Free The Pages by Murray Bail Page A

streets of Sydney. She waved to Erica. Talking to her father, she concentrated. Very firmly she asked about his health and gave instructions not to drink so many espresso coffees. Making an elongated kissing sound, she said goodbye.
    â€˜I’ve had a terrible day,’ she turned to Erica.
    They sat down at the enormous scrubbed table.
    Speaking of her father, Sophie smiled. ‘He always says, “How’s my little girl?” I find I’m talking to him more than I used to. He’s an unusual man. He likes women,’ she said to no one in particular.
    Yes, Erica nodded to herself.
    â€˜He likes you,’ Sophie joined in the nodding. ‘I can tell. And he doesn’t exactly have a history of rushing for the brainy ones.’
    Evidently she was thinking about her pushy stepmother who spent a fortune on hair stylists and eyebrow pencils and rejuvenating creams, French lingerie, a roomful of designer shoes, personal trainers, luncheons and a yapping poodle. Her father’s casual slap-and-tickle tolerance of his younger (by seventeen years) wife irritated Sophie.
    â€˜I am sorry, but I don’t get what he sees in that woman. Do you know he met her when she was modelling one of his yellow hard hats? Can you believe it?’
    As Erica laughed she momentarily saw herself as a desiccated woman. And she was not meant to be, surely. Just as her small apartment with narrow kitchen was exceptionally tidy, her mind was neat and tidy. Her clothes too suggested a life simplified. Still, she was attractive to others, she had noticed. It was her alertness, in general. To those nearby, Sophie being one, she was a reliable presence. She had an attentive manner. At the same time she held herself slightly out of reach; Sophie didn’t seem to notice.
    Meanwhile, how in her own work to make something meaningful of the conflicting mass of impressions, propositions. Et cetera, et cetera. Daily. It was difficult – her chosen profession.
    Sophie’s father was a big man, a solid man. Every room became small.
    Sophie had gone quiet, but now began talking about her earlier call.
    Erica interrupted. ‘He’s not worth it. Don’t even bother.’
    To her own surprise she continued a series of dismissive motions with her hand. ‘From what you’ve said to me, nothing about him rings true. And, correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t this a married man?’
    None of these objections were of interest to Sophie.
    â€˜I could tell he was pleased to hear me, but he couldn’t speak freely.’
    Lindsey came in. Glancing at their expressions, she put on the kettle.
    â€˜I managed to talk to him,’ Sophie reported. ‘He knows now I am still alive. And then I spoke to my father, who you’ll meet one day, I hope. That’s if you don’t mind being chased around the table by an older man of obscure origins. Erica, am I not right?’
    Without waiting for an answer she talked rapidly. ‘My father suffers from what is called in my circle…Never mind what it is called. He uses his eyes as very effective weapons. A watchful, patient man, at the same time energetic.’
    â€˜Sounds all right to me.’ Lindsey sat down opposite. ‘These are my mother’s cups. And I’ve yet to break one.’
    As Lindsey poured the tea she removed all expression from her face. ‘I didn’t see much of my mother. She had a comfortable set-up in Sydney. That’s where she wanted to be. We would visit. It was nice. She had friends there. I was thinking only the other day I don’t know the colour of her eyes. Terrible, isn’t it?’
    â€˜When you break a cup, you’ll suddenly remember your mother’s face.’ Erica then glanced at Sophie, who hadn’t said a word.
    â€˜Did I make too many small demands on him?’ Sophie broke in. ‘Did I correct him? I am sometimes guilty of that, I know. I lie awake thinking. The other