The Trivia Man

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘It was just a thought,’ she said. ‘I can see why you wouldn’t want to. You’re coming first. And we’re … we’re not even in the top three.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, it was nice talking to you, Kevin. Maybe I’ll see you next time. Now that I know about the exit, I won’t have to hide in the toilet.’

  ‘That’s what I did last week,’ he said.

  She thought he might be smiling.

  WEEK

  THREE

  Patrick

  Ever since eight-year-old Patrick Dwyer-Monaghan could remember, his mum had given him a green birthday party, attended by cousins, second cousins, aunts, uncles, his grandparents, his mum’s childhood friends, his dad’s tennis team and every single member of Patrick’s class at primary school. Not just the nice kids, but also the ones who made his life hell.

  Even before Patrick had any memory of them, there had been green birthdays. The evidence existed in the family photo album – pictures of baby Patrick surrounded by green balloons and paper shamrocks, then toddler Patrick with leprechaun dolls and a glittery emerald hat on his head. It was because he was born on 17 March, of course. But he hated the green stuff and all the attention. If his mother wanted to celebrate, why couldn’t they go out for a pizza? Just the family – Mum, Dad, Nan and Pop and Uncle Kevin, instead of the big crowd she always invited. On one occasion he’d even asked if he could choose which kids to invite, but she had insisted on the entire class.

  ‘You don’t want anyone to feel left out, do you, Patrick?’

  He didn’t offer an answer. She already considered him weird enough without him letting on about the problems at school.

  Patrick hadn’t always hated his birthday. Not until three years ago. A couple of weeks after he started school, his mother gave him twenty apple-green envelopes with the name of each class member on the front. Patrick was so excited, he handed them out just as his classmates were lining up for morning assembly. Recalling his mother’s words, he was careful to check that every single pupil had an invitation. The only problem was he couldn’t read, and neither could anyone else in his kinder garten class.

  The next day, when his mother collected him from school, she said, ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Patrick.’

  Whenever his mother used those words, he knew he’d done something wrong.

  ‘I’ve had parents phoning me all day, complaining their child received the wrong invitation. You were supposed to give them to your teacher to hand out, not do it yourself.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me, Mummy.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you things like that. It’s common sense.’

  Common sense was something his mother often spoke about. If someone had missed out on their dose, they were destined to be a failure in life.

  On his sixth birthday Patrick spent most of the party in his room, playing computer games with his uncle. That is, until his mother discovered them, and they both received a tongue-lashing.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Patrick. What kind of birthday boy goes missing at his own party? Your guests are waiting for you downstairs.’

  To Uncle Kevin she said, ‘You’re a bad influence on Patrick, encouraging him to be anti-social. I don’t want him ending up like you.’

  On his seventh birthday, Patrick made another mistake. It might have gone unnoticed, except that his mum had been standing beside him. They were stationed at the front door to welcome the arriving guests. As each child wished Patrick a happy birthday, he accepted the present they gave him and said thank you. It should have been as easy and automatic as giving a response in church. But when a small girl holding a large box said ‘Happy birthday, Patrick’, he answered ‘Happy birthday’ straight back. He didn’t know why he’d said it – the words had just spilt out.

  ‘It’s not my birthday,’ the girl replied.

  At the first opportunity, Patrick’s mum took him aside. ‘I’m sick of your rudeness, Patrick. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this party and then you embarrass me like that.’

  Patrick didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t done it on purpose. Why couldn’t his mum see that?

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth Dwyer-Monaghan didn’t do things by halves, particularly when it came to Patrick’s birthday parties. He was her miracle baby, the child conceived after a decade of trying. During those dark years the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. For a while they cited Elizabeth’s retroverted uterus and Stephen’s middling semen count, before discounting them as factors. Finally, their infertility was pronounced idiopathic. After three failed attempts at IVF they gave up on medical intervention. The doctor told them there were some couples who would never conceive, no matter what measures they undertook.

