I've been to The Weld Club, this is what I found

I got a call from a male colleague.

‘Ever been to The Weld Club’? he asks in a trumpeting tone.

‘Of course not.’ I say as if he had just asked me whether I had walked on the moon.

‘You know that women aren’t allowed there.’ I say in rebuke.

‘Well', he says ‘I can get you in and I’d like to ask you to come to have lunch with me’.

‘OK,’ I say somewhat anxiously.

‘Good. I knew you would. As you can imagine there are lots of protocols and dress regulations so my PA will email you through a confirmation with all the details. Please read them carefully. I look forward to seeing you.’

I hang up somewhat bemused. Me and my potty mouth are going to The Weld Club, the last bastion of maleness in this city, I wonder how that is going to go.

The instructions come via email and they contain all the usual stuff about wearing business attire. The one thing that sticks in my mind is that when I arrive I must walk through the door and wait to be greeted by the hostess who will then take me to the dining room where ladies are allowed to have a meal.

In the lead-up to our lunch date that 90 minutes in my diary gets pressured many a time. I remain resolute that every once in a while, I should be able to eat a decent lunch at leisure instead of at my desk whilst eating with one hand and typing with the other.

On the day I wear a conservative frock and catch the bus down the Terrace from the office. I walk the block to the front door imposing by its size and the large brass knocker that is higher than my eyes. I am unsure about whether to knock or walk-in, I recall the instructions but there weren’t any about getting in the door only about what to do once I was inside.

I push on the door but it won’t budge. I look around and see a small and discreet doorbell and press it. Despite there being no evidence of it ringing inside the door opens and I am greeted by a blonde woman in a black suit and a white shirt. She comes from behind the timber reception desk and greets me.

It is clear that there aren’t many women expected today as she knows my name. I am ushered through to the pre-luncheon reception room. She suggests I sit on a chintz sofa with my back to the view of Council House and takes my order of a lemon, lime and bitters with a nod.

I sit in the overstuffed room, piled with furniture and oil paintings which are mostly of Western Australian flora. The sofa is in the recess of the bay window and although the room is light-filled I muse that there is not enough space to let the light in.

My lunch host moves across the deep piled carpet almost in a whisper and greets me formally with a handshake, then a smile, then a kiss.

‘Welcome’, he says in a way that acknowledges how naughty he feels for bringing me here.

‘Thank you for inviting me’, I say genuinely.

We have our soft drinks and then the dining room manager appears, he too is soft of foot, and suggests that we might like to make a start on luncheon.

He leads us through in single file with me in the middle. In just a few short steps we have moved from one old ladies’ room into another. More chintz, more oils, more wood.

My chair is pulled out and I sit just as I had learned to, letting the chair touch the back of my knees before falling slowly into its seat as it moves forward. The napkin is produced with a flourish and placed upon my lap. The menu is opened for me and placed gently into my hands. He gets the same treatment and then the chef’s specials are explained in quiet but enthusiastic tones.

We decide on a main each – me fish and him meat. He chooses a bottle of red wine which he says is one of his favourites to which I smile my assent.

The grandfather clock is ticking so loudly in this rarefied air with no other diners. After a pause, he asks questions about my work and writing and I answer quietly as if I have my own volume turned right down so as not to offend an inexistent neighbour.

I am a spontaneous guffawer, someone who can find even non-funny things amusing and when I am tickled my laugh comes from way down in my belly and it is loud. I am hoping that he doesn’t say anything that will create such a response in me. Yet he has a glint in his eye which suggests that he’d like to goad me into breaking the stultifying silence.

Our conversation meanders over many topics, a few of which are difficult for him to share but he seems to relish having my company.

When the mains appear, we eat mostly in silence and once cleared he asks if I would like dessert but I plead that I am full.

He tells the dining room staff that we are finished and he grabs my hand and propels me out of my chair and out of the room with vigour.

‘Let’s start in the foyer’ he says still holding my hand ‘and then we can move on to all the forbidden areas. The places which are a no-go zone for women.’

Moving his touch from my hand to my forearm he guides me through pointing out portraits of previous Club Officials and numerous oils that have been acquired over the years.

We enter the main dining room which is far more opulent and masculine than where we had lunch. To the south is a lovely tiled patio which would no doubt be a beautiful location for pre-dinner drinks.

He leads me to the service stairs and lets me poke my nose through small glass windows on heavy wooden doors so I can glimpse what I and every other woman in this town are missing out on. The rooms are full of chesterfields, wooden bookcases, globes of the world, and yet more oils.

Occasionally I pull away quickly as the room is occupied, usually by a solitary white more than middle-aged man.

We take another set of functional stairs to the accommodation wing and he marches me right up to a door with a brass number firmly screwed in. ‘This’, he says proudly ‘is where Prime Minister Howard stays when is in town’.

‘Oh’, I say unsure of what to add next as we stand and stare at the door a bit longer. He nods towards it and then walks me back down the stairs and along the passageway to the foyer once more.

‘Thank you for a lovely lunch and taking me through the servant’s entrance to see the Club’ I say with a wry smile.

‘It was my pleasure.’

‘Thanks again’ I say whilst going on to my tiptoes to reach his cheek for a quick kiss.

He wishes me well whilst holding the heavy front door open for me and waves when I glance back as I walk through the gate.