The Trivia Man

by Deborah O'Brien

Table eight wasn’t so bad – at the front, but to the side, with a wall behind it and a fire exit nearby. Kevin felt doubly safe – no-one behind him and an accessible escape route. He ordered a lemon, lime and bitters from a passing waiter and built a pyramid of cardboard coasters while he was waiting. Although it was already five to eight, the tables were almost empty and people were still congregating around the bar. As the Professor picked up the microphone and began telling jokes, Kevin decided he had made a mistake in coming. Nobody – not even the MC – seemed to be taking it seriously. Then, when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Miss Kitty took the mike and sang ‘I Feel Pretty’ in a little girl voice. It seemed to be the cue for everyone to take their seats.

  Suddenly Kevin twigged to the reason why the Professor looked familiar. As a youthful incarnation of himself, blessed with shorter, darker hair, he’d been the jovial host of a 1980s TV show called World’s Biggest Quiz, which Kevin had watched every week. Although he’d found the title pretentious and the antics of the compere annoying, he’d enjoyed the quiz itself, answering most of the questions before the contestants did. One day his mother convinced him to attend an audition for the show. They turned up on the designated date at a big hall full of would-be contestants. The elimination process involved the Professor (known in those days as Frank Fortune) firing questions at the crowd. The first person to answer each question correctly was ushered into another room for the next stage of the selection process – a one-on-one interview.

  Sitting in the audience, Kevin was so nervous he couldn’t think straight. Then came a question he was absolutely sure about. ‘What is the oldest form of Australian mammal?’

  He shot his hand into the air and called out, ‘Steropodon.’

  ‘Wrong!’ Frank Fortune retorted briskly, continuing around the raised hands until he heard the answer he wanted: ‘Platypus.’

  Kevin whispered to his mum, ‘But they weren’t like modern platypuses. The correct name is steropodon.’ He didn’t raise his hand for the rest of the audition. In retrospect, Frank Fortune had probably done him a favour – he would never have summoned the courage to be a contestant on a television show.

  As Kevin sipped his lemon, lime and bitters, a man at the next table leaned over and said, ‘Have the other members of your team stood you up?’

  Kevin should have been used to people commenting on his single status, but it made him feel awkward, as if he were some kind of freak.

  ‘I’m on my own,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ the man replied and turned back to his table.

  The Professor was telling jokes, just as he had done on his TV show all those years ago. They didn’t seem to be funny, but Kevin could never tell whether something was funny or not. He made a practice of watching other people’s reactions and then mimicking them. This time there was only a titter from the audience, so he didn’t bother to smile.

  All at once the Professor changed from comic to schoolmaster, laying out the rules about turning off mobile phones and not leaving the room except during breaks. Kevin had heard them all before, but he paid careful attention anyway. It was like boarding a plane and listening to a safety spiel you already knew by heart. Best not to jinx yourself by being too nonchalant.

  The Professor finished his lecture with a stern disclaimer: ‘Although I’ll allow some latitude when it comes to spelling, I will only accept the answer I’ve got written down on my card. No objections or discussion will be entertained under any circumstances.’ Kevin had seen him in action in the Frank Fortune days so he wasn’t surprised at his authoritarian approach. Then round one began.

  ‘Who played Mr Percival in the 1976 Australian film Storm Boy?’ the Professor asked in his best quizmaster voice.

  Kevin couldn’t believe it. A trick question. What kind of serious trivia competition included items like that? Did it set the tone for the rest of the night? On his answer sheet, he wrote ‘pelican’ in block letters and added an exclamation mark for good measure. If this was the tenor of the questions, he wouldn’t be returning next week. But the second one was better.

  What are the official languages of Rwanda?

  Kevin wrote down ‘English and French’, though he wondered if there was an indigenous language as well.

  The only other difficult question in that round was, In which year were the first Winter Olympic Games held?