  ‘Perhaps you should consider adoption,’ he said.

  By then, Elizabeth was thirty-seven and Stephen forty-five. Stephen accepted the prognosis better than Elizabeth.

  ‘If we had children they’d tie us down,’ he said.

  But she knew he didn’t believe that. Not long afterwards, Elizabeth noticed her period was late. The home pregnancy test was inconclusive, producing a barely visible line which might have been her imagination. So she went to the doctor for a blood test. Result: equivocal.

  ‘How can someone be equivocally pregnant?’ she asked him.

  ‘You have pregnancy hormones in your blood, though not at a high enough level to indicate you’re definitely pregnant.’

  ‘But they’ll keep rising, won’t they?’

  ‘Not necessarily. So don’t get your hopes up. We’ll test you again on Monday.’

  It was the worst weekend of her life. Every time she had the slightest stomach twinge, she thought it might be the start of her period. On Monday morning she had the second test. On Tuesday the doctor phoned: ‘Congratulations, Mrs Monaghan. Your hCG levels have doubled.’

  It was a perfect pregnancy. No morning sickness, no aches and pains, no pressure problems or swollen legs. Not a single stretch mark. Her chronic eczema disappeared, her skin glowed and she felt a peace she had never known before. Two days before her due date she went into labour. The pain wasn’t as bad as she had imagined. She didn’t even require an epidural. The baby was delivered without forceps four hours later. A little boy without a single blemish. Seven and a half pounds.

  The nurses pronounced him gorgeous. A tiny angel. With his golden hair and baby face, he looked like one even now.

  This year Elizabeth had surpassed herself. There was a stove-top hat for every boy and fluoro wigs for the girls. She had even sourced shamrock tablecloths and matching napkins online. Soon the trestle table on the terrace would be laden with pesto-encrusted lamb cutlets, spinach ravioli, bowls of green jelly, a tiered stand of cupcakes with tiny marzipan shamrocks and the pièce de résistance: a chocolate cake covered in green icing, with a merry band of leprechauns on top, dancing around their rainbow.

  The clown had arrived and was entertaining the children. Soon they would adjourn to the marquee for the magic show. The magician looked rather doddery, but he’d come with a recommendation from another mother. At the end of the garden there was a jumping castle – you couldn’t hold a children’s party without one, not in Mosswood anyway. Under the pergola Stephen had set up a bar and tables and chairs for the adults, who were already imbibing champagne and kiwi fruit cocktails.

  Although she had prepared all the food herself, Elizabeth had hired waiters to handle the heating and serving. She liked to be free to mingle with her guests and to check that Patrick hadn’t disappeared to his room.

  Kevin

  It hadn’t been easy to decide what to buy for Patrick. There were so many possibilities in the hobby shop. It was one of those old-fashioned places hidden away in a city arcade. Finally, Kevin chose a weather station. He knew Patrick would like that. When he got back to the car park, Kevin checked his watch. Forty-five minutes. Plenty of time. But he hadn’t reckoned on the St Patrick’s Day
parade blocking off access to George Street, and he was forced to take a detour. When he finally arrived at Beth’s rambling Federation house in suburban Mosswood, the street was packed with cars. He was twenty minutes late. As he walked through the lych-gate which served as an entrance to the front garden, he could feel wet patches under his arms.

  The adults were assembled on the back terrace, but Kevin’s first instinct was to join the children. Through the opening of the marquee he could see a magic show in progress. He was about to head in that direction, when Stephen spotted him.

  ‘Hey, Kev. Come and have a beer.’

  Kevin tucked the box containing the weather station under his arm and approached the terrace.

  ‘Have a seat here, mate, and I’ll bring you a tinnie,’ said Stephen, indicating a table full of women. Although Kevin shied away, somebody was already making room for him. Women terrified him, particularly those aged between sixteen and sixty-five. The one who had moved her chair aside had a glossy black haircut like a Beatle circa 1964. He had seen that much out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare look directly at her because he had also noticed a cleavage. Glamorous women in tight clothes scared him more than anything else.

