DON'T GO THERE

I had heard a whisper he might be there though why I could not understand. It had been long over between us, but I was still curious to see if his new life had changed him, the way my new life had altered me. There I was, sitting with my gin and tonic, listening to the last-minute suggestions from Darren my team partner, as we went over the subject again. The great debate for the evening: that a woman should accept the chivalry of a man, with our team to the affirmative.

Instantly my mind went back to Rick, whose presence was expected for reasons known only to the Treasurer. Rick who had the kind of speaking voice that immediately melted the Christmas kilos from your tummy. His laugh started from his toenails and rumbled all the way up his gigantic frame to the bald patch amid the sandy hair.  How many debates had I listened to, learning the skills, from watching the great man considered a mentor, at work? After some months of Rick not being there, I tottered between concern and excitement at the thought of his return however brief and apparently without attachment, so it was said. I wondered why that information was so carefully metered out, maybe someone had remembered that devasting… I sighed thinking ‘Oh well it’s over. Don’t go there.’

My sister nearly had kittens at the thought that Rick and I might end up courting. I laughed at the time, there were too many obstacles in the way for that to happen.  Rick had a thirteen-year-old daughter whose makeup made her look as though she were a woman of the streets. At her age, I was lucky to wear pale pink lipstick on special occasions only. His overbearing mother whose demands on Rick, would put the famous Hyacinth Bucket (“It’s Bouquet”) of Keeping Up Appearances fame, to shame, was not one of my fans. Yet he was a man of sound ethics, of peace and harmony, wherever possible, even if his pen-pushing career including the supervisory level, seemed dull and boring. I missed him, his influence, his …. I heard my warning voice … 'don’t go there Frances.’

Just before the meal was served, I saw him. As he walked into the room, his grey eyes searched for people he knew; for it had been a while since he was involved with the club, indeed, with the interest. There had been some changes and not all of them were good. I could tell he was avoiding me; I could not blame him. One of the old faithfuls, Moira Spratt, welcomed him. They laughed together and he ordered a brandy at the bar. He spoke to Kim the President, shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with Robert, then saw that the only seat available was not only at the table where I was sitting but right next to me. I thought that was engineered, but I could not be certain.

Approaching with hesitancy he nodded to the other occupants.

“Is this seat taken?”  he asked.  I turned and smiled.

“Hi, Rick Long time no see. No, it is yours if you want it. Have you met Darren Smyth, my sparring partner for this evening?” Darren stretched over to shake Rick’s hand.

“G’day Rick nice to meet you. You’re staying for dinner?” Darren looked and sounded a little puzzled. He turned to me and said “Pam might turn up depending on her schedule. If that’s the case I’ll sort something out.” turning back to Rick

“My wife is a Ward Sister, talk about Emergency Ward 10.”

Rick laughed, but it was contrived not spontaneous.

Darren and Pam were meant for each other, had eyes only for each other. ‘What a surprise.’ I thought wistfully, ever so slightly envious.

“I wonder what is on the menu,” I said, attempting to appear normal. As if that would work.

“Steak and chips would do me,” said Rick. Did I detect a sadness to his voice?

“Have you gone off roast lamb?” I asked, laughing, and once again he joined in because it was expected, not because he saw the humour.

“No, but is that likely?” he asked, sipping his brandy, looking at me intently.

“Smells like it” I smiled. I was to be proved right.  Yes!

Who was I kidding? my new life! It consisted of a bacheloress apartment, a determined feline called Minx, grills for dinner, except on overtime nights when it was takeaway or toast. Yes, Rick left a big hole in my life. ‘Don’t go there either, Frances’.

It was small talk only catch up if you like. No one else wanted to chat with him. I could not understand.  Was he simply tolerated? He who had won awards for the club?

“How is Helen?” I asked of his daughter

“Helen? Oh, a typical teenager: tears, mood swings and an avoidance of chores. except emptying the fridge periodically, with midnight snacks. The only things she says are ‘Dad I’m starving’, ‘Dad I’m okay’ or “Dad I need a lift”. God help the world when she starts to drive.”

I laughed, picturing the makeup, the pouting. He poured us both a glass of wine and accepted the roast lamb. I had chosen the lasagne something else I would never make for myself.

He was happy that I had finally bought my own home.  He told me it would make the world of difference to my independence.

“You are too wrapped up in that sister of yours, Fran,” he said, examining the pumpkin closely, before slicing and eating the mouthful with apparent relish. I stopped myself from commenting. Everyone knew I could not stand pumpkin unless it was in soup or scones. Instead, I conceded that once again Rick was probably right.  Oh, roll the on the debate. I was never usually this nervous!

The small talk was not a success, nor was there any leeway for other conversation, beyond the “Hi Rick, long time no see, how is life treating you?”  with a look from my colleagues that said, “Don’t answer that!"

No one was interested. Nor did they ask how the love of his life was, the would-be aristocratic Sylvia who had her eye on Rick Paton from the start. Mind you, he was among a long list of devoted followers; all had escaped. It was not just my sister who put the spanner in the works, and even she had conceded it was not her call, but my decision in the end. Was that the DNA talking? No Brigid was not a bad woman, just bossy. Sylvia was bossy, cranky, selfish and (in not just my opinion) was not good enough for Rick nor any other hopeful, past or future.

It was time to get up and prepare. I did not have butterflies I never did, except tonight a couple of bats were having a ding-dong in my gut. I was tempted to ask for soda water or something.

“Good luck, Fran. Remember what I taught you,”  he smirked. I know I should not have done it but, I kissed his cheek, and that old black magic threatened to cast its spell.

I missed my cue and had Darren concerned. My mouth was dry and I suspected my hands were shaking. Was that “icy shiver “running up and down my spine? fear? or simply the Air conditioner blowing a gale? I looked over at Rick he was watching intently, nodding at something Darren had said.

Then, the opposing team had a turn. The team member had a mellifluous voice but her words were poisonous; a real man-hater. A dressing down of all that a man would or would not, could or could not do. My reaction to her comments is best left to your imagination.

My thoughts took flight. I remembered his kiss, his concern, the hand that held mine when tragedy had struck in the family, his words of comfort to all of us. Instead of despair, and tears, I found my voice. and the words came complete with the Irish lilt so long forgotten, but prevalent if I were nervous or upset.

I looked over to where Rick had been sitting, to discover Pam Smythe had come and was smiling her encouragement. I glanced at the door. Rick was there, his hands in a fig leaf position across his belly. There was a distinct absence of a gold ring on his left ring finger. I had never seen Rick look so sad, so troubled so vulnerable. Clearly, it was a mistake coming back, and once he went out that door…

‘Don’t go there, Frances. It’s a closed-door for you too.’ I thought.

However, all was not lost; the better team won and Darren, Kim and I were happy. We had our cheesecake and a celebratory bottle of …

“What?” I hear you ask because curiosity is getting the better of you.

“Don’t go there, folks!” Hick!

With apologies to Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer That Old Black Magic Called Love