I have always thought that courting after ones fifties was a pastime for those with settled opinions, a lifes worth of experience and, at the very least, a rudimentary sense of propriety. The romantic notion of a knight in shining armour has long since faded for me.
I am fiftyfive, gainfully employed, mother to a grownup daughter, holder of a cosy flat in a quiet London suburb, and my days run in a fairly harmonious rhythm. Yet every now and then I crave a simple human warmtha night at the theatre, a coffee over a good book, a chat that isnt about bills.
With that yearning in mind, I signed up on a dating site. Amid a flood of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, one profile stood out for its sensible tone: that of Arthur.
Arthur was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a tidy blazer, set against a summer park in HydePark. In our correspondence he was courteous, peppered his replies with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his love for classical music.
After a week of exchanging messages we arranged to meet at a café on the Strand. Arthur proved exactly as his photos suggested: distinguished, with a touch of silver at his temples, and a pleasant, articulate manner. He pulled out my chair, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry, saying he was watching his sugar) and spent the evening extolling the importance of preserving traditional values in these modern times.
Im a man of the old school, Mabel, he said, looking straight into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, and a man must be the provider and protector. I cant abide the modern habit of separate bills. Courtship should be done with style.
His words sounded like music. We met twice more, strolling along the Thames, talking at length. Then a weekend arrived and the weather turned sour; a relentless November rain pattered against the windows.
Mabel, perhaps I could come over for dinner? Arthurs velvety voice suggested over the phone. We could sit by the fire and talk. Of course I wont arrive emptyhanded; Ill see to everything. All I need from you is a cosy home and a smile.
As any sensible Englishwoman, I did not rely on just a smile. From early morning I launched into a thorough housecleaning. Later I drove to the local supermarket, bought a good cut of beef, fresh vegetables, assorted cheeses, and an expensive French baguette. I spent three hours at the stove.
I roasted the beef with prunesa signature recipe of mine that never fails to charm. I tossed a light salad, set the table in the living room, brought out crystal goblets, lit a few candles, and slipped into a simple yet elegant dress with a soft touch of makeup.
The hour of his arrival found me as nervous as a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, drew a deep breath and opened. Standing on the doorstep was my guest, coat damp from the rain but his bearing proudly upright.
Good evening, lovely host! Arthur stepped inside, removed his hat and began unbuttoning his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating scent of the roast. He inhaled dramatically and smiled: Ah, I can feel a proper feast awaiting me!
Come in, Arthur. Take off your coat. Let me hang it for you, I said warmly, expecting perhaps a bouquet of roses or a bottle of fine wine. Honestly, a box of chocolates, a modest cake, even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
Arthur hung his coat, adjusted his jacket, then, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into the inner pocket and announced:
As I promised, Mabel, I never come emptyhanded. A gentleman must always contribute.
He placed in my palm a packet of tea.
Instinctively I lifted the crumpled cardboard and lowered my gaze. It was the cheapest black tea, the sort found on the bottom shelves of the supermarket and sold on promotion. The only oddity was that the outer foil was missing, the paper flap torn and haphazardly tucked back inside.
I froze, trying to comprehend.
Arthur, its opened? I whispered, fearing some twisted joke.
He was not embarrassed at all. Instead his face broke into a condescending smile, the kind a man uses when hes explaining a basic truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it the other day, brewed a couple of bags myself. Its a strong tea, quick to steep. I thought Id share it with you. No need to lug a whole packet; we wont drink it all in one evening. Besides, youll surely have something else for tea, being the host.
I stood in the entrance hall of my tidy, snug home. Behind me candles flickered, the roast with its prunes cooled on the tablea dish I had laboured over all day and spent a respectable sum on.
Before me stood a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold man, preaching about traditional values, offering a romantic dinner accompanied by a halfused packet of pennyworth tea. No more than twenty bags inside.
A hundred possible reactions raced through my mind. I could have laughed in his face. I could have raised a scene, venting every thought about his stinginess. Or I could have stayed silent, swallowed my indignation, seated him at the table and fed him meat while feeling like a demeaning servant.
Instead I chose another path. The calm that settled over me in that moment surprised even me.
I placed the crumpled packet gently on the sideboard near the mirror, met Arthurs eyes, and smiledgenuinely, not forced, with a great sense of relief that his true character had been revealed right there at my doorstep, rather than after months of polite conversation.
Arthur, my voice was steady and soft. Im truly touched by your generosity. Yet Im afraid we wont need this tea.
His eyebrows rose. Why? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next time; I have half a packet left at work
There wont be a next time, I replied equally calmly. You were right that a man should bring something. And yours was impressive enough that I cannot return the favour. My dinner does not rise to that level.
I took his stilldamp coat from the rack and handed it back to him.
Whats the matter? Mabel, are you upset over a packet of tea? Such mercenary spirit! his velvety tone turned shrill, his face flushing. I came from a hard week with all my heart, and you throw a tantrum over a trifle! Modern women only want money and restaurants!
What I need is respect, Arthur. First and foremost, for myself. Put your coat on; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, or youll catch a chill and have no cure.
I placed the halfused packet into his hands, gently but firmly nudged him toward the door, and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, settled over the flat. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast, and sat down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was splendid. The meat melted on the palate, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness, only a quiet pride that I had not allowed anyone to trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, saying we chase sponsors. Let us be honest: it isnt the price of the gift that matters. It is the regard behind it. A man who brings a woman a halfused packet of tea is not saving money; he is sparing his own feeling, his respect. He signals that she isnt worth even minimal effort. I am no longer willing to waste my time, energy, and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered similar displays of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given the gentleman a chance?
