I walk slowly to the center of the space, turn to the audience, and say, “Good evening. I am Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, fellow billiards lover.”
The whole room is silent, waiting for me to say more. I can even see Sidney loitering at the doorway to listen.
“I could talk about…cannons.” I spread my arms nonchalantly. “I could talk about how I was double-balked the other day. Nightmare!” I give a knowing little laugh. “However. Today I want to talk about…billiard balls,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Consider billiard balls. We polish them. We respect them. We play our beloved game with them. But we should learn from them.”
“What? What’s that?” barks a man in the front row who looks about 103, and his 93-year-old neighbor says loudly, “She says we should learn from billiard balls, Sir Denis.”
“After all, what is one billiard ball hitting another if not connection?” I continue. “Billiard balls don’t discriminate. Billiard balls are tolerant. They’re happy to roll anywhere on the table, see all sides, interact with any other ball, male or female. Or intersex,” I add after a moment’s thought.
“What’s she talking about?” demands Sir Denis, and his ninety-three-year-old neighbor practically shouts back, “Sex, Sir Denis!”
“Sex!” echoes Sir Denis, looking impressed.
“Billiard balls want to connect without prejudice,” I continue, trying to ignore them. “But billiards clubs do not.” I fix Sir Peter with my sternest gaze. “Billiards clubs say, ‘No, the red balls may not interact with the white balls, because red balls are male and white balls are female.’ And what happens? Nobody wins. The world is a worse place.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Brandon,” begins Sir Peter in icy tones, but I lift a hand to stop him.
“I haven’t finished yet,” I say firmly. “I stand before you, a passionate female billiards aficionado, not to mention lover of parlour music, who has been shut out of the greatest experience a billiards lover could know. To be a member of this hallowed club. And why? Because of an outdated, prejudicial rule that has no place in any true billiards lover’s heart. You don’t really want to turn me away. I can see it in your eyes. All of you.”
I move along the rows, catching the eye of each ninety-three-year-old in turn and lingering especially in front of Sir Denis, who beams up at me.
“What are you scared of?” I say more gently. “Be brave. Be true to what you believe. And let me into this club, where I will do my best to be worthy of it. Thank you.”
I make a little bow and a smattering of applause breaks out. Sir Denis even exclaims, “Hear, hear!”
“Well, if that is all,” says Sir Peter, as I take my seat, “then I propose—”
“Wait!” A voice interrupts him. “I’d like to speak.”
There’s a kind of crumping sound as a hundred tweed jackets turn round to look—and to my utter astonishment, it’s Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf, standing up in the back row. He winks at me, then says, “Let me introduce myself. I’m Simon Millett, and my dad sent me here today to cast a proxy vote against this application. D’you know what else he said in the same breath? He said, ‘I do wish you’d think about joining, my boy; we need some younger blood.’ ” Simon pauses. “To be frank, I haven’t joined this club because it seems stuck in the dark ages. Full of attitudes and people I don’t relate to. But here’s a chance for you to change that. So here’s my advice to you…” He looks around the crowd of agog ninety-three-year-olds. “Do something to make your grandchildren proud of you. You might find they want to join. That’s all.”
He sits down and I mouth, “Thank you!”
There’s a kind of commotion among the audience members and then Sir Peter says, his mouth tighter than ever, “Well, let us proceed to a vote. All those in favor of amending the constitution and allowing Mrs. Rebecca Brandon, née Bloomwood, to become a member?”
A forest of hands shoots up, and I start to count, but I keep losing track. Then suddenly everyone’s voting against, and there’s another forest of hands and I can’t count those either. Oh God. I can hardly breathe for the tension. It’s really stressful, voting! No wonder MPs are all so wrinkled and grim-looking.
For a few moments there’s silence as the committee members confer. Then Sir Peter draws a long breath.
“The motion is carried,” he says in sepulchral tones,