Who would have thought?

It was 1997 and I’d just returned to Sydney from the James Joyce Summer School in Dublin. I had been inspired by the Irish culture and their use of language although reading Joyce’s works in preparation for the week of study and lectures did prove difficult.

My first encounter with James Joyce was going to see Ulysses at the local cinema in my hometown of Stratford, New Zealand, back in 1968 where the audience was gender segregated. I wasn’t yet eighteen but managed to get in. Because of the furore about the book, many, including me, wanted to see the film and no doubt many like me wondered after the viewing what the fuss was about. It was the Swinging Sixties after all, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, the pill was available, men had long hair, sex before marriage was more acceptable and women’s rights were on the agenda.

Now home and back to work in the Publicity Department at SBS Television, I regaled my colleagues with tales of Ireland and the fun I’d had; the characters I’d met, the intriguing accents, the pubs, and the ‘craic’. I told them the story about how when walking back to my digs at a nunnery, I let off a loud fart after leaving the pub. I was ticked off by a passer-by who was accompanying a priest. ‘You farted in front of the father,’ the man said in horror. Trying not to laugh, I apologised and walked on. I’d enjoyed his great use of alliteration.

However, I didn’t go into detail about my visit to England during the same trip. While in London, before heading to Dublin, I was meant to reunite with a recent ex-boyfriend. Out of the blue, he’d written to me in Sydney from a northern town in England. He had stressed how much he missed me. I replied, saying I was about to go to London, and he immediately responded saying he wanted to see me when I got there. I was given a number to ring and a time. I rang as arranged but he wasn’t there. His landlady informed me he was out. Typical. At my friend’s flat where I was staying, the ex-boyfriend rang back repeatedly, but I refused to answer. His plaintive answer machine messages didn’t weaken my resolve. I’d been through too much with him to take any more bullshit.

After listening to my travel tales, one of my SBS colleagues told me about an Irish band which was due to play in a pub near the CBD of Sydney. The pub was then called the Brendon Behan. Most appropriate. Eager to keep the Irish spirit going, I went along to watch but, being by myself, sat as nonchalantly as possible, aware I was one of the few single females in that part of the bar.

The band performed a mixture of current hits and Irish classics and for a few moments I was transported to a Dublin pub with the multicultural gang from the James Joyce Summer School. We had come from different parts of the world including Japan, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, England, and Australia. Sipping Guinness, we’d discussed James Joyce and other Irish literary figures while listening to the bodhran, the fiddle and accordion playing traditional Gaelic tunes.

The first set in the Brendon Behan finished to much clapping and the lead singer informed the crowd that he was heading back to Ireland that night. As I waited for the next set to start, a young man wearing work shorts and shirt, boots, with a shaved head and tattoos suddenly stood next to my table. He looked nothing like my ex-boyfriend. The only similarity was they were both younger than me.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked. At least that is what I thought he’d said. ‘No thank you,’ was my reply. He walked away but reappeared soon after. His ‘twang’ was extraordinarily strong, and I could only follow bits of what he was saying. Again, I declined his offer of a drink, and he returned to his table of work mates. I could feel their stares.

I hadn’t gone to the pub to meet anyone. After the final nail in the relationship coffin while in London, I needed a break from men. To coin a cliché, all men were bastards. I relished the thought of my freedom and the escape from the emotional turmoil being in love brought with it. The ex-boyfriend of nearly seven years had broken my heart many times. He was seventeen years younger than me and although logically I knew it wouldn’t last, the pain it caused was mind boggling. If it hadn’t been for my two young children, suicide almost seemed an option.

During the next band break, the lead singer joined the group of which my pursuer was a member and judging by their loud and exuberant conversation the singer was a member of this work crew. They were a bunch of electricians. I heard a variety of accents, South African, Aussie and English. Although I was born in England, I was unfamiliar with the strong regional dialects.

The band revved up again and the indecipherable young man came once more to ask if I wanted a drink. I was on the point of refusing when something dawned on me. His speech sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn’t either of my parents’ accents, but I recognised it from somewhere. Suddenly, it came to me. The Beatles. He sounded like The Beatles!!