  If only they had asked where. It was the French Alps – Chamonix. But when? He knew it was the twenties. In those days they were held in the same year as the summer games. But was it 1920, 1924 or 1928? He really didn’t know, so he chose the middle number. After that, he could manage every question, bar the one where a piece of rap music was played and they had to name the performer. Modern music was Kevin’s weakness.

  At the end of round two Miss Kitty finished marking the first batch of answer sheets and the Professor took the microphone.

  ‘All of you got the first question right, except for one team.’ He paused for effect. ‘They were under the misapprehension that Mr Percival was played by Chips Rafferty.’

  A chorus of laughter filled the auditorium.

  ‘I won’t embarrass that particular team by revealing their identity,’ he said, looking in the direction of table ten, a group composed of a bulky man, resembling an ex-footballer gone to seed, and three females seated to his left.

  Then Kevin listened intently as the Professor supplied the rest of the answers. Damn, there was a third language – Rwandan – but he had guessed right about the Winter Olympics. The scores appeared on the overhead screen. He was coming equal first.

  At interval there was a karaoke contest, so he made himself scarce. He was on his way to hide in the men’s toilet when a tall woman with long, dark hair tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, but aren’t you the One-Man Band?’

  When she said it that way, it sounded silly. Even so, he nodded.

  ‘I’m one of the Amazons,’ she said.

  For a moment he was puzzled, picturing the mythical female warriors from antiquity, before realising it was her team name.

  ‘We’ve decided to make you a proposition. We’ll never stand a chance in this competition unless we have someone of your calibre on our team.’

  The Amazon was standing so close he could barely breathe.

  ‘What’s in it for me, you’re thinking,’ she continued.

  Kevin wasn’t thinking that at all. He was trying to calm the rapid pounding against his chest wall.

  ‘We’re offering you the opportunity to be the only male in a team of five ladies.’ She laughed lightly, as if it were every man’s dream. Little did she know it was Kevin’s worst nightmare. Edging backwards in an attempt to gain more space, he replied, ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me, but I … I prefer to be on my own.’

  She peered into his eyes for a moment, then said, ‘Well, suit yourself’, and headed towards the door of the ladies’ toilet. As she disappeared inside, her perfume lingered, so potent he wondered if the air might be combustible.

  Kevin spent the next fifteen minutes in a cubicle before venturing forth, only to discover the karaoke was still underway. So he wandered back towards the men’s, but didn’t go in. People might wonder about him if he hung around there for too long. Instead, he took a corridor which led to a stairwell. At the bottom he discovered something that might serve him well in the future. Then he checked his watch. Surely the karaoke would be over by now.

  At the end of the night, when the Professor announced the winner, he joked, ‘We’ll have to handicap that One-Man Band or there won’t be a competition at all.’

  As Kevin blushed, he heard a female voice next to his ear. For a second his chest tightened. Not the Amazon again? But when he turned around, a blonde woman in her twenties or thirties – Kevin could never tell – was standing beside him. This time he smelled garlic. For some reason, that was less confronting than the perfume.

  ‘I’m from the Usual Suspects,’ she said. ‘I was wonder
ing whether you might like to join us.’

  He had noticed them – table two – four men and two women. They had come second.

  ‘With you on board, we’d be invincible.’

  When Kevin remained silent, she said, ‘You must be lonely, sitting here all night on your own.’ She was wearing a flimsy black dress which wrapped her body so tightly she might have been a sea siren sent to lure him to his death.

  ‘After all, one is the loneliest number,’ she whispered, waiting for him to say yes.

  ‘Harry Nilsson, 1968.’ It was Kevin speaking for the first time. ‘And covered by Johnny Farnham in 1969.’

  ‘That’s why we need you. You’re a brainbox. A freakin’ genius.’

  Suddenly Kevin stood up. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I’m not a team player.’

  WEEK

  TWO

  Maggie

  For at least a year Carole Clarke had been asking Maggie Taylor to come along to her Tuesday trivia night. Carole was the receptionist at Brookford College, the school where Maggie taught Latin and French as part of a department bearing the intriguing acronym LOTE – ‘languages other than English’.

