A GREY BEARD, BUT A BEAUTIFUL SOUL
Youve lied to me about everything! Im ending our correspondence. So disappointed in women. How could you pretend all this time, deceiving me? I wanted to marry you, and now theres nothing left. One cannot build a family on lies and distrust. Goodbye. Dont write to me again. I wont reply. Your ex-gentleman.
That was the letter I received from an Englishman. Connor and I had been writing to each other for almost a year. We were close to finally meetinghe lived in Sheffield. But it wasnt to be.
At the time, I was forty-nine. My marriage had ended long ago, and I had grown-up children and grandchildren. All I wanted, before old age stole my chance, was to feel like a woman again. The years really do gallop past. My children had their own concerns, their own lives. I just couldnt sit at home day after day, sighing over memories. Thats a sure path to going stale, spending endless hours knitting socks or embroidering pillowcases out of boredom. My girlfriends were all married and settled, wrapped up in family life. I looked carefully at all the eligible bachelors at work, but none caught my interest.
On a colleagues advice, I decided to try an online dating site. Nothing to lose, really.
I filled in a lengthy profile, describing myself in the best light, and uploaded a flattering picture. Then I waited, hoping for a little miracle. I didnt chase after single men, nor sent pushy messages. I had my dignity.
A couple of weeks later, I got an emailjust one. My heart skipped as I read the Englishmans message, sitting there in Basingstoke.
So, he was English, fifty-nine, a businessman, divorced, with two grown sons. The photo showed a polished, distinguished-looking gentleman standing before a grand three-storey house. He wanted to get to know me. Maybe, if things went well, hed even ask me to marry him.
It seemed so simplehappiness was within reach. I just had to put together a good reply My spirits were so high, I found myself singing old English folk songs. I almost wanted to write back right away, that Id gladly come to Sheffield and marry him in a heartbeat, or however these things are done in England. Instead, I decided to play harder to get, saying I needed to think things over, which was just code for pretending to have lots of admirers. Sorry, Connor, Im rather busy with all the suitors at the momentthat sort of thing.
Connor responded with grace and good humour, saying he quite understoodafter all, a woman like myself was sure to have many men vying for her, including him. My confidence soared with every compliment.
Our correspondence soon became warm and open, as though we were made for each other. Id often wonder why fate had put us in different countries. Connor began to call me his Mystery Rose; I called him My English Gentleman. I became so attached to Connors gentle letters that life without them seemed unthinkable. In my mind, Id already moved into his lovely home, drifting through morning chats over tea with my beloved husband. The more we shared about ourselves, the closer our souls grew.
I even told my children that before long Id be leaving them, bequeathing them my flat and quitting my job. My son and daughter were quite brusque about it all, trying to snap me out of my fantasy:
Mum, whats got into you? Youll be drawing your pension soon and youre thinking of getting married? Who wants you at your age? That gentleman of yours is practically ancient, his blood pressures probably through the roof, hell be up all night running to the loo Do you really want to be some Englishmans nurse, his housekeeper? And how long till hes grumbling at you all the time? Please, mum, dont go rushing off to appease an Englishman.
I ignored my childrens concerns. I wanted to become a real ladyand that was that! Preparing for my grand journey, I changed my wardrobe, got a new hairstyle, brushed up on my manners. I was ready and waiting for my visa. And suddenly, Connor sent that crushing letter You arent a Mystery Rose, just an ordinary liar. Dont write to meI wont answer.
I was baffled. When had I lied? My head was spinning with wild guesses and doubts. I wrote one more letter to Connor, then waited futilely for half a year with no reply.
When Id finally given up hope and decided not to leave my flat to the children after all, a message appeared from My English Gentleman:
Mystery Rose, forgive me! Ive been in hospital for months and wasnt sure Id survive. Things were very uncertain. I didnt want to worry you. I asked my son Oliver to write to you on my behalftold him to be polite. But he says you suddenly stopped contacting us. Why?
Ive recovered now, and Im ready to welcome you to my home as my wife.
I read the message over and over and burst into tears. What was I supposed to say? It was clear nowOliver hadnt wanted his father to remarry, and hed wrongly accused me of something.
After some thought and sorrow, I decided not to reply to Connor. Even if I went to Sheffield, what then? Oliver might slip something nasty into my morning porridge or fill his fathers head with wicked tales about me. And naturally, Connor would believe his own son and send me packing. Why bother with such drama? Let them sort it out between themselvestheyre family, after all.
Meanwhile, my grandchildren were starting school in autumn. I needed to brush up their reading and maths skills. And there was the garden to tendtomatoes to plant, grass to cut, flowers to water Ones own patch is always dearest, as they say.
I could do with a rest from romance. Those adventures take too much energy! And while we chase after dreams, life just slips quietly by.
Hello, neighbour! I havent seen you in agesbusy, or have you gone and got married? My allotment neighbour wouldnt let me pass, eyes twinkling.
Afternoon, Nicholas! Ive missed you too. You havent married yourself, have you? Will you help chop some wood? Ill make you some tea this evening. So much to catch up onyou wouldnt believe, I said, happier to see Nicholas than I dared admit.
How could I marry, Annabel, when my favourite lady hasnt shown her face for a year? Nicholas looked at me with a boyish glint in his eye.
Oh really? Whats that supposed to mean?though, of course, I knew, but a little flirting never hurt.
Marry me, Annabel. Theres no point wasting time looking anymore We go way back. As they say, an old tree creaks, but it still stands tall.
Well, my suitor may have a grey beard, but his soul shines bright.
Nicholas and I have been happily married now for seven years.
