Tennis Anyone?
The Minister for No Fun has invited herself yet again for dinner and E Rowling decides that for a change they should go to the Neighbours night at the local pub.From the footpath outside the front door the Minister glances in,surveys and sums up the situation in an instant …. too old ,too bourgeois and too boring for her to squander her social graces over which she must now exercise some care she feels ,having lavished them on far too many, for too long and her ultimate purpose still not achieved.But Elizabeth argues the case for proceeding with the plan as previously hatched on the basis of ,but not limited to, the principles of happy serendipity , convenience and downright good value (the meals are cheap) until the Minister relents and her outlook is restored to a state of wary expectation.
They step inside.Together they scan the room with a practiced eye.Elizabeth leads with a big “come in spinner” grin, the Minister hangs back because front running is not her forte .Her turn will come later.
Before long Elizabeth spies a familiar face,the President of the Albert Park tennis club ensconced at a table with his wife. She goes over .They hover for a bit engaging in fatuous chit chat until the President invites them to join his table .
The Minister after brief formalities are exchanged gestures weakly in the direction of the bar and enquires of Elizabeth “What do you feel like …Lib? It seems to be a show of generosity more designed to impress the others .
That hand seems to get snagged on thin air and as the other appears welded to her purse it seems unlikely that the two are about to cooperate in any monetary exchange.This hesitation with its overtone of helplessness incites the President (oblivious to the routine being worked on him or willing to overlook it)and propelled by his own natural conviviality(and a few beers under the belt) to sweep all asides aside and with a commanding flourish declares with some authority “My shout!”
Elizabeth is still pondering her choice of drink as she is wont to do.It is a more plausible (if now unnecessary) temporizing device.
The Ministers face relaxes into a sheepish grin.
After drinks are served the Minister opens up the conversation on the subject of tennis.
How she used to play… would like to again …can’t get a leg in(or over ) anywhere… possible closed shops …has a sister who plays in a group on Tuesdays that she has tried unsuccessfully to break into.. how this.. how that.. etc etc etc until the President feels obliged to extend an official invitation for fear of having his club accused of being an elitist closed shop committed to maintaining class divides at the public’s expense.
He knows instinctively to keep an enemy close.
Already the Minister has ascertained that it is a council funded club, with the professional classes over-represented in its current membership, a five year waiting list for new members and a distinct air of exclusivity.
Elizabeth looks on aghast.She sees all too clearly what her friend is working to.
The Minister appears yet again to be infringing boundaries,nailing her standard to someone elses mast.
Elizabeth takes the opportunity while the Minister visits the ladies to warn the President in an indirect way of what he has just invited unwittingly into the club of which she herself has been a full member for some time now having watched on the side lines and waited patiently and she is not about to see that effort devalued.It is not an easy task.
Perhaps the threat is lost on the President but Elizabeth continues through the evening to silently reinforce her point with winks and nods, fixed stares and furrowed looks as the Minister unfolds the recent events of her life including her foray into freelance broadcasting with a story of poverty and disadvantage from her recent trip to Africa .
The air between and around them appears to crackle.It is not exactly clear from where the electrical intensity is emanating.
Suddenly the Ministers mobile rings.That fact isn’t obvious at first because the ringtone is the Yothu yindi
song “Treaty eh” and its association with the Ministers phone at first incongruous perhaps even absurdly contradictory given the present circumstances takes a moment to register.
Its her new beau seeking to call off their involvement in the weekend Coutta boat sailing regatta at Sorrento to which the Minister is 100% committed.The rules of the comp necessitate turning up even if a change of weather is likely to prevent the race going ahead (such can the vagaries of the sea be ),but the Minister has a similar and more unrelenting personal rule about turning up when she has accepted an invitation no matter what and cancellation is not an option.
His ex-wife is in a spot of bother and needs his help,he explains. He is obviously a kind and caring soul.
“What bother?” the Minister retorts,”What help? Why now ?”, drilling down by
further interrogation into the heart of the matter and then coming up with an innovative solution.
