I have always thought that courting after ones fifties belonged to people whose views were set, whose lives had given them a solid sense of propriety. I long ago stopped entertaining fantasies about knights on white steeds.
At fiftyfive I was gainfully employed, my adult daughter lived on her own, I owned a tidy flat in a respectable London suburb, and my days seemed rather well ordered. Still, every now and then I craved a simple human warmtha night at the theatre, a coffee over a shared book, a pleasant conversation.
With those thoughts in my head I signed up on a dating site. Among a flood of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, Edwards profile stood out for its calm, sensible tone.
He was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a smart blazer, standing in a summer park. In our messages he was courteous, peppered his replies with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his devotion to classical music.
After a week of chatting we arranged to meet at a café. Edward turned out exactly as his photos suggested: dignified, a touch of silver at his temples, and a smooth, cultured voice. He pulled my chair out for me, ordered two cappuccinos (declining dessert on the grounds that he was watching his sugar), and spent the evening extolling the importance of preserving traditional values in our modern age.
I am a man of the old school, Ethel, he said, looking straight into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse; a man must be a provider and protector. I cant abide the modern habit of keeping separate bills. Courtship should be done with style.
His words were music to my ears. We met twice more, strolling along the Thames, talking at length. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather turned sour. A bleak November rain drummed against the windows.
Ethel, might I come over for dinner? Edwards velvety voice suggested over the phone. Well sit by the fire, have a proper chat. Of course I never come emptyhanded; Ill see to everything. All I ask is a cosy home and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I didnt rely on just a smile. From early morning I undertook a thorough cleaning. Afterwards I went to the local supermarket, buying good beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, and a crusty French loaf. I spent about three hours at the stove.
I roasted the beef with prunesmy signature dish that has never failed to impress. I tossed a light salad, set the dining table with crystal goblets, lit candles, slipped into an elegant house dress and applied a modest touch of makeup.
At the appointed hour my nerves fluttered like a schoolgirls before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, inhaled deeply, and opened the door. Edward stood on the threshold, his coat damp from the rain, yet he wore a proud, almost regal expression.
Good evening, madam! he announced, stepping into the hallway, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen rose the intoxicating scent of the roasting meat. Edward inhaled dramatically and smiled: Ah, I sense a feast awaits!
Come in, Edward. Shed your coat. Let me hang it for you, I replied, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Truth be told, I wasnt looking for a hundredrose bouquet or a rare vintage; a box of sweets, a modest cake, or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
Edward hung his coat, adjusted his jacket, then, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into his inner pocket and declared:
As I said, Ethel, I never come emptyhanded. A gentleman must always contribute.
With that he placed in my palm a packet of tea.
I took it reflexively, lowering my gaze. It was a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea, the kind sold on the bottom shelves of budget supermarkets during a promotion. The only noteworthy thing was that the flaps were unglued and the inner cardboard tongue was ragged and halftucked inside.
I froze, trying to grasp the absurdity.
Edward, is it open? I whispered, fearing a prank.
He did not blush. Rather, his face brightened with a patronising smile, the sort a man uses when lecturing a child on obvious truths.
Of course! I bought it the other day, brewed a couple of bags. Its a strong brew, quick to make. I thought Id share it with you. No point lugging a whole packetwe wouldnt finish it in an evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure you have something else for tea, youre the lady of the house.
I stood in the entry of my clean, cosy home. Behind me the candles flickered, the beef with prunes cooled on the tablean effort that had consumed half the day and a respectable sum of money.
In front of me stood a respectable, employed, impeccably dressed fiftynineyearold gentleman, waxing lyrical about traditional values, who presented a partially used packet of pennycheap tea for a romantic dinner. The packet contained fewer than twenty bags.
A myriad of reactions flashed through my mind. I could have laughed at him, launched a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my indignation, seated him at the table and fed him meat while feeling like a humbled servant.
I chose another route. The calm that settled over me in that instant surprised even me.
I set the crumpled box gently on the side table near the mirror, met Edwards gaze, and smilednot a forced smile, but a genuine one, feeling a great relief that his true character had been revealed at the doorstep rather than after months of courting.
Edward, my voice was steady and soft. I am truly touched by your generosity, but Im afraid we shall not need that tea.
His eyebrows rose: Why not? Dont you like black tea? I could bring you green next time; I still have half a packet left at work
There will be no next time, I replied calmly. You were right that a man should contribute. Yet your contribution was so impressive that I cannot return the favour. My dinner does not rise to its level.
I took his stilldamp coat from the hanger and handed it back.
Whats the matter? Ethel, are you upset over a packet of tea? Such mercenary sentiment! his velvety voice took on a roosterlike tone, his cheeks flushing. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and you throw a fit over a trifle! Modern women want only money and restaurants!
I require respect, Edward, first and foremostrespect for myself. Put your coat back on; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, lest you catch a chill with nothing to treat it.
I placed the unfinished packet in his hands, nudged him toward the door and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. The flat was hushed, save for the ticking of the clock. I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant beef 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 him to trample over me.
Men often accuse us of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Let us be honest: it is never solely about the price of a present. It is about the sentiment behind it. A man who brings a woman a halfused packet of tea is not saving money; he is sparing his own feelings, his respect. He is showing that the woman is not worth even the smallest effort. I will no longer waste my time, energy, or life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered this sort of masculine generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh, and a man like Edward deserved a second chance?
