Free Homesickness by Murray Bail Page A

visualise how the recently won picture would fit into his collection. It was Louisa’s turn to be silent. Almost to himself Hofmann nodded, ‘Very good. Yes, very good. I’d say it’s easily the best one in Australia. There’ll be nothing like it. Hey, listen, come with me.’
    He took her arm.
    Even on Old Bond Street they stood out as a fine-looking pair. Both were trim and radiated that good health and well-earned time on their hands. Both had woollen coats, buttoned to their chins.
    Although Louisa didn’t want another Cartier bag he walked in and bought her a new one of special grey lizard skin. It was quite out of the ordinary. At a certain angle in daylight it had been noticed that the tessellated skin reproduced—quite by chance—the pattern of a ten pound note. It was like a poor but distinct photograph. The late Charles Darwin, coughed the manager, would undoubtedly have been pleased. Quite unusual, what? Hence, its premium price. The Natural History Museum had expressed an interest…
    Hofmann asked for the contents of Louisa’s old bag to be tipped into the new one, and to Louisa he proposed they return to the hotel and have a drink. ‘Would you like that? Are you quite positive?’
    Louisa turned her head.
    â€˜Or what would you like to do?’
    She stood on the footpath wondering. Feeling as vague as London’s outlines she went along with him.
    Sheila Standish had gone out to Wimbledon, the first to reach the Sports Pages, and was on her way back, the black cab slicing through the houses. An aunt lived at Wimbledon and whenever in London Sheila always liked to go there first. How many centre-court finals had they seen together? Throughout the nineteen-sixties the longest sighs and woman-shrieks heard on the tennis broadcasts came from those two in the best seats. A good men’s singles would leave them exhausted but chattering. Her aunt had skinny legs and a brown neck. Lately she had grown abruptly old, and for two seasons running Sheila had missed Wimbledon, though she always looked forward to seeing her aunt. This time when the driver found the street she suddenly directed him on to ‘Wimbledon’, the courts just around the corner.
    There was no tennis but lines of tourist buses were queued outside. Outside the Players’ Entrance a Cockney entrepreneur gave tanned Americans a yellow racket with broken strings to hold, and ran back and—‘Hold it, luv. Gotcha’—took their photographs. Nearby a partner had set up a small tent displaying Famous Tennis Balls plus other artifacts of the game: chlorophyll-stained canvas shoes, a Czech sunvisor, early athletic supports and some frilled knickers all worn at some time by the Great. It was the smallest museum Sheila was ever likely to see. The holiday crowd waited patiently in line, and Sheila walked a little around the stadium walls. In the wet grass she noticed several lost balls, resting like cannon shot, and was startled to see the stadium’s concrete marred by graffiti, most of it obscene— BALLS TO TENNIS —in a variety of chalks and sprayed colours. Among the limericks, the lonely confessions and phone numbers, one message stood out. It had been sprayed through a template, repeated all over, professionally.
    AUSTRALIANS ACE
    That wasn’t dirty. It was often true. Sheila smiled a little at the recognition. ‘Australia’ otherwise tended to disappear in such a vast place as London.
    Behind her, a man’s voice broke in.
    â€˜What d’you know…?’
    Sheila’s eyes and forehead went haywire. She turned.
    â€˜Africa, right? Just the day before yesterday. Well isn’t this something? What was our crummy hotel?’
    â€˜The Safari International…’ Sheila frowned, confused.
    â€˜Bugger me,’ the tall man went on, ‘this is something to write home about.’
    His wide hairy wrists and a man’s knuckle