Twilight. A month after the shortest day of the year. I leave Masterton and drive south. The dusky blue sky hints at the thick fog that will drop like a blanket over town the next morning. At Carterton, a pale orange sunset lights the hills in the west. By the time I near Greytown, the thin black fingers of leafless winter trees break up the fading light. It’s another stunning Wairarapa evening. But I’m nervous.
Will anyone be there? Will it be awkward? Why am I doing this?
There’s a long line of cars in front of me and, I notice when I pull over to check something on my phone, behind me as well. Are they all going to the same place as me? Probably not.
The promotions for the event have promised it will be an introvert’s delight. An evening spent quietly reading in a bar with others. There’ll be a little bit of pre-reading social time “for those who enjoy that sort of thing”, comfy chairs and raffles. Who could resist?
“Don’t these people have enough to do with their lives?” Barnard asked.
“What’s so great about going to a bar to read?” was a workmate’s response.
For me, the answer was simple: curiosity. I wanted to see if such an audacious idea would work, and counted the dedicated reading time as a bonus. But I was a little startled when an email from the organiser (Mrs Blackwell of Mrs Blackwell’s Village Bookshop fame) suggested those who were coming as part of a group should arrive early to reserve their seats. Groups? Why were groups allowed at a party for introverts? Would I be forced to sit between two groups of cackling women (for in my experience, it is mostly women who attend these sorts of things) like the classic Nellie No-mates? Oh well, it’s too late to worry. I’ve arrived.
Reassuringly, I discover the reading party is being held in the White Swan Hotel’s elegant dining room. It’s all long black drapes, cream wood-panelling, polished tables and pressed linen napkins. There are probably 30 people in the room, mostly seated at tables of four or six. No cackling is evident. Some men are here. I collect my name tag and raffle tickets before buying a drink at the bar. I smile at another woman wearing a name tag. She looks away. OK, introvert.
I find an empty seat. I notice that each person at my table has what looks like a pristine new book neatly placed on the table in front of them. It seems that bringing a tatty old paperback, or even a library book, would be severely frowned upon in this circle. I’m as guilty as any, for my chosen title is a book Barnard bought me for Valentine’s Day (A History of Women in 101 Objects).
We swap a few polite questions about our respective books. Mrs B promised us an evening free of awkward chat, and we are determined to keep it that way.
Just before 6pm, she outlines the rules. Coughing should be avoided. There is to be NO CHATTER. And extroverts, she commands, we know as the hour draws to a close you will be tempted to check your phones, but please don’t. How sensible.
We begin to read. At first, this is hard. My mind throws a scramble of diverting questions in its own path. Should I lean back or sit up straight? Legs crossed or uncrossed? Is that a deep fryer in the background? (It was. We laughed about it later.) I stare at the page and try to concentrate. I start reading. I turn the page.
I keep reading.
My mind begins to settle, like a river after the wake from a passing boat has died.
I sip my wine.
I learn that in the 16th century, the glass-blowing island of Murano near Venice was as famous for producing glass dildos as chandeliers and candlesticks. And that early in the 20th century, the sight of a woman casually sticking her hands into her jacket pockets was regarded as incredibly disturbing and unfeminine.
As I read, I sink lower and lower into my chair, like the sun I saw slipping behind the Tararua Ranges on my way here.
I feel incredibly content.
Mrs B leaves her seat and walks to the front of the room. Please, I want to ask. Can’t we stay for another hour?
Driving home, I decide why calling people to a specific place to read is such an obviously good idea. Because reading at home always requires the ability to block out a cacophony of calls that surround you.
The call of emails that need answering.
The call of a dinner that needs cooking.
The call of pets that want attention.
Gardens to weed.
Bills to pay.
And so on and so on.
But, when you’re reading in a restaurant, what calls surround you?
The call of your book.
The call of your book.
And the call of your book.
Will interest rates ever come down? Why do so many kids go to school hungry? How can we stop boy racers from tearing up our roads? These are all important questions with no easy answers. And perhaps that’s one reason why it was such a joy for a group of strangers in a small country town to drop their worries at the door of a restaurant for two hours and quietly read together.
Only one question remains. Can we do it again soon?
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