  ‘Here you go, mate,’ said Stephen, handing him a beer. ‘You remember Danielle Davis, don’t you? A friend of Lizzie’s from when she worked in the bank.’

  Kevin didn’t remember her at all.

  ‘We met at Lizzie and Steve’s wedding,’ she prompted.

  Although he knew he should have made a clever reply, his mind was empty. All he said was, ‘Yes, of course.’ Then he realised what he should have said was, ‘You haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘So what are you doing these days, Kevin?’ she asked.

  He was aware that he should look her in the eye – people thought you were shifty otherwise – yet whenever he tried, her breasts seemed to loom at the lower edge of his vision.

  ‘I’m a forensic accountant.’

  ‘Wow. Like those CSI guys. How do you manage with all the dead bodies? Doesn’t it make you sick? Or do you get used to it?’

  ‘I’m an accountant, not a pathologist.’

  ‘Oh, I thought forensic people did autopsies.’

  ‘No, I just deal with suspected tax cheats.’

  ‘You work for the tax office?’ she said, her voice faltering. Kevin was used to it – the words ‘tax office’ always provoked a strong reaction. Like meerkats alerted to danger, the other women were looking at him too.

  ‘I only deal with high net worth individuals though.’

  ‘Well, that eliminates me,’ said one of the women, returning to her girl talk.

  ‘Me too,’ Danielle said. ‘I bet you’ve investigated some famous people. Who was that guy? You know, the one who was supposed to have millions hidden away somewhere overseas. Did you catch him?’

  She waited breathlessly for Kevin to supply names and details.

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk about specific cases.’

  ‘I understand.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The conversation seemed to have petered out until she said, ‘That Patrick’s a cutie, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a good lad.’

  ‘He takes after you,’ she said. ‘The blond hair and blue eyes.’

  Kevin had an uncomfortable feeling that Danielle was flirting with him. But he was never sure when it came to women. They could equally be sending him up. Afterwards they might even giggle about it with their girlfriends: ‘That Kevin Dwyer, he’s such a dork. He actually thought I might be interested in him.’

  Best not to enter into their repartee, just in case. He changed the subject. ‘So you used to work with Beth?’

  ‘Beth? Oh, you mean Lizzie. Yes, after I finished school. But I left the bank years ago. I’m with an advertising agency now. Executive assistant to the director.’

  As she leaned forward to take a sip of her drink, he caught a glimpse of her breasts and looked away.

  ‘Do you work in the city, Kevin?’

  ‘Yes, East Street.’

  ‘Our office is in Bridge Street – so we’re almost neighbours. We must have a drink some time.’

  Before Kevin could take a breath, she continued, ‘I’m tied up next Monday evening, but how about Tuesday?’

  ‘I have a commitment on Tuesdays.’

  ‘Wednesday then?’

  When she gave him her card, it was only polite to reciprocate.

  At that moment Elizabeth appeared on the terrace. ‘Lunch is served,’ she said. ‘Adults first, then children.’

  Kevin hadn’t even noticed the waiters placing the food on the table.

  Patrick

  After the other guests left, Uncle Kevin stayed behind to help Patrick open his presents. Meanwhile, his parents cleaned up the remnants of the party.

  ‘Make sure you write down all the presents and who gave them to you,’ said Patrick’s mum, popping her head into the living room. ‘For the thank-you notes.’

  After she was gone, Patrick said, ‘I thanked everyone in person, Uncle Kevin. Isn’t that enough?’ He hated the notes, almost as much as the parties.

  ‘Never question your mother’s orders, Patrick. She knows about things like this, and we don’t.’

  As a pile of discarded wrapping paper built up on the floor, so did an assortment of action toys and computer games.

  ‘I already have some of these games, but I’ll regift them,’ he told his uncle.

