GREY BEARD, BEAUTIFUL SOUL
Youve lied to me all this time! Im ending our correspondence. Im truly disappointed in women. How could you pretend and deceive me for so long? I wanted to marry you, and youve thrown it all away. You cant start a family on lies and mistrust. Goodbye. Dont write to me again. I wont reply. Your former gentleman.
That was the email I got from an Englishman. Connor and I had been writing back and forth for nearly a year, leading up to a possible meeting in his hometownSheffield. But, well it wasnt meant to be.
I was forty-nine then. Id been divorced a long time, with grown-up kids and even grandkids. I simply wanted, one last time, to feel like a woman again. The years, they do whizz by. My children were busy with their own lives, their own interests. I couldnt just sit inside reminiscing about the good old days. That way, youll just become stale, knitting foot-long scarves or cross-stitching bedsheets to pass the time. Most of my girlfriends were married, wrapped up with their families and routines. After carefully sizing up all the potential suitors at work, I realised none of them were right for me.
So, taking a colleagues advice, I had a nosey around a dating website. Thought, why not? Ive nothing to lose.
I filled out an epic bio, painted myself in the best possible light, and put up a decent photo. Then I sat back, half hoping for a miracle but trying not to expect too much. I wasnt going to be the one chasing after single men with offers. I had to keep my standards!
After a couple of weeks, I spotted an emailit was the only one I got. Heart in my throat, I started to read this message, sat in my little house in Derby.
So, he was English, 59, a businessman, divorced, with two grown sons. The photo showed a polished, charming, respectable gent, standing in front of his fancy three-storey home. He wanted to get to know me. Who knows, perhaps hed eventually ask me to marry him.
There it was: bliss within my grasp, just a well-crafted reply away. I was so giddy I caught myself humming old folk songs around the house. Part of me wanted to reply straight away: Yes, Im inIll hop on the first train to Sheffield and walk right down the aisle, or however you lot do it over there But, instead, I decided to play it cool. Ill have to think carefully about it, I wrote (or, in my head: Time to play hard to get).
Told him there were a lot of suitors and simply not enough hours in the day to reply to them all. No offence, Connor.
Connor was so charming and tactfulhe replied straight away saying it was to be expected; a woman like me must have all the men eating out of her hand. It was hard not to float about after that kind of English compliment.
From then on, Connor and I began open, honest, and utterly heartfelt correspondence. It truly felt as if we were made for each otherjust born in the wrong countries. Connor lovingly called me his Mystery Rose. I called him My Gentleman. I got so attached to Connors tender messages I couldnt think what Id do without them. In my daydreams, I was already married to my English gentleman; living in his big house, enjoying slow breakfasts and easy conversations with my beloved. It was all shaping up beautifully. The more we wrote, the more our souls seemed to connect.
I even told my children Id soon be setting off, leaving them the flat and quitting my job. My son and daughter tried to bring me down to earth, a bit heavy-handedly:
Mum, who are you?! Pensions just round the corner and you want to get married? Honestly, this is proper madness. Who wants you there? Before long your gent will be sporting slippers, popping pills for his blood pressure, and nipping to the loo seven times a night. You want to be a housekeeper and nursemaid for an old Englishman? And what then? Hell just whinge at you all day. Dont be in such a hurry to spoil them, Mum.
I ignored their protests. I wanted to be a lady, and that was that! I started prepping for the big movenew wardrobe, new hairstyle, practising my manners. I was even waiting on a visa. Then, out of the blue, came Connors stinging message: Youre no Mystery Rose, just a common fibber. Dont bother writingI wont reply.
I was completely stumped. When did I lie? About what? My head was spinning with doubts and ideas. Despite everything, I wrote back to Connor. Waited six whole monthsnothing. Not a word.
Just as Id finally given up, almost deciding to leave my flat to the kids after all, a message pinged from My Gentleman:
Mystery Rose, Im so sorry! Ive been in hospital for agesthings were touch and go. I didnt want to worry you. I asked my son Oliver to handle our correspondence and be polite. But he said you suddenly broke off contact. Why?
Now that I was back on my feet, he wrote, he was ready for me to come and be his wife.
I read the letter over and over, and then just burst into tears. I didnt even know what to say. But one thing was obviousit was Oliver, Connors son, who didnt want his father remarrying. He mustve accused me, unfairly, of lying.
After a long think, I decided to let the matter drop. Even if I went to Sheffield, what if Oliver tried to sabotage thingspoison my porridge or fill Connors ears with nonsense about me? Connor would believe his son over me in the end, and Id be chucked out of my fairytale castle. Whats the point? Let them sort themselves outtheyre family.
Meanwhile, my grandkids would be heading back to school in autumn. Theyd need help brushing up on reading and maths. Plus, I fancied a trip to my little patch of gardenplant some tomatoes, mow the lawn, water the flowers Theres something special about your own home.
I thought, time for a break from all this matchmakingtoo much emotional energy for one lifetime. Times flying away as it is.
One day, as I arrived at my allotment, the neighbour called out, Morning, love! Thought youd draped yourself over a deckchair on the Med, havent seen you in ages. Busy, or did you go and get married?
Hello, Nick! I answered, Ive missed you actually. You didnt sneak off and get hitched while I was away, did you? Think you could help me chop some firewood later? Ill put the kettle onweve got loads to catch up on.
Oh, Annie, how could I get married? My brides not set foot round here in a year! he said, giving me a cheeky wink.
I played along, Whats that supposed to mean? (Of course, I knew, but a bit of flirting never hurt.)
Marry me, Annie, what dyou say? No need to size each other upbeen friends for ages. You know the old saying: the oldest trees may creak, but theyre the ones still standing.
And there you have itmy Nick might have a grey beard, but hes got a truly beautiful soul.
Nick and I have now been blissfully married for seven years.