“Bring the ex along…(she’d
rather a threesome than nothing at all )… the fresh air’ll do her the world of good”
One can almost feel the new beau wincing as he contemplates what it takes to get the Minister off his case.
At last they retire from the pub and the plan for the Minister to make a guest appearance at the Albert Park tennis club is set( much to Elizabeth Rowlings dismay).
Sometimes there is just no stopping The Minister short of committing an offence that one would most likely regret.
Her dog Teddy had recently to be put down.
It is not clear exactly why . The dog was suffering.
That much is clear.
There was something terminal about its state.
Even strangers the pair had encountered regularly on the streets recently when Teddy was still interested in a walk had made comments about the change in his demeanor.
In the end the Minister became convinced the animal was dying and no one had the nerve to over ride her point of view.
Matters of life and death are sine qua non to a country bred girl.
And so the date was set.Why that particular day it is hard to speculate (I guess if it was going to be ,then which day didn’t really matter) except to say that it went ahead as planned.
She is still grieving in her inimical way and the opportunity to branch out into a new network such as the well heeled and well informed denizens of the Albert park club presents some appeal.
She always likes to look for the silver lining.
Although she suddenly recalls an unpleasant exchange with another of Elizabeth Rowlings unsavoury associates (she sure knows how to pick ‘em) that took place at Lina ,s wine bar one night a while back. A certain P Casey a member of the tennis club had managed to completely squash her interest in that establishment (and just when Elizabeth had begun to whet it)
by declaring in his drunken cavalier overbearing
and highly provocative manner “No cunts allowed”.
P.Casey is a criminal barrister with noted skills in cross examination and a cardiac defibrillator implanted near his heart which is prone to arrest and so he has little reason to tip toe around the truth and especially not after a few drinks. As quick to point out the apparent inconsistency between the rule and his ongoing membership as she was, the Minister’s dry witticism is drowned out on a tide of more raucous drunken laughter.
So now , lets see, what’s the plan?
She thinks it through carefully. It will be necessary to strike just the right tone .
She ponders a range of styles in relation to her garb, her manner,(not too bookish not too frivolous) topics of conversation to be included and those definitely to be excluded . She hopes P. Casey wont be playing and wonders if he’s worse sober (if that’s possible) until at last she feels that she has struck just the right chord .
At the last minute in a lighthearted zany moment of spontaneous fun, she decides to wear her frillie black undies in place of her tennis dress which she has recovered from the bottom of the glory box that she was supposed to elope with, with that stockbroker bloke a few years back. She feels certain in an inexplicable way that this should set the tone for her inaugural visit.
As she locks up the Ministry for No Fun and mounts her 3 wheeler to wend her way to the clubhouse she notes
to herself that the weather (drat it !) might be closing in.
Never mind if the boys abandon the game, they,ll probably retire to someones study for drinks and intelligent conversation about recent political events and the environment or the degradation of women by football celebrities to name a few topics.
Better than that boring drivel from E Rowling about recipes and Africa…
What rubbish! (Though the free meal is always welcome.)
By the time she arrives its pouring rain and the
gardens are abandoned.
She waits under the eaves of the clubhouse a little longer than the circumstances would reasonably dictate.
Stood up again. “oh well….” She’s used to taking adversity on the chin… no choice when you’re from the land.
She puts on her plastic shower cap and peddles on past Elizabeth Rowlings place just in case her friend is in.
Alas her friend is not.…never seems to be in when she needs her .., she reflects a little darkly.
“I wouldn’t mind betting that bastard Jack is behind all this somehow” she reflects on the disappointments of the evening one piling up on top of the next without consolation.What next!
She continues back to the Ministry.
She ponders the events … what went wrong… what does it all mean?. She is sure that there is bastardry at work somewhere somehow.
She is becoming increasingly annoyed.
As she arrives at Central Place (Port Melbourne )
she subconsciously begins to chide, admonish, get very cross with….in her own mind…out of long entrenched habit, her poor dog.
No Teddy no no…no… naughty dog….
Sadly Teddy is deceased but one gets the feeling that if the poor mut was alive still, he would have shat on the floor again in protest out of sheer exasperation there being no other option left to him .
