At the kitchen table they smoothed out the paper and then Rosemary quickly flicked to the section at the back. Her chewed nail ran down the various ads, Bantry Bachelor … Fermanagh Medium Sized Farmer … Romantic T/T … here it was … Lonely Leinster Lady! The wording had been Rosemary’s handiwork. Patricia had favoured something a little more discreet but she was told in no uncertain terms that discretion was not going to help find her a husband. Rosemary had also advised lowering her age or not mentioning it at all but Patricia had insisted, arguing that she didn’t want any potential relationship to start with a lie. Early thirties had been settled upon though if Rosemary had been totally honest she thought that made her friend sound forty if she was a day.
After the initial excitement of actually seeing the ad in print and reassuring each other about how well it looked and the quality of it compared to the other advertisements, the women felt oddly deflated. There was now nothing to do but wait.
Days, then a week, then a fortnight and still no response. Every morning Patricia found herself waiting for the postman. Some days nothing, on other days the familiar clank of the letter box as an envelope hit the mat with the most gentle of thuds, but every day disappointment. She cursed herself for ever listening to Rosemary. This was worse than before. At least in the pre-advertisement age of her life she had just been lonely, but now she was rejected as well. She had taken to walking the long way round just to avoid Buncarragh Beauty and Rosemary’s face peering expectantly at her through the window. She imagined people smirking at the sight of her because they had worked out that she was the lonely Leinster lady. She berated herself for daring to think that she might have had a chance at a second beginning. Why hadn’t she simply accepted what everyone else knew – she was a spinster. She tried the word out as she combed her hair in the mirror. ‘Spinster.’ Her skin was still free of wrinkles and yet, as she repeated the word to her unsmiling face, she imagined her hair starting to take on a greyish hue.
It was the day before the three-week anniversary of sending away her ad and postal order when the thud on the mat sounded just a little more substantial. Patricia stood frozen in the kitchen. She wanted to run and check, but hated herself for being so easy to humiliate. Forcing herself to take another sip of her tea, she put the mug down on the table and walked at a steady pace to the door. She leaned against the frame and slowly craned her neck around the corner into the hall. A large brown envelope. Too big for a bill. Could it … She inched forward and bent to turn it over. A gasp. There, clear as day, in the top left-hand corner was the legend ‘The Irish Farmers’ Journal’。 She picked it up and scampered back into the kitchen.
Inside there were four further envelopes. Inside the first was a postcard depicting the ruins of Ennis Friary beneath a chemical blue sky. An odd choice, Patricia thought. She turned it over and read, ‘You sound like a ride.’ She dropped the card on the table with a start. Why on earth would anyone write that? Why would the Journal send it on to her? Pushing the postcard to one side she cautiously opened the next envelope. This at least was a letter. It was written on lined paper in what appeared to be a very unsteady hand. With difficulty Patricia deciphered that this was from a man who lived in Tullamore. Not too far away, she thought. He had been married twice before. She didn’t like the sound of that. As if reading her thoughts, he continued by reassuring her that his past relationships ensured he knew what he was doing. Patricia doubted this was the man for her. He had been a farmer but was now living in a care home. Oh, for God’s sake. Did she have her own house? She crumpled the thin paper into a ball. The third envelope contained a card with a drawing of a blue tit perched on a branch on the front. It was from a man in Carlow who thought it perfectly acceptable to ask her for a photograph of herself in her bra and panties. She was torn between being furious with Rosemary and impatient to share these shocking replies with her just to hear her friend’s big throaty laugh. What a waste of time and money!
The fourth letter looked different. It was written in black ink on the same Basildon Bond blue notepaper her mother had favoured. The handwriting was neat and, more importantly, didn’t look insane. A small black and white photograph fell on the table. A middle-aged man, forty? was standing beside an old-fashioned steam engine. His hand rested on the large metal rim of the wheel by the driver’s seat. He was staring straight into the camera and oddly wasn’t smiling, but nor did he look too serious or sad. Patricia decided that ‘benign’ was how she would describe him. His dark hair receded on either side of his forehead leaving a widow’s peak and his large dark eyes seemed kind. She peered closer. Yes, definitely kind. He was dressed simply in a white shirt open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the belt of his dark trousers showed off his slim waist. He didn’t set Patricia’s heart racing but she wasn’t repulsed either and at this point that seemed like winning. She started to read his letter.