THE GREY BEARD, BUT A BEAUTIFUL SOUL
You deceived me! Im ending our correspondence here. Im utterly disappointed in women. How could you pretend and lie for so long? I wanted to marry you, but youve ruined everything. One cant start married life with deceit and mistrust. Goodbye. Dont write to me again. I wont respond. Your former gentleman.
That was the letter I received from an Englishman. Connor and I had been exchanging letters for almost a year. Things were moving towards a meeting on his turf in Sheffield. But alas… it wasnt meant to be.
I was forty-nine at the time, long divorced. I had children and grandchildren, but still longed to feel like a woman again. The years do gallop by. My children had their own lives and worries. I couldnt just sit inside four walls reminiscing about better days. Thats the surest way to wilt or wind up knitting miles of socks or laboriously cross-stitching pillowcases. All my friends were married, bound to their homes and families. After surveying all possible suitors at work, none caught my eye.
So, on a colleagues advice, I decided to try my luck on a dating site. What did I have to lose, really?
I filled out a lengthy profile, described myself in the most flattering light, and uploaded the best photo I could manage. Then, I sat in wait for a miracle, not about to be the first to message any lonely man. Had to keep up appearances, after all.
A couple of weeks later, I spotted an email the only one, as it turned out. I read the foreign message with trembling hands, sitting in my little flat in Reading.
Well, then. Englishman, fifty-nine, businessman, divorced, two grown-up sons. In his photo, he looked polished, confident, and every bit the respectable gentleman, standing before a handsome three-storey house. He wanted to get to know me. And perhaps who knows invite me to be his wife.
There it was: serene, clear happiness, within reach if only I wrote a clever response. I was so giddy with delight, I nearly broke into a folk song. I wanted to declare myself ready say yes, and dash off to Sheffield to be wed in the English fashion. Still, I restrained myself, replying that Id have to give it a proper think playing a bit hard to get.
I wrote that, what with so many suitors, I simply couldnt keep up with them all. I hoped hed understand.
Connor was gracious and courteous. He replied with classic English tact: given the woman I am, it was only natural Id have won admirers his heart included. His compliments made me float.
We soon struck up warm, candid correspondence. It truly felt we were made for one another. Why ever had we been born and raised in different countries? Connor called me his Enigmatic Rose, and I called him My Gentleman. Id grown so fond of Connors affectionate letters, I couldnt imagine life without them. In my heart, I was already married to the Englishman living in his spacious home, sharing slow morning conversations with my beloved. Everything felt as if it would fall perfectly into place. The more we learned about one another, the closer our souls became.
I even told my children that Id soon be leaving them, would leave my flat to them, and resign from my job. My son and daughter, less tactful than their father ever was, tried to bring me down to earth:
Mum, we hardly recognise you. Youre nearly at pension age, and now you want to get married? Thats just daft. Who do you think needs you over there? Your gentleman has one foot in the grave, his blood pressure will be bouncing around, hell be up to the loo seven times a night… Do you truly want to be a housemaid and nurse to an Englishman? And in time hell be moaning at you like an old drone in autumn. Dont rush to pamper the English, Mum.
Their objections meant nothing to me. I was determined to become a lady and that was final! Preparing for my journey, I changed my wardrobe, hairstyle, even my manners. I waited for the visa and then, suddenly, I received an unpleasant letter from Connor…
Youre not my Enigmatic Rose. Youre just an ordinary liar. Dont write. I wont answer.
I was baffled. When had I ever lied? My head swirled with confusion, trying to recall if I had ever said anything untrue. Still, I wrote a letter to Connor, but in vain half a year passed with no reply.
Once all hope was lost and Id changed my mind about leaving my flat to the children, a letter came from My Gentleman:
Enigmatic Rose, forgive me! I was in hospital for quite a long time, preparing to bid life farewell. It was all terribly grim and unpredictable. I didnt want to trouble you. I asked my son Oliver to handle our correspondence and to be polite. But he said you abruptly cut off contact. Why?
Ive recovered now and Im ready to welcome you, my goddess, to my home as my wife.
I read the letter several times over, tears streaming down my face. I didnt know what to say. One thing was obvious: Oliver didnt want his father to remarry. It was he who had accused me of lying without cause.
After much thought and a bit of sadness, I decided not to reply to Connor. Suppose I did travel to Sheffield, and Oliver, seizing the chance, slipped something nasty into my porridge or spun endless tales to his father about me. Of course, Connor would sooner trust his son than me and Id be cast out of his palace. Why involve myself in their family mess? Better to let them sort it out themselves.
Besides, my grandchildren would soon be off to school in the autumn they needed help with their reading and sums. The allotment was calling too: tomatoes to plant, grass to mow, flowers to water… Ones own little patch is precious, after all.
I thought it wiser to have a rest from new acquaintances. They do tend to drain a lot of ones energy. Life marches on all the same.
Afternoon, neighbour! Didnt think Id see you round here, not for ages. Busy, or did you get married, then? My allotment neighbour never let me pass without a word, always full of questions.
Hello, Nick! You know, Ive missed you. Have you found a wife yet? Fancy helping me chop some firewood? Ill make you a cup of tea later. You wouldnt believe how many chores Ive piled up, I said, genuinely happy to see him.
Oh, Annie, how could I possibly get married when the brides not shown her face in a year? Nick replied with a wink.
Oh, is that so? I played along, though I knew full well what he implied.
Marry me, Annie. Come on, theres no point us circling about weve known each other forever. Old trees may creak but they keep on growing, dont they?
Well, my groom has a beard turned grey, but his soul is as lovely as ever.
…Nick and I have been happily married for seven years now.