  ‘You’d like it, Maggie. And it would be a chance to get out and meet people.’

  By people, Carole meant men. She was always trying to matchmake for Maggie, whose other friends had given up long ago.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Maggie. ‘And I have my book club.’

  ‘But that’s only women. You need bright lights and mixed company.’

  Maggie was diplomatic enough to refrain from saying that the Clifton Heights Sports Club would hardly be a place she would go to meet men, even if she was actually looking – which she wasn’t. Her life had acquired a pleasant rhythm, undisturbed by a male presence. Besides, she was fifty-four years old, almost a senior citizen.

  ‘You’re in danger of becoming a recluse, Maggie, stuck away in that house of yours.’

  ‘I have Rufus.’ Rufus was her tricolour Shetland sheepdog. ‘And I’m here at school four days a week. That’s not being reclusive.’

  ‘Spending your days with a bunch of adolescents doesn’t count. That can drive anyone crazy. And I’m speaking from personal experience.’

  If a school’s role was to act in loco parentis, then Carole was the archetypal mother figure. She scrubbed ink stains off shirts, dispensed pads and tampons, soothed frayed tempers and listened to problems. Rarely did she offer advice. She was simply a sounding board. Behind her reception desk a noticeboard filled with thank you cards bore witness to her popularity.

  ‘But, Maggie, we need you,’ Carole continued. ‘We came fifth last week. Our worst result ever. Edward’s in such a bad mood.’

  Whenever someone said they needed Maggie, she was wont to respond by offering her services. But there was the matter of Carole’s husband, Edward. Maggie found him both irritating and intimidating. He was a doctor, though not a practising one. Immediately after his internship and a brief period in a London hospital, he had taken a job with the public service, specialising in epidemics and disease clusters. Sometimes, when there was an outbreak of exotic flu or a flare-up of meningococcal meningitis, Edward would appear on the TV filling in for the usual public faces of the department. And although he wore a pin-striped suit and bow tie in the manner of a Harley Street specialist, Maggie never found him reassuring. In fact, he brushed aside journalists’ questions in such a cavalier way, she wondered if he might be concealing something. Or was it just that he had decided laypeople couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of medical matters?

  ‘I don’t think I’d be much help, Carole.’

  ‘You’re a movie buff, Maggie. Movies are our weakness, especially the old ones. We made a terrible gaffe about Mr Percival.’

  ‘The pelican in Storm Boy?’

  ‘Yes, we thought he was John Meillon or Chips Rafferty.’

  Maggie couldn’t help smiling. ‘You weren’t far off the mark. Those two actors were in almost every Australian film made back then.’

  ‘See why we need you, Maggie.’

  ‘But didn’t you once tell me that music was your Achilles heel?’

  ‘Yes, but now we have Mei Zhen. You couldn’t find anyone more knowledgeable on the subject than the head of our music department. And there’s her partner, Ash, who teaches PE at Amberside High. They’re both really good on modern stuff like hip hop.’

  Maggie was weakening. A night out each week wouldn’t be a bad thing, but she would have to ensure she didn’t sit next to Edward.

  ‘Well, how about I come for one week and see if it works out? Do they allow random competitors?’

  ‘As long as we have a core team, it’s okay.’

  ‘I’m not making a long-term commitment, Carole.’

  ‘I understand that, Maggie. But once you start, you’ll be hooked.’

  Maggie just smiled. She doubted it.

  People often asked Maggie Taylor why she wasn’t married, as if being married was life’s ultimate goal, the nirvana every one should attain at least once in a lifetime. Then again, Maggie had thought the same way, long ago when she was with Josh. Back in those days she had dreamt of a fancy wedding, swooned over gowns in bridal boutiques and worded the invitation in her head:

  Mr and Mrs R. Taylor request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of their only daughter, Margaret Anne, to Joshua John, son of Mr and Mrs A. Houghton at St John’s Church, Clifton Heights

  She never got as far as the date. That was the story of the relationship, really. A date was never set, a commitment never made. Not on his part anyway.

