AN AUDACIOUS AUDITION by Syd Blackwell
I entered the reading room at Canada House in Trafalgar Square in high anticipation. I asked the desk clerk for newspapers from Vancouver. She told me all available copies of the Vancouver Sun were being used. She silently gestured towards a girl seated alone at a table.
The girl was actually holding the bundle of newspapers, bound with one of those old-style wooden clips, in front of her face as I approached the table. I gently pulled down the top of the papers, looked in her eyes, smiled, and quietly said,
“I don´t know who you are, and I don´t really care, but I care passionately about those newspapers you are holding. What would it take for you to give them all to me right now?”
* * *
When I left Canada, nearly four months before, I did not think about hockey at all. Why would I? I had a one-way ticket with stopovers that would eventually land me in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I had never been outside Canada except brief visits to two US states. The rest of my plans were unplanned except that I needed to be in Europe before my Euro-Rail Pass expired. I had time.
I had time because my life had come undone. It had happened early and quickly in the previous school year, but we both had contracts to fulfill for the same employer. There would be no running away. We would live apart but in the same small town. We could not avoid each other.
My task was to find out who I was. I thought I had a pretty good idea up until she asked me to leave. I had a university degree and six years of success as a teacher in spite of competing with the largest influx of graduates to ever hit the job market. I had paid off our student loans. And, I was married. What was missing?
Quite a lot actually, but that understanding would come later. Much later.
My year of finding out who I was began rather badly. I immersed myself in my job and stayed at the school most days until I had completed preparations for the next day. This was necessary because the rest of my day would be at home wallowing in self-pity fueled by alcohol.
For more than two months, this pattern continued. Old social acquaintances had disappeared, and I did not make room for new ones. I was a recluse outside of school hours. I had gained no insights, no understandings, no visions.
One evening in that dark, depressing December two other teachers came to my small rental house. They were on a mission. They had been acquaintances, but not in our social circles when I was with my wife. However, they had heard about our separation and had noted my extended reaction to it. They had come to tell me that I was not solving anything being a recluse. They told me they did not have any answers for my marriage, but if I was going to continue to drink, it should not be alone. Somewhat reluctantly, I accompanied them to a local bar.
The lights, the noise, the activity were all in stark and shocking contrast to my dimly lit living room. I was not at all sure I should be there. But, the crowd at the table we joined that evening greeted me warmly and did not ask invasive questions. I found myself relaxing. By the time I went home, I had no thoughts whatsoever about who I was or should be, but I felt better.
As the new year broke, I found myself with new friends and social opportunities. I returned to playing badminton, darts and crib, activities that had been abandoned in the bleak autumn. I felt pleasure and acceptance in the bars, at the parties, in the social life. Thoughts of my marriage problems were dimming daily.
However, as the second half of the school year progressed, my teaching became an issue. My passion was outside of school. I craved my new social life like a drug and without passion my teaching was hollow. I knew that I had to effect a change. I had been a good teacher, but I was not then, and did not know when or even if I would be again.
One night in February, after a vigorous badminton session in a school gym, my new friend Steve and I went to the pub for a few brews as we did after most badminton nights. Steve was a steam engineer in the natural gas plant up the highway. He was Malaysian by birth but had followed an older brother to Canada many years before. We had, of course, previously talked about my broken marriage. As we sipped our beers, he told me he had to go back to Malaysia in November for a visit. He told me his mother had cancer and wanted him to come home for a long visit before she died. Then he asked, “Why don’t you come with me?”
I took another sip from my beer, set it down on the table, and said, “Sure.”
In that instant I had seen the answer to my teaching. I needed to stop being a teacher for a while at least. I needed a different perspective of life. I had no idea where my decision would lead, but it instantly felt good.
In May, I tendered my resignation from the school district. I could have asked for and likely procured an unpaid year leave-of-absence, but I had no strong feeling I would be ready to return to teaching in a year. At the end of June, I moved to Vancouver where I would live until our departure in late November.
When I left Canada, nearly four months before, I did not think about hockey at all. Why would I? I had a one-way ticket with stopovers that would eventually land me in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I had never been outside Canada except brief visits to two US states. The rest of my plans were unplanned except that I needed to be in Europe before my Euro-Rail Pass expired. I had time.
