Free The Pages by Murray Bail

bottle-blonde, small, but with a large handbag. They were negotiating; and the lanky lecturer of philosophy followed her up some stairs. Although they never spoke, Antill felt a flood of affection for the determined shape of Clive Renmark going forward, always forward.

12
    AFTER PARKING near the tank-stand the missing brother stepped out in front of the three women and proceeded to walk bowlegged to the veranda, a jockey too tall for the job, followed by his dogs.
    Sophie and Erica saw just the back of him.
    After being friendly to amble away twenty seconds later oblivious of them may have been the country manner; Erica imagined he was keen to take off his tie and get out of his suit.
    â€˜Please tell me,’ Sophie stopped in her tracks. ‘Did I say something wrong, or what?’
    In her present state it was all too easy for her confidence to be thrown, the slightest thing could do it, which she normally would overcome by directing all her specialised energies onto another person, an onslaught of probings, suggestions, statements, questions posed but not expecting an answer.
    Turning to Lindsey, she found her no longer there. Lindsey was at the tank bent over a metal watering can, and with simple calm movements she gave water to the roses, demonstrating there was nothing exceptional about her brother’s behaviour.
    In the afternoon they each went in their separate directions. Erica placed a notebook and pen by the pillow, just in case, and lay on the bed. She waited.
    From the distant rooms came faint creakings and a general muffledness which added to the strangeness of the house.
    It was almost unbelievable that in this place one brother had been left alone for years and years – as long as it took – to construct a philosophy…and the younger brother went out and about in all weathers to manage the more than 10,000 merinos in dozens of different khaki paddocks, seeing to their salt and water, the miles of fencing et cetera, the dipping and crutching, organising the teams of perspiring shearers with their lists of demands, and so on. A rare sort of man not to have resentment. A respectful man. Erica closed her eyes. Aside from a certain anxiety, another reason for not rushing to examine Wesley Antill’s written work was concern for Sophie. Her friend was reasonably calm, but Erica had noticed a tightening in voice and manner. Her movements had become rapid. With nothing to do and no one here so far properly to engage, Sophie was just as likely to announce she was returning to Sydney, ‘straight after breakfast’. Spontaneity is Truth was one of Sophie’s beliefs. For Erica it was of interest, possibly attractive, but of course had no philosophical merit, even if that wasn’t the point.
    Later in the afternoon, Erica went outside and strolled alongside the large house, keeping to the shaded sides. The full force of the wider silence combined naturally with the heat, and she felt it surrounding, swarming and entering her. Twice more she did the circuit. She asked herself if she was humble. She wanted to be humble.
    Passing a window she heard a voice. It was Sophie talking intimately into the mobile. All she asked was that he listen to her for ten seconds, no more. ‘Listen!’ It didn’t matter that his wife was in the next room. ‘Stop it! Listen to me!’
    She wanted an answer: was he missing her – at all? ‘I need to know, I want you to tell me.’
    But she wouldn’t let him answer, even if he could, for she continued appealing, explaining, jumping in. Finally, ‘I don’t know why I bothered.’ And hung up.
    After waiting a little, Erica went back inside and wandered into the kitchen where Sophie was still talking, now to her father. She had swollen red eyes, but was smiling and gesticulating with one hand, explaining to him where she was. He’d be laughing his head off to hear his fancy daughter was such a distance from the