I had been and still was the most devoted Beatles fan. I adored them. As a teenager, I was too shy to undress in front of their pictures on my bedroom walls and I’d go into the bathroom to change. They were so real to me. Their every song resonated with meaning. I constantly listened to the radio and on all the stations in New Zealand during the 1960s The Beatles were on constant rotation. I ordered The Beatles Monthly to be delivered to my local newsagent and drooled over each photograph. They were gorgeous, especially Paul.

‘Where are you from in England?’ I asked the young electrician.

‘Liverpool,’ he replied.

‘Where The Beatles are from,’ I stated.

‘Yeah. But the posh part.’

‘Thought I recognised the accent,’ I admitted.

‘Beatles fan?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely.’

‘My name’s Steve.’

‘Elizabeth. Liz.’

‘Like the bloody Queen. If I could I’d shoot the whole fucking lot of those spongers.’

Ah. A man with strong left-wing views. I smiled, hoping he didn’t think I was as old as her, and finally agreed to a drink. He was soon back with the ‘bevvies’ and invited me to join his mates. I accepted and sat with the table of blokes, all in the same attire. They had work the next day but wanted to support the Irishman who was returning home. I learned that Liverpool and Ireland had many connections.

While Steve went back to the bar, the self-described ‘Cape Coloured’ from South Africa, leant over, asking me to look after Steve. A tad premature, I thought. I’d only just met him and didn’t think I’d be seeing him again. I certainly wasn’t looking for a boyfriend and this group of men was not normally my scene.

The other Scouser in the group, I’d picked up the term listening to their conversation, was Harvey who’d come out to Australia with Steve and another Steve in 1995. They’d travelled around the country in an old bomb of a car and settled in Sydney on working holiday visas. Harvey, out of the whole group, was the only one who seemed disapproving of my presence. It was obvious he thought it was a men’s night and women weren’t welcome. ‘Alright?’ he’d asked dismissively. I answered that I was. I wondered if he was trying to protect his mate. Did he see me as a threat to the male domain, or by my being older, he saw me as a waste of Steve’s time?

The gig came to an end with the singer saying goodbye to the audience and his work colleagues. They helped him with his band gear and travel bags, and he headed outside to catch a passing cab to the airport.

The show was over, and the pub was about to close as it was nearing eleven. Steve’s group downed the remains of their beer and stood up to leave. ‘Coming?’ they asked. Steve looked at me and said, ‘No.’ I remained seated. The Clash’s words sang in my head. ‘Should I stay, or should I go?’ I stayed. This was not how I’d expected the night to end. The farewells over, Steve suggested going somewhere else that was still open. Bugger it, why not? I thought. He was from Liverpool where The Beatles grew up and began their meteoric rise. It was a connection. He must be okay despite our obvious differences.

We caught a taxi to an all-night pub in the city. I was free to stay out as I had a live-in babysitter and it was Friday night, so I didn’t have to get up for work the following morning.

Without loud noise in the background, I was better able to understand Steve’s accent and I learned about his life and background. I couldn’t help but enjoy his stories and his Scouse humour. Of course, I asked about The Beatles. He was born just after they split but he told me how his mother’s stepfather had not allowed her to go to The Cavern. One of her greatest disappointments was she never got to see The Beatles play live yet she lived around the corner.

Steve was curious as to why I’d gone to the gig. I explained about my trip to Dublin and the summer school and how a friend at SBS had told me about the band and its Irish singer. An hour or so later, I blame the drinks, I confessed to being over men. I wasn’t looking for another relationship after the dramas of the last one. This revelation didn’t seem to faze him. ‘Another bubbly?’ he asked.

Time passed quickly. One aspect that impressed me about Steve was he didn’t try to ‘get his leg over’. There was no pressure to go home with him or back to my place, nor did he use his generosity of buying all the drinks as a form of sexual blackmail. Finally, he saw me into a cab and made his own way home. He had to be up at five in the morning.

Despite my protestations about having another relationship and my initial doubts about Steve’s suitability - his age, a backpacker, a tradie, a different social culture, and a ‘lad’ - we married in 1999. Harvey was our best man.