The Mail-Order Bride
A woman snored loudly on the bed. A man wrinkled his nose at the smell and gave her a firm swat on the backside. She yelped and sat up. Despite the stifling heat, she wore thick woolly socks and a heavy jumper. A grubby headscarf sat askew, revealing greasy hair of an indeterminate colour.
«Who are you?» she asked, startled.
Instead of answering, he pulled a photograph from his coat and held it up. «Recognise this?»
She flushed, fumbling with her scarf. «That’s me. Twenty years ago.»
The man perched on a grimy chair. «So what was all that about? The heartfelt letters? The invitation to visit? I can’t even step into your house without gagging. And like a fool, I thought I’d finally found my soulmate. Remember who you wrote to? It’s Nigel. I came, just like I promised.»
Vera sprang up. «Sorry about the mess. You could’ve sent a telegram. I’d have tidied up. Come to the kitchen—I think there’s some soup left. You must be starving.»
Nigel sighed. «Alright. But do me a favour—change first. You don’t exactly smell like roses.»
Vera dashed into the next room. «Well, I work on a farm. Manure doesn’t have a floral scent.»
She returned in a dress, her scarf neatly tied. «You wrote you were forty, but you dress like an old granny,» Nigel scoffed.
«Old habit,» Vera muttered, motioning to the table. «Let’s eat.»
Nigel sat and grimaced—the greasy tablecloth stuck to his hands. Meanwhile, Vera lifted the lid off a filthy pot. A sharp, sour stench filled the air.
«Blimey, you’re no housekeeper. Dirty dishes, grimy table—do you even wash up?»
Vera bristled. «Of course I do! I heat water and scrub.»
He raised an eyebrow. «Do you add anything? Washing-up liquid? Soda?»
She hesitated. «No. My nan and mum just used boiling water. My hands burn otherwise.»
«Right, let’s go to the shop. I’ll make a list. Here’s some cash—no, keep yours. I’m the guest. And grab a bottle of red wine while you’re at it—to celebrate.»
As Vera walked to the shop, she wondered how she’d got tangled in this mess. It started when her co-workers flicked through a newspaper and spotted the lonely hearts column. «Go on, Vee,» they’d teased. «It’s fate! How long are you going to be alone? Pick someone and write!»
The devil made her agree. And of all people, she’d chosen Nigel. After the first letter, she learned he was in prison with three years left. Still, they kept writing—sharing stories, even swapping photos. She’d sent one from her twenties, never imagining he’d actually turn up. She assumed he’d find some other woman after his release. Yet here he was, wrinkling his nose at her mess.
So what if her house wasn’t spotless? Who was she tidying for? After work, she slept, cooked enough for three days, then binged telly—soap operas full of love she’d never had. Except once. There’d been Vince Redford, who’d used her and married someone else. After that, she’d given up. And once her nan and mum passed, she stopped caring altogether.
Still, Nigel was handsome—broad-shouldered, crisp white shirt, smart trousers. His cologne was nice, too. But what if he expected… things? God, the thought terrified her. She could stay at a friend’s, but that felt rude. He’d come all this way for her.
When she returned with shopping bags, she found Nigel had tidied up—piled the laundry, swept the floor, even set out a basin of hot water for washing up.
«Get everything?» he asked, peering into the bags. «Now go light the boiler—I need a wash after travelling. And take that laundry—you’ll do it later.»
While she fussed with the boiler, he scrubbed everything clean. Vera gasped—the pot was sky blue, not grey.
«Let’s talk,» Nigel said later. «I came to stay—properly. I like you. I’ve got no home—left everything to my ex and the kids. If you don’t want me, say so now, and I’ll go. My word’s good. Well?»
Vera fiddled with the tablecloth. «Honestly, I don’t know. Never had a husband—got hurt young. I don’t even know how to live with a man. Terrifies me, truth be told. But… I like you. And I don’t know what to do about it.»
Nigel smiled. «That’s why I like you more. No games, no lies. Tell you what—we’ll live like neighbours. If it doesn’t work, I’ll leave. If it does… I’ll treat you like a queen.»
Vera blushed and flustered. «I should make supper—»
«I’ll be ages in the bath,» he reassured her.
When Nigel returned, the table was set and the floors gleamed. Vera, in a robe with a towel, slipped past him for her own wash.
Later, freshly bathed, her honey-blonde hair brushed smooth, Nigel’s fingers itched to pull her close. But he’d promised.
They slept separately—her in bed, him on the sofa—both awake all night. At dawn, Vera rushed to work. When she returned, breakfast waited: omelette, toast, and tea. Nigel, meanwhile, surveyed her overgrown garden, mentally listing repairs.
On the third night, Vera crept to Nigel’s sofa.
Four years on, they’re raising little Lilibet, adored beyond measure.
Sometimes people stumble. That doesn’t mean they’re beyond redemption. Everyone deserves a shot at happiness—don’t you think?