  They had met when Maggie was in first year at university and Josh was doing his Honours year in Sociology. Every lunchtime she saw him in the cafeteria, dining with his fourth-year friends. They were quite a clique, with their sophisticated cigarettes and constant laughter. When he came to her table one day and asked her to the movies – out of the blue – she was shocked. It wasn’t as if she was stunning to look at. Just a pleasant face, long dark hair and a slim figure she had inherited from her mother’s side of the family. What did a prince like Josh Houghton see in a girl like her?

  After they had been going out for two weeks, one of Josh’s friends made it his duty to tell Maggie that Josh was engaged to someone he’d been seeing since school. The fiancée was in America – a three-month trip with her girlfriends, arranged before the marriage proposal. Apparently, Josh had taken up with Maggie the day after she left. Although Maggie was upset, she decided that if the fiancée was silly enough to leave Josh Houghton unattended, she couldn’t complain if someone else won his heart in her absence. Twelve whole weeks. A girl could make him fall in love with her in that time. Her mum had always said, ‘If a woman sets her cap at a man, it’s only a matter of time.’ It had worked for Maggie’s mother.

  Maggie and Josh saw each other every day and went out every night. She adored him. So did other women. She couldn’t help noticing the way they gravitated to him in pubs and restaurants and wherever else the two of them went. To his credit, he didn’t encourage the admirers and always went home with Maggie.

  The day his fiancée returned from America, he dumped Maggie. Not that he told her. But when she didn’t hear from him – not even a phone call – she knew it was over. She cried for days. When she wasn’t crying, she slept. In her dreams they were still together. Sometimes he would kiss her, but as soon as his lips touched hers, she would wake up, longing for the dream to continue. Of course, it never did.

  A month or two later, as she started to function again, a cream embossed envelope arrived in the mail. Inside was a matching card with scalloped silver edges. The salutation read ‘Dear Maggie’, but the usual addendum, ‘and Partner’, was missing. She was so angry she almost tore it up. The cheek of him inviting her to his wedding. And on her own. Didn’t he think she could find someone to bring?

  Nevertheless, her mother counselled her to go. ‘It will get him out of your system, Margaret. Anyway, you
might meet someone at the reception.’

  ‘I’m not going, Mum. I’ll make up an excuse.’

  ‘That’s bad manners.’

  ‘I don’t care. It was impudent of him to ask me in the first place and even worse to invite me without a partner.’

  Finally, she gave in and accepted the invitation. As a wedding gift she bought them an orange glass vase. It was the ugliest thing in the shop. On the card she wrote: ‘Trust you will always be as happy as you are today.’ When she read over the sentence, it sounded like a veiled curse. Then she stuffed the card in the envelope and secured it to the parcel with tape.

  As the bride entered the church, Maggie was chuffed to see a face covered in acne. Not just little pimples, but inflamed lumps that even heavy make-up couldn’t disguise. So much for the wedding photos. Later, at the reception, Maggie was in the powder room, just about to flush the toilet, when she heard a familiar voice on the other side of the door – Josh’s mother, speaking with another woman.

  ‘Such a pity poor Sharyn has broken out in spots on her wedding day,’ Mrs Houghton said.

  ‘Yes, the poor darling.’

  ‘Is it nerves, do you think, Valma?’

  Maggie knew at once that the other speaker was the bride’s mother.

  ‘No, it’s the Pill. It just doesn’t agree with her.’

  Serves her right, thought Maggie, as she sat on the toilet, waiting for them to leave. Then she wondered if she’d said it out loud. But the conversation continued without a break.

  ‘I heard rumours about Josh and some girl at uni,’ Valma continued. ‘While our Sharyn was away.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Josh was just tutoring a first-year student. He told me she wasn’t very bright. Needed a lot of coaching. He even invited her to the wedding. He wouldn’t have done that if there’d been anything going on between them.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I’m glad we’ve cleared the air. Who is she, anyway?’