Free Homesickness by Murray Bail

the lines. Sex shops; mail order only. And leaves rustled like loose pages. Speakers’ Corner, Hyde Park. A Wolseley accelerated out of Scotland Yard. Gee, it was good. The sun came out. The Kaddoks stopped and checked the directory, London A-to-Z —doesn’t it resemble a proofreader’s handbook? Of course, some turned back to the retail advertisements for there was Boots, Aquascutum (in italics) for raincoats and elastic-sided boots, look, Libertys, Simpsons of Piccadilly; Sasha had pointed to Selfridges and steered Violet in. The others simply drifted like lost sheep, stopping at random. They became tired—blinking their eyes. A grey sludge underfoot felt like pulped newsprint and words, discarded sentences, shades of opinion and history. To them it was a further blurring of distinctions. London was the home of the semicolon; also a grand depository of facts. The Cathcarts found their way to Australia House where it was easy. They could sit down beneath the chandeliers and Brangwyns, and leaf through their own newspapers, amid the sounds and brown appearances of their own people.
    In St James that afternoon several world records were shattered. Arriving early the Hofmanns sat in seats which had apparently been reserved for Arabs. Nothing was said of course but the adroit auctioneer with the carrot-coloured shoes and the Etonian’s tie clearly accepted Hofmann’s occasional nodding with disdain. Before long they were surrounded by silent white-robed Arabs who had filed in, and Louisa put her sunglasses back on. The musk-perfumed playboy seated beside her kept losing his chappal and looking at her sideways as he bent forward, brushing her ankle, her knee, sending her mind back to other places: filmy odalisque? Hofmann meanwhile looked around at the oils hanging one above the other, some falling out of their frames, and parallel sunbeams from the skylight bathed the cool chinless wonder at the lectern in a nimbus much favoured by the Dutch Old Masters.
    First to go was an early cornucopia, oil in canvas, about three yards long, and so darkly varnished or neglected it was almost monochrome. Bidding began slowly. The auctioneer murmured the platitude: ‘Really, the gilt frame alone is worth that …’ It then passed the previous record as Louisa’s neighbour kept idly raising his finger, but he remained gazing at her for too long and it went to a Bangladeshi businessman seated in front.
    Hofmann wanted a major stripe painting, long and horizontal, American, c. 1964. This too would have been a good three yards long, though it was barely eighteen inches high. Again it was almost monochrome: grey strips stained into duck. So it seemed to blur like a sentence or London’s traffic which could be heard faintly outside. Hofmann wanted it and Louisa watched as he joined in: his face now a petulant boy’s. He frowned as he kept nodding—short, stubborn nods. Transparent bulbs of perspiration popped out above his lip. All his attention concentrated on the Old Boy but when the five figures passed the world record set by a similar work he seemed to falter. His eyes slid off the lectern, down, and to the right. He seemed hurt. Louisa turned to see her neighbour raise his jewelled finger again. She placed her hand on him, restraining him—and flushed. What was that? The Arab grinned. Louisa moved her leg from his.
    There was a teeming stillness. They remained at its centre.
    â€˜Hon,’ Ken was whispering, ‘it’s ours. I got it. Isn’t she a beauty? It’s for you. I bought it almost for you.’
    A dealer with superbly combed hair swung around.
    â€˜Do you mind? We happen to be working. Or some of us are trying to.’ But then seeing the Arabs he suddenly smiled, ‘Excuse me…’
    Outside on the footpath Hofmann kept thudding his gloved hands and shaking his head at the barely legible name in brass of the venerable auction house. He could