I had time because my life had come undone. It had happened early and quickly in the previous school year, but we both had contracts to fulfill for the same employer. There would be no running away. We would live apart but in the same small town. We could not avoid each other.
My task was to find out who I was. I thought I had a pretty good idea up until she asked me to leave. I had a university degree and six years of success as a teacher in spite of competing with the largest influx of graduates to ever hit the job market. I had paid off our student loans. And, I was married. What was missing?
Quite a lot actually, but that understanding would come later. Much later.
My year of finding out who I was began rather badly. I immersed myself in my job and stayed at the school most days until I had completed preparations for the next day. This was necessary because the rest of my day would be at home wallowing in self-pity fueled by alcohol.
For more than two months, this pattern continued. Old social acquaintances had disappeared, and I did not make room for new ones. I was a recluse outside of school hours. I had gained no insights, no understandings, no visions.
One evening in that dark, depressing December two other teachers came to my small rental house. They were on a mission. They had been acquaintances, but not in our social circles when I was with my wife. However, they had heard about our separation and had noted my extended reaction to it. They had come to tell me that I was not solving anything being a recluse. They told me they did not have any answers for my marriage, but if I was going to continue to drink, it should not be alone. Somewhat reluctantly, I accompanied them to a local bar.
The lights, the noise, the activity were all in stark and shocking contrast to my dimly lit living room. I was not at all sure I should be there. But, the crowd at the table we joined that evening greeted me warmly and did not ask invasive questions. I found myself relaxing. By the time I went home, I had no thoughts whatsoever about who I was or should be, but I felt better.
As the new year broke, I found myself with new friends and social opportunities. I returned to playing badminton, darts and crib, activities that had been abandoned in the bleak autumn. I felt pleasure and acceptance in the bars, at the parties, in the social life. Thoughts of my marriage problems were dimming daily.
However, as the second half of the school year progressed, my teaching became an issue. My passion was outside of school. I craved my new social life like a drug and without passion my teaching was hollow. I knew that I had to effect a change. I had been a good teacher, but I was not then, and did not know when or even if I would be again.
One night in February, after a vigorous badminton session in a school gym, my new friend Steve and I went to the pub for a few brews as we did after most badminton nights. Steve was a steam engineer in the natural gas plant up the highway. He was Malaysian by birth but had followed an older brother to Canada many years before. We had, of course, previously talked about my broken marriage. As we sipped our beers, he told me he had to go back to Malaysia in November for a visit. He told me his mother had cancer and wanted him to come home for a long visit before she died. Then he asked, “Why don’t you come with me?”
I took another sip from my beer, set it down on the table, and said, “Sure.”
In that instant I had seen the answer to my teaching. I needed to stop being a teacher for a while at least. I needed a different perspective of life. I had no idea where my decision would lead, but it instantly felt good.
In May, I tendered my resignation from the school district. I could have asked for and likely procured an unpaid year leave-of-absence, but I had no strong feeling I would be ready to return to teaching in a year. At the end of June, I moved to Vancouver where I would live until our departure in late November.
* * *
I grew up less than one block from the skating rink. Yet, I did not learn to skate until I was an adult. However, that did not at all reduce my passion for hockey. It´s Canadian, eh.
The team I originally supported was the Montreal Canadiens, hated rivals of the Toronto Maple Leafs. Nearly everyone in Canada in those days of a six-team National Hockey League chose to support one or the other of the only two Canadian franchises. When the league expanded and a new franchise was obtained by Vancouver in 1970, my allegiance switched instantly to my home province team. They were horrible but I loved them dearly and daily scoured newspapers and periodicals, listened to radio, and watched TV sports reports, trying to glean information on my Vancouver Canucks in those pre-internet days. I was a rabid fan.
However, in November 1976, as Steve and I journeyed to Malaysia via Hawaii, Japan, Hong Kong, and Thailand, I do not think hockey entered my mind at all. Perhaps, in the less hectic pace of interactions with Steve´s extensive family in Malaysia, hockey may have briefly entered in my thoughts again, but there was absolutely no news available about hockey in the heat of Southeast Asia.
Eventually, Steve got married and flew home to Canada with his new Malaysian wife and I was on my own journey. Occasionally I think I found hockey league standings posted in old issues of US Today. My appetite for hockey was still there but there were no morsels for my need.
