Free The Pages by Murray Bail Page B

thing is, I find myself listening in too much detail to everything a person says. It’s a case of the professional life intruding into the personal – night follows day. I can’t help it. Just as you,’ she said to Erica without looking, ‘can be too rigorously theoretical, which allows you not to participate in the life that’s standing at your elbow.’
    Holding a cup, Lindsey took an interest in all this, or rather, in a woman nearby displaying loss of equilibrium. The usual reason – it had happened to her, two-and-a-half years back. And now she couldn’t help visualising him, almost an enjoyment. Erica, still seated, didn’t mind Sophie’s comment on her life, or lack of. It had been said before. She was never comfortable with these conversations enjoyed by women – there was an endless ease to them.
    How to avoid the looseness and ease of ‘I’. Beware of hysteria.
    Lindsey stood up. ‘Since the heat has been knocking us for six, I thought for tonight we’d have cold meat.’
    It had become darker, the birds were noisy, and now the lights were on. Wrapped around Sophie’s neck was a crinkled silk scarf, which gave something of a head-wound atmosphere. Adding to the layer of determined bravery she wore a new perfume (can you wear perfume – philosophically?).
    Erica admired Sophie’s mood. She touched the scarf. ‘I would call that rhubarb.’
    Before she could quickly add, ‘It’s my favourite colour,’ small sounds such as words and Lindsey setting the table were deafened by a dark mass rushing across the sky towards them, gathering above the roof, where it paused, then cracked open, a thunderous splitting apart, echoing, and again closer, making them jump. The plates and windows rattled and some of the startled horses lined up on the wall fell. Simultaneously, lightning exposed them to windows, the way celebrities under siege in hotels are flash-photographed from the garden beds. By then it was raining. It was coming down. Tons of nails or wheat or gravel hitting the tin roof, pipes and gutters overflowing, while the thunder continued but moving away.
    The women were laughing wildly, as if they were drenched. And it was Lindsey who threw her head back and closed her eyes, raised both arms and waggled her hips, making herself part of an action of nature. Although she was shouting, they had trouble hearing.
    â€˜Is this a rain dance, or a fertility dance? I can never be sure.’
    â€˜You can always get rain,’ Sophie pointed out.
    Unwinding the scarf she joined in, twirling it over her head, throwing her arms about. It was something older than music.
    Erica smiled encouragement, and felt at one with these women, but couldn’t step forward.
    â€˜We always could do with a drop of rain, but this is ridiculous.’
    Slightly flushed, Lindsey returned to the table. They still had to raise their voices.
    Here Sophie noticed the cutlery set only for three.
    â€˜My brother sends his apologies,’ Lindsey said loud enough. ‘Because of the weather he’s had to go out. I’m told he has some sort of girlfriend in town, but I don’t think it’s that. There can be flash flooding. He wouldn’t want to lose any lambs.’
    By touching her nose Sophie somehow managed to see herself, without a mirror.
    â€˜I imagine your brother has a lot going on in his head. Everything is happening at once. We can say hello tomorrow, so long as we’re not getting in the way.’
    â€˜If you can get a dozen words out of him you’ll be lucky.’
    â€˜Because he spends too much time alone – outside?’ Erica asked.
    Out here – more than in the city – she could see how everything already existed without description. As well, she was never comfortable with the way words were attached to a given subject – such as a tree, or the heat, let alone feelings. Though Erica knew