lord. Never sure of myself. People think Im standoffish, lost in my own head, but really, I just freeze upnever know the right thing to say, scared of being laughed at.”
“Dad always drilled it into me: Behave, keep yourself respectable, dont embarrass us. So thats how Ive lived. Help me, guide me, set me straight. Amen.”
**Sunday. Early spring morning.** Lights flickered in the sparse windows of the houses opposite. For the first time in years, shed prayed properlyand as she stepped back from the icon, two unspent tears rolled down her cheeks.
Wiping them away with the back of her hand, she hoisted two heavy shopping bagsone with fence paint, the other with groceriesand headed out.
Her pride and joy? That little shed in Kent. At least there, she wasnt *completely* alonegardening kept her busy, and the neighbours always nattered over the fence about their marrows and runner beans.
The bags weighed her down like anchors, but at least the bus stop wasnt far. No one else waiting. She stood there, alone, for nearly an hour. Two packed holiday coaches rolled past without stopping. If the third ignored her too, shed call it fate and go home. No way was she fighting the evening rush back just to crawl into work the next day.
Thena miracle. The third bus screeched to a halt, ejected a loudly protesting drunk, and cheerfully waved *her* aboard.
Gasping for air in the sardine-tin crush of bodies, she clung to her bags, faint from the cocktail of sweat, cheap perfume, and last nights kebabs.
**Forty-five minutes later**, she stumbled off at her stop. By 3 PM, her back felt like smoked ham, her face like Snow White after a bender. Hunched over, arms dangling past her knees, she hobbled to the shed.
A quick wink at her haggard reflection, a faster shower, and she flopped onto the sofa for a quick nap in front of the telly.
She was out before her head hit the cushion. Woke up at midnight to some old film flickering. Switched it off, set the alarm, and tried again. No luck. After an hour of tossing, she gave up and packed her work lunch instead.
Two days later, she was back on the familiar route. Stepping inside the shed, she frozethe kettle was still warm. Her favourite mug sat ready: sugar, teabag waiting.
She blinked, touched the mug. Still warm. Shaking her head, she stepped outsideand nearly dropped her bags. The fence. *Painted.*
*What?*
Had Mum popped by? A cautious finger confirmedfresh paint. Not Mum.
Next door, old Mrs. Wilkins headscarf bobbed among the raspberry canes. Daisy squeezed through her veg patch to the fence.
“Mrs. Wilkins!”
A muffled shout came from inside the neighbours shed. “*Daisy?* Hold onblooming clutter!”
The old woman emerged, wiping her hands on an ancient apron. “Youre early! Day off yesterday?” She nodded at the fence. “Looks smart.”
“No, worked all day. Did *you* see who painted it?”
“Wasnt you? Cant say I noticed anyone. Slept here last night.” Mrs. Wilkins squinted. “Youre white as a sheet. Maybe your mum came?”
“Just rang her. Not her.”
“Right. Lets have a look.”
They marched single-file through the garden. Inside the shed, nothing was stolenjust the opposite. The half-loaf shed left? Gone.
“Bloody hell,” Mrs. Wilkins chuckled. “Got yourself a brownie, have you?”
Daisy groaned. “A *what*?”
“House sprite. Helpful little buggers. Call your mum againno, *I* will”
But Mum was already rushing off to market with Dad.
Daisy tried old Mr. Higgins nexthed once joked about helping paint. No luck. By dusk, the whole lane was teasing her about invisible handymen.
**Two days later**, still nothing unusual. She left a thank-you note with some bread and tinned stew.
Next weekend, she raced back, half-expecting magic. *Bingo.* Two new shelves, floors mopped, even her muddy wellies polished.
It became a game. She took odd days off, the neighbours kept watchnothing. Yet her plants were watered, berries picked, wildflowers in a vase. Meals *shed* left transformed into soups and salads.
By summers end, shed lost all shame. Standing in the middle of the shed, she announced, “*Right.* Winters coming. Youre not staying here alone. Pack your nonsenseyoure coming home with me.”
The neighbours cackled. “Even the supernaturals got sense! Knows a lone woman needs help.”
She even tried a wise woman, left milk outwhich Mrs. Wilkins cat lapped up gleefully.
**Autumn.** Harvest done, earth turned. Following advice, she borrowed Mr. Higgins old boot, set it on the step, and declared, “Time to move, Mr. Brownie. One-bed flatcozy, but well manage.”
A chuckle came from her left.
She nearly leapt out of her skin.
There stood a man in clean-but-worn clothes, barefoot, wild black curls to his shoulders, and eyes like cornflowers. He wrung his hands nervously.
“Sorry. Didnt mean to scare you. Butyou *said* youd take me.”
Tears welled. She stared.
Then”OI. *Stay put.*” She lowered her voice. “Hungry?”
“A bit. You didnt leave today, so”
“Hold on. Ill fetch shoes from Mr. Higgins. Maybe Alex can drive us back.”
She sprinted off, heart hammering. *This doesnt happen. Not in real life.*
**Years later**, strolling through the park hand-in-hand with her husband, Vincent, Daisy smiled. Golden autumn againtheir favourite.
Vincents story was simple: degrees, a decade of marriage, then the recession hit. His wifenow some hotshot CEOkicked him out.
He sofa-surfed until pride made him leave. Ended up squatting in sheds, stealing to eat.
Then he saw herstruggling with bags, red-faced. Felt sorry for her. Started helping, hiding in her loft, terrified shed find and shoo him away.
Slowly, he got bolder. Even *hoped* shed catch him.
Now? Theyd tell their son the tale one day. Right before his wedding.
Just to keep things *interesting.*