Some months later, I boarded a flight in New Delhi bound for London. I knew I would be in London for a while. I had health issues from my travels and needed some rest time. I was also looking forward to having time to visit the reading room at Canada House in Trafalgar Square where I knew they had Vancouver newspapers.
* * *
Without breaking eye contact with this weird bearded intruder who had so rudely interrupted her newspaper reading, she paused before replying, “Would you take me out to a play tonight?”
“Yes,” I immediately answered, quite relieved she had not reacted with anger or violence to my intrusion.
Quite relieved that my audacious action seemed on the verge of success. As she put the bundle of papers down on the table, I noticed she was young and not bad looking.
“When and where shall we meet?” I quickly asked, expanding on this unforeseen opportunity.
“I suppose you will be here for a while,” she sardonically observed glancing at the papers. “I will come back in a couple of hours.” And, she was gone without another word.
I did not know her name, nor did she know mine. I had stolen her newspapers for a promise that I could easily avoid or renege on. I also had no idea if she would actually return. Before I embedded my mind in hockey, I wondered for an instant what play she would decide we should go see. I was hoping she would return.
Almost exactly two hours later she came back. It was just past noon. She said, “Come on, let´s go for a walk.” While we walked we exchanged names and briefly recounted how we got to London at this particular time, all the while feeling more comfortable and at ease with each other. It turned out we were walking to the theatre to buy tickets for that evening´s performance of The Rocky Horror Show. It was a long walk but most enlightening. It was a beginning of four intense and interesting days.
The Rocky Horror Show, a live performance with some of the original cast, in a London theatre was, as the Brits so frequently say, brilliant. So was Stevie, an impressive portrayal of the British poet, Stevie Smith, by Glenda Jackson, with always able support from Mona Washbourne, that we saw two days later. And Equus which we saw a day after that.
We saw a movie or two, we must have visited a few of London´s famous sites, we undoubtedly ate meals, but mostly we walked and talked. We walked a lot of London streets. We seemed to only take the Underground when we went home each night to our separate and more distant lodgings and when we returned to an agreed spot the next morning.
She was only twenty-one (I was thirty), from Victoria, British Columbia, and just finishing six months of backpacking alone around Europe with a few days in London. I wasn´t even close to being ready to do a similar trip when I was twenty-one. I was impressed and wanted to hear more. She wanted to hear lots of stories of travels in Asia. I had lots to share. And through these days there were never any differences. We seemed totally at ease and thoroughly enjoyed each other´s company all day every day without any room for any intimacy beyond holding hands, hugs, and kisses.
And then it was over. Four days had flown away and now she must too. She took my address and gave me her parents´ address. I did not think I would ever see her again.
* * *
Two years later, I received a letter from her. She had a whole bunch of questions about travel in Asia. She said she was going to backpack through Asia on her own and then go to east Africa to visit a teaching friend before returning to Canada. She planned to be gone for more than a year. She also said when she returned she would live in Calgary and maybe we could get together again and talk about Asia. I asked her to send postcards. She sent one in the first week of her trip.
* * *
A year and a half later, my youngest brother phoned me to say he was engaged and would be married in May. He wondered if I could come to his wedding in Calgary. I assured him I would attend. When I went to my travel agent to book a flight, he told me our small local airline was offering, for a short time, a 2-for-1 flight sale. Buy a full-price flight and fully pay for it in cash and you could book a second flight for free. I booked a weekend trip for January and May.
My attention shifted to a girl who I had not seen in three and a half years. I found her phone number and called. I told her about my brother´s plans and the flight sale and said I intended to come in January to meet my brother´s fiancé and enjoy a weekend in the city. I asked if she had any free time. She said she would meet me at the airport.
When she did meet me, she quickly told me that her roommate was away for the whole weekend. We went directly to her apartment. I never did get over to my brother´s house. Day 5 and 6 of our extended relationship had been exhilarating.
Day 7 and 8 happened in May. Yes, we did make time for the wedding and the reception in another weekend when her roommate was conveniently away.
In June, she visited me in my northern town for three days.
In late August, we began to live together in a new community near Vancouver.
We had known each other for a grand total of eleven days in four years. A little more than a year later we got married.
The union lasted for more than thirteen years. We travelled nearly every summer. Mostly the marriage was good; until it wasn´t. That it ended is not important. That such a life-changing union should ever occur from such a beginning is remarkable.
March 1977