  When Uncle Kevin gave him a curious look, he added, ‘That’s what Mum does when she gets something she doesn’t want. She keeps a list so she doesn’t give it back to the same person.’

  ‘Really?’

  As Patrick opened the box containing the weather station, he gave his uncle a wide smile.

  ‘I’ve wanted one of these for ages.’

  ‘I got you a log book as well,’ said Kevin, pointing to an old-fashioned leather book, foolscap size. ‘So you can record the readings.’

  ‘It’s like your notebooks, Uncle Kevin.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re old enough now to have your own notebook. The great meteorologists, Fahrenheit, Celsius and Dalton, all recorded their findings in books like this. You could enter the information into a computer, but it wouldn’t be the same.’

  ‘Can we put the station together now?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. You’ll need a small screwdriver, though.’

  ‘I’ll ask Dad.’

  Patrick ran towards the kitchen and stopped dead at the half-closed doorway. Amid the clatter of things being cleaned up, he could hear adult conversation. The tone suggested it was one of his mother’s post-mortems. That’s what his dad called the sessions when she went over every detail of the day like a crime scene investigator. Patrick leaned against the door and listened.

  ‘And Stephen, why the hell did you put Kevin next to Danni? She must have been bored witless.’

  ‘It just happened, Lizzie. Anyway, she seemed quite taken with him.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as you make out. And I think he might even be Danni’s type. Do you remember the bloke she used to live with? He had blond hair and glasses, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s where the similarity ends. Justin had a personality. Kevin’s as bland as your mum’s rice pudding.’

  ‘Didn’t Justin turn out to be a womaniser? Wasn’t that why they broke up? Maybe Danni’s looking for someone quiet and steady in her life for a change. Or maybe …’ A hearty chuckle filled the pause. ‘Maybe she thinks there’s a superhero lurking behind Kevin’s spectacles. Like Peter Parker.’

  ‘Who’s Peter Parker?’

  In his hiding place Patrick smiled. He knew the answer to that one.

  ‘Spider-Man, of course,’ came his father’s reply. ‘You have to admit he’s not bad-looking.’

  ‘Spider-Man?’

  ‘No, Kevin. And he’
s in reasonable shape for someone who doesn’t play sport. Actually, I saw some of the women at his table giving him the once-over.’

  ‘Probably because he said something weird to them. I bet that’s why Danni left so early.’

  ‘It had nothing to do with Kevin. Danni told me she had to go home and get changed – she was going to the movies with a girlfriend.’

  ‘But she didn’t even say goodbye.’

  ‘You were inside and she couldn’t find you. So she asked me to thank you for a great party and I forgot.’

  ‘Oh well.’

  There was the clinking sound of glasses being removed from the dishwasher, then his mother said, ‘Patrick didn’t mix much, did he?’

  ‘He’s not the life of the party, Lizzie, but everyone can’t be as outgoing as you. You’re a born hostess. You always do these things so well.’

  A silence followed during which Patrick was certain they would be hugging and kissing. He turned around and went back to the living room, where his uncle was waiting.

  ‘Maybe we should open the rest of the presents now, Uncle Kevin, and make the weather station later.’

  Kevin

  On Tuesday night Kevin arrived early at the Sports Club. Half an hour early. He needed to arrange with the Professor to cancel the One-Man Band and transfer to Teddy and the Dreamers. Over the years many other teams had tried to poach him, but he had always resisted. Until now. He wasn’t sure why he’d changed his mind. It might have been the comment that Maggie made about forensic accountants. Imagine finding his job intriguing. No-one else did. However, it was more likely to be the enhanced opinion his sister would have of him once she knew he was part of a team. It might even put an end to those taunts about him being anti-social.

  As Kevin made his way towards table ten, he was hoping Maggie would arrive first. For a woman, she was quite approach able. That Teddy looked scary though. He reminded Kevin of those front-row forwards who used to crash him to the ground in his schoolboy footy games.