GREY BEARD, GOLDEN HEART
“You’ve deceived me all this while! I’m ending our correspondence. I’ve quite lost faith in women. How could you pretend for so long, spin such tales? I wished to make you my wife, and youve dashed that to pieces. One cant build a marriage on lies and mistrust. Farewell. Dont write again. I wont reply. Your former gentleman.”
Such was the message I received from an Englishman. For almost a year, Thomas and I had exchanged letters. It was all leading to a meeting, in his part of the worldSheffield. But alas…
It never came to be.
I was forty-nine at the time, long-divorced. There were children and already grandchildren. More than anything I wanted, just once before life slipped by entirely, to feel like a woman again. Time galloped ever onwards. My children were busy with their own affairs, their own circles. I simply couldnt bear the thought of sitting inside, reflecting on the glory daysthat sort of living would curdle me completely, relegating me to knitting endless scarves and embroidering pillowcases with cross-stitch.
All my friends were married, rooted to their homes and routines. After surveying all suitable bachelors at work and finding none to my taste, I took my colleagues advice and wandered into the peculiarly modern world of online dating. What harm could it do, after all?
I filled out an impossibly long questionnaire, painted myself in the most flattering of lights, and attached a recent, fortunate photograph. Then I waited for a miracle, but held my dignity: not once did I dare impose myself on any lonely gentlemen.
Two weeks later, I spotted an email in my inboxthat sole, sparkling oddity. Excitedly, I read the foreign lines from my flat in Ipswich.
Here he was, an Englishman of fifty-nine, a businessman, divorced, father of two grown sons. The photograph showed a polished, assured, and respectable gent leaning against an elegant three-storey home. He was proposing acquaintance and, who knows, maybe even marriage down the lane.
Happiness, so resplendent and calm, seemed a hands breadth away: if only the right reply was written. I felt the urge to break into folksongs, to dash off a reply: Yes! Ill hop straight over to Sheffield and well get marriedhowever you English do these things!
Yet I composed something far more considered: “I should think on it properly, you see.” The implication beingI had a slew of hopeful suitors, and answering all proved rather daunting. Please dont take offence, Thomas.
Thomas met me with gentle understanding. He replied that it was only natural: a lady such as I would, of course, win hearts aplentyincluding his own. Lulled by the flattery, I drifted up above myself.
Our correspondence soon grew candid, intimate. We seemed made for each other. Why, then, were we born to separate lands? He called me his Enigmatic Rose; I called him my Gentleman. I grew so accustomed to Thomass gentle letters they became the background to my existence. In reverie, I was already married to this Englishman, imagined myself in his capacious house, sharing slow-morning conversations.
Everything was falling into place. The deeper we corresponded, the dearer he grew to me.
I informed my childrenone son, one daughterthat Id soon leave, entrust them my flat, and resign from my job. Their response was rather less gracious:
Mum, we hardly recognize you. Youre nearly retired! Remarrying nowwhats the point? Who even wants that? Before long, your so-called gentleman will be nothing but aches and complaints, up to the loo all night. Fancy yourself a live-in nurse? Give it time, and hell be more cantankerous than a November wasp. Really, Mum, no need to rush off to please the English.
But I paid their warnings no heed. I wanted to become a proper ladyno more, no less. Preparing for the long journey, I changed my hair, wardrobe, adopted some new manners, waited on my visa. And thensuddenlya sharp letter came from Thomas:
“Youre no Enigmatic Rose, but a common fibber. Write no moreI shant answer.”
I simply couldnt fathom it. Where was the lie? Thoughts stampeded through my head. Nevertheless, I wrote him one more letter and waited half a year in emptiness for a reply. None came.
When Id already grown resigned and thought to leave my flat to the children after all, a new message arrived from my Gentleman:
My Enigmatic Rose, forgive me! I spent many long weeks in hospital, bidding life farewell. It was all rather fraught and uncertain. I didnt wish to trouble you. I left our correspondence in Olivers care (my son) and simply asked him to be courteous. Yet he informed me you severed contact. Why?
I am well again, and I long to welcome you, my goddess, into my home as my wife.
I reread the letter over and over, then burst into tears. I didnt know what to reply. It was clear, though, that Oliver had no wish to see his father remarried. It must have been Connors son whod accused me unjustly.
After some thought and sorrow, I decided not to reply to Thomas. Imagine it: Id arrive in Sheffield only for Oliver to slip poison in my porridge or whisper lies to his father behind my back. Of course, Thomas would sooner believe his son and banish the goddess from his household. Why subject myself to such nonsense? Let them settle ittheyre family after all.
Meanwhile, my grandchildren were starting school in September. Theyd need a stern hand in reading and arithmetic. There was the allotment to tend: tomatoes waiting to be planted, grass to be mown, flowers longing for a good watering. After allones own patch, however modest, is dearer than any garden of Eden.
I took a breather from new acquaintances. They devour far too much vital energy, anyway. Life, quietly, relentlessly, slips by.
“Well, hello there, neighbour! Didnt expect to see youbeen ages. Have you been busy, or gone and gotten married?” my allotment neighbour called out as I was sorting my gardening gloves.
Evening, George! Honestly, I rather missed you. Havent gone and gotten yourself married, have you? Might you lend a hand chopping some kindling? Youll get a nice cuppa in the bargain. Theres a mountain of little chores to get througha litany you wouldnt believe,” I told him, happy as could be to see George.
Oh Alice, how could I possibly wed while my lady neighbours been missing a whole year? George said, twinkle in his eye.
Whats that meant to mean? I asked, feigning innocence while fully grasping his intent.
Marry me, Alice. Whats the point in testing each other any longer? Weve known one another half our lives. Like the old saying goesa knotted oak might creak, but it keeps its roots.
Well, my fiancé has a beard of grey, but a soul of gold.
…George and I have been blessed in marriage for seven years now.
