The Mail-Order Bride
A woman snored loudly on the bed. The man winced at the smell and gave her a sharp smack on the backside. She yelped and sat up. Despite the stuffy heat, she was bundled in woolly socks and a thick jumper. A grubby headscarf sat crookedly atop her greasy, indeterminate-coloured hair.
«Who are you?» she blurted, startled.
Instead of answering, he pulled a photo from his jacket and shoved it in her face. «Recognise this?»
She flushed, fiddling with the scarf. «That’s me. Twenty years ago.»
He slumped onto a grimy chair. «So what was all that, then? The heartfelt letters? The invitation? Can’t even step into your house without gagging. And I, the idiot, thought I’d found my soulmate. Remember who you were writing to? It’s Nigel. I came, just like I promised.»
Molly sprang up. «Sorry you had to see me like this. Could’ve wired ahead. I’d have made an effort. Come to the kitchen—I think there’s soup left. Hungry, I bet?»
«Obviously. But first—do us a favour and change. You don’t exactly smell of roses.»
Molly dashed to the next room. «Well, I work on a farm. Manure ain’t lavender, is it?» She emerged in a dress, scarf neatly tied.
«Wrote you were forty, but you dress like my nan,» Nigel smirked.
«Old habit,» she muttered. «Now, table—let’s go.»
He sat and grimaced—the oilcloth was sticky. Meanwhile, Molly lifted the lid off a filthy pot. A vinegary stench punched the air.
«Blimey, you’re no housekeeper. Dishes filthy, table grubby, plates greasy. Do you even wash them?»
She huffed. «Course I do. Heat some water and scrub.»
He raised a brow. «Add anything? Soda? Washing-up liquid?»
She hesitated. «No. Gran and Mum just used boiling water. Burns my hands, though.»
«Right. Shopping list. Here’s some cash. No, keep yours—I’m a guest. And grab us a bottle of red—celebratory, like.»
As Molly trudged to the shop, she wondered how she’d gotten tangled in this mess. At work, flipping through a paper, she’d spotted the lonely hearts column. The girls had nudged her—»Molls, it’s fate! How long’ll you live like a nun? Pick one and write!»
Devil made her do it. And of all blokes, Nigel. First letter revealed he was banged up, three years left. Somehow, they kept writing. He’d even asked for a photo—she sent one from her twenties. Figured they’d scribble a bit, then he’d shack up with some floozy after release. But no—he’d rocked up at *her* door. And now he was turning his nose up.
So the place wasn’t spotless. Who cared? Work, sleep, batch-cook, telly. Those soaps with love she’d never had. Well, once—Vinnie Carter. Used her, then married some tart. After that, she’d given up. Buried Mum and Gran, stopped caring entirely.
Still, Nigel was easy on the eyes. Broad shoulders, crisp white shirt, sharp trousers. Nice aftershave, too. What if he tried something? Christ, terrifying! Could bunk at a mate’s—but awkward, him coming all this way.
Returning with bags, she found Nigel had tidied—piled the laundry, swept, even set out a basin of suds.
«Got everything?» He peeked in the bags. «Right, go light the boiler—need a wash. And shift that laundry. Later.»
While she fussed with the boiler, he scrubbed everything. Molly gaped—the pot was *blue*, not grey.
«Right, serious talk,» he said after. «Came here to stay. Liked your letters. Got no place of my own—ex-wife took it. If you’re not keen, say now. I’ll clear off. But if I stay, my word’s solid. Well?»
She picked at the oilcloth. «Dunno, honestly. Never had a husband. Got hurt young. Don’t even know how to live with a bloke. Proper scared, if I’m honest. But… I fancy you. Just don’t know what to *do*.»
Nigel grinned. «That’s why I like you. No airs, no games. Tell you what—we’ll try it neighbourly. If it’s rubbish, I’m gone. If it works, I’ll spoil you rotten.»
Molly turned pink, flustered. «Should—should make dinner—»
«Plenty of time while I bathe. Take ages, me.»
Post-bath, Nigel found a set table and mopped floors. Molly, in a dressing gown, towel in hand, scurried past—her turn.
When she emerged—washed, hair brushed waist-long, in a fresh dress—Nigel nearly scooped her up. But he’d promised.
They slept apart—her on the bed, him on the sofa. Neither slept. Come morning, Molly bolted to work. Returned to breakfast—omelette, toast, tea. Nice.
Meanwhile, Nigel paced her overgrown yard, mentally tallying repairs.
Three nights in, Molly crept to the sofa.
Four years on, they’re raising little Violet—utterly doting.
So what if folks stumble? Doesn’t mean they’re write-offs. Everyone deserves a shot at happiness. Don’t they?