A BEARD OF GREY, BUT A SOUL SO FAIR
“You lied to me the whole time! This is the end of our correspondence. Im terribly disappointed in women. How could you pretend and fib for so long? I was ready to marry you, and now youve ruined it all. One can’t start a life together on deceit and mistrust. Farewell. Dont write to me again. I shant reply. Yours formerly, the gentleman.”
Such a letter I received from an Englishman. Connor and I had been writing to one another for nearly a year. Our talks were leading to a meeting on his home soilSheffield. Alas…
It was not meant to be.
At that time, I was forty-nine. Long since divorced, with grown children and grandchildren. I yearned, before old age settled in for good, to feel like a cherished woman once more. The years fly swiftly. My children had their own lives, their own cares. I could not bear to sit encased within four walls, endlessly reminiscing about better days. That way lies a slow witheringknitting endless scarves or embroidering sheets for want of better purpose. My friends were all married, firmly tied to home and family. I had considered every single bachelor at work and found none who truly sparked anything in me.
On the nudge of a colleague, I tried my luck on a matchmaking website. What harm could it do?
I filled out a lengthy profile, cast myself in the best light, attached a flattering photograph, and waited, half hoping, for a miracle. I would not demean myself chasing after lonely men, mindone must keep a bit of dignity.
A fortnight passed and at last, I found a new message in my inboxthe only one. I opened the letter with trembling hands, still in my little terraced house in Northampton.
So thena genuine Englishman, fifty-nine years old, businessman, divorced, with two grown sons. In the photo he looked sharp, a picture of respectability, standing before an imposing three-storey home. He suggested an introduction, andwho knowsperhaps more in time.
Here was bliss without a cloud, happiness within reach, if I wrote cleverly enough. Privately, I hummed old English folk tunes, delighting at the prospect. Never mind that I felt ready to marry him right there and then in his city, Sheffield, or whatever wedding customs they kept. Of course, I replied rather coolly, making him think I needed time to considerplaying hard to get.
I wrote that I was simply overwhelmed with offers; alas, poor Connor, things took time.
Connor responded with perfect English grace and tact. He said it was only righta lady such as myself had surely captivated many a heart, his not least among them. After such compliments from a true Englishman, I felt as light as air.
Connor and I quickly fell into an open, heartfelt exchange of letters. It seemed as though fate had drawn us together. Why should we have lived in separate lands, at opposite ends of England? Connor called me his “Enigmatic Rose” while I called him “My Gentleman.” I became so accustomed to Connors tender missives that I could hardly imagine a day without them. In my mind, I was already his wife, keeping house in his grand home, spending lazy mornings in gentle conversation.
The more we learned of one another, the closer our hearts became.
I even told my children that before long, Id be leaving Northampton for good, bequeathing my house to them, ready to leave my job behind. My son and daughter, with all the delicacy of a hammer, tried to bring me back down to earth:
“Mum, we hardly know you anymore. Youre nearly at retirement age and youre talking of getting married? Its utter folly. Whos going to want you? That gentleman of yours will be shuffling about, grumbling, up and down to the loo half the night. Do you really wish to be nurse and maid to an old Englishman? Give it some thought, Mumdont be in a rush to make an Englishman comfortable at your expense.”
Their warnings fell on deaf ears. I was determined to become a lady, no matter what! In readiness for the journey north, I bought new clothes, tidied my hair, and practised my airs and graces. I set about arranging a visa. And then, out of nowhere, came Connors damning letter”You’re no ‘Enigmatic Rose’just a common liar. Dont write againyoull get no answer from me.”
I was gobsmacked. In what, exactly, had I lied? My mind raced through a thousand possible misunderstandings. Still, I penned one last letter to Connor. I waited six months for a reply, all in vain.
Just as I had resolved to leave my house to the children after all, a message arrived from “My Gentleman”:
“Enigmatic Rose, forgive me! Ive spent long months in hospital, bidding farewell to life. Things were badfrighteningly so. I didnt want to trouble you. I entrusted our correspondence to my son, Oliver, and asked him to respond to you politely in my absence. He told me you broke off contact quite suddenly. Why was that?
I have recovered, and I am ready to welcome you, my goddess, as my wife in my home.”
I read and reread the letter, and then broke down in tears. I had no idea how to reply. One thing was clearOliver, his son, did not wish his father to remarry. It had been Oliver who unjustly accused me of lying.
I thought and brooded, then decided to answer Connor no more. Supposing I did move to Sheffield, what would stop Oliver from sprinkling poison in my morning porridge, or poisoning his fathers mind against me with outrageous fibs? Naturally, Connor would believe his own son over me, and I, the “goddess,” would be unceremoniously shown the door. Why should I embroil myself in their family affairs? Let them sort it out amongst themselves.
…Besides, my grandchildren would soon be back at school come autumn. They would need help with their reading and sums. The allotment would need seeing totomatoes to plant, grass to mow, flowers to water. Even a rabbit loves his own hutch.
Time, I thought, to recover from all these newfangled courtships. They take more energy than theyre worth. The days, after all, slip by so quickly.
“Hello, neighbour! Never thought to see you againnot been up here in ages. Busy, or finally married off?” came the call from next plot as Mr. Charles, my neighbour, waved and peered into my face.
“Afternoon, Charles! I have missed you too. You havent taken a wife yourself, have you? Will you help chop some wood for my fireplace? Ill brew a pot of tea later. Theres a world of jobs to be doneyou wouldnt believe,” I said, so pleased at the sight of him, I could have thrown my arms around his neck.
“Now, Annie, how should I marry when the girl of my dreams hasnt shown herself in a year?” Charles replied with a playful twinkle.
“Whats that supposed to mean?” I pretended not to understand, but of course I did. Stilla little bit of flirting never goes amiss.
“Marry me, Annie. Reallywhy keep dithering? Weve known each other since before the war! They do say: old timber may creak, but it stands all the same.”
So, my suitor carries a beard of grey, but his soul is handsome all the same.
…Charles and I have now been happily married for seven years.
