IT is vital to avoid eye contact with the postman today, although, by now, he can recognise the signs. He has seen the expressions, on many faces; expectation yielding to sorrow and then, to pained resignation. All of this emotion rests on the arrival – or rather, the non-arrival of a Valentine’s Day card. By mid-morning, all hope is gone. If it hasn’t appeared by now, chances are, it won’t.
The card itself is not always sufficient proof that there is an admirer somewhere sighing over your photograph while clutching a yoghurt carton from which you once ate, but it could mean someone you know cares – or at least remembered to care; even to seem to care. Does it matter? You have a card, the card – relax.
There is a range of horrific comedy cards out there, cards intended to be sent by younger brothers to conceited elder sisters in need of ridicule. But such prank communications are not at issue. Comedy cards don’t count. If you’ve just received one, along with the election litter, I mean, lies – it is unlikely to have sent your heart racing. Raised blood pressure is not quite the same as a passion-induced frisson. But you already know that, don’t you? The vulnerable many who maintain lonely vigils for a card that may or may not arrive, are on this morning of mornings acutely aware of the various shades of red or pink, particularly when it comes to envelopes. Many Valentines may travel in white. But one thing is certain, no Valentine’s Day card ever appeared in the sickly beige that signals bills.
The romantic waits, in some cases, forever. I know all about this. I never received a Valentine’s Day card, not even from either of my brothers, possibly because they both considered me more like another brother. Come to think of it, most men I know treat me like a favourite kid brother, but “soft” (as characters often say in a Shakespeare play, on remembering an almost forgotten fact), I did once receive a card on Valentine’s Day.
It was not pink or red; there was no hearts, no gooey couplet, no sighing teddies. No, it was an art card, slightly larger than they usually are, printed for the National Gallery in London. It depicted a famous painting, Whistlejacket, Rockingham’s Arab stallion as painted in 1762 by the great artist, George Stubbs. It is a marvellous study - the horse seems wary; it is rearing, blonde mane and tail shimmering. I have often seen the actual picture, a dramatic, life-sized portrait – whenever I am in London, I visit it. But to return to the card, it was blank inside except for two words written in blue ink, “Hi There”. That’s all it said, “Hi There”.
Immediately I reached for my magnifying glass in search of dried tear-stains. No traces of which were to be found. No sweaty finger prints either. I considered the ink – blue, the colour of hope, not black. No, whoever had written this had not used black; drab, lifeless black ink. Cold, formal black ink, okay, so I could rule out a civil servant. No programmed, emotionless civil servant had sent me a Valentine’s Day missive. Exactly how much passion could be contained in the words “Hi” and “There”?
Were these words in fact code for “Love You” or possibly, equally compelling, “Love Me”? If “Hi There” in fact meant, “Love You” or Love Me” were they written as a plea, a request or, very interestingly, as an order? An order, a command – “Love me in a divine-right sort of way”. Could the anonymous writer be an imperious Mr Darcy-type? Wow. Did he look like Colin Firth? Or was the sender of the card more of a Heathcliff? Either way, Darcy or Heathcliff, highly acceptable, a romantic in need of a challenge could cope.
Within minutes though, the words “Hi There” seemed too casual. The “Love Me” version was better; it was the one I preferred. Even after I had experimented with inflexion and tone, such as “Hi” and then paused before adding “There” – it was impossible to arrive at a suitably love-sick pitch Where was the frenzy? I never found out who “Hi There” was; although I kept the card, not because it had arrived on Valentine’s Day, but because it was a picture of a beautiful horse.
At school the other girls all received hundreds of Valentines, each. I once lied, claiming to have garnered six. No one believed me; I blushed and shouted, “April Fool” before slinking away to weep behind the tennis court.
I once sent a Valentine that I signed with an intriguing alias. And then spent several weeks furtively studying the object of my affection, who appeared completely unaffected by receiving it – I know he got it, I had pushed it through his letter box at dead of night.
Years have raced by. I have sent many Valentine cards to my daughter. Why do we send Valentine cards to toddlers? Some of my friends have been known to send Valentine cards to their teenage sons. I have made heart-shaped cookies. When Valentine offers of “get three boxes of chocolates for the price of two” appear, I buy six, nine, 12, explaining to the shocked shop assistants that “I have several Valentines” and race off to eat most of the chocolates. I notice the young men and the not- so-young men with their bouquets of flowers and sigh.
The real St Valentine was a martyred priest, or several martyred Roman priests – the relics of one, presented to Ireland in 1836 by Pope Gregory XVI, rest in Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin. “Love hurts” declares the perceptive cliché and the true romantic battles bramble and fire, but limps on.
How on earth did romantic passion spawn such a wishy-washy pink-and-red-candy, smiling-bunny, smirking-cupid greeting card industry? Did any of those card designers ever look at a real human heart?