The Pages Read Online Free PDF Page A

by having to sit still all day and forced to listen.’
    Although he had experience enough of banks to be dismissive of the well-educated person, he was pleased with his daughter’s diplomas, her quickness, the way she dressed in bold colours. Look at the cut. She was expensive. He didn’t mind that in a woman. But he could only shake his head at how she spent her day, listening, according to him, to people moaning; she certainly wasn’t out there making anything with her hands.
    When months passed and Erica hadn’t seen her friend it usually meant Sophie had become involved with someone again. Across Macleay Street one morning they waved to each other, and Sophie phoned the next day.
    â€˜I cannot think of a single irritating factor about him. You know – how it doesn’t take long before you begin to think up reasons and excuses?’
    Married with four kids, he was a lecturer in Medical Ethics. At least once a day they spoke to each other; this time Sophie was determined. They had even managed a weekend away together. According to Sophie, he was calm, and steadiness was something she valued more and more. Then she turned to the man’s intellect and achievements. ‘He’s always reading philosophy. I’ve been meaning to tell you. He keeps up with the subject. It is presumably essential for his type of work.’
    Later, she told Erica he had a valuable collection of antique corkscrews, and he wore socks and underpants always bought from the same shop in W1, London, which had a miniature hedge out the front.
    Erica never got to meet him. With little warning he too went the way of the others. When Sophie unexpectedly dropped in on a Sunday morning, wanting to talk, she began weeping.
    They were in the kitchen.
    â€˜What you need,’ Erica said, slicing a lemon, ‘is to get away, and therefore remove your thoughts, as it were, from what has happened. Does that make sense?’
    Unusually for Erica, she said it firmly. At the same time she was aware of the liquid glitter squeezed between her red-brick building and the next, and the horizontal orange of a container ship sliding past.
    Tuesday she was leaving.
    Sophie laughed, and blew her nose.
    Nothing much happens in my life, Erica wanted to say. My movements are minimal; and it doesn’t always feel right to me.
    And now, a long way west of Sydney and the tyres making a reassuring humming, Sophie sat up and decided to sing, Erica joining in.
    Tear-jerkers from Verdi and Puccini were tried out, but soon they switched to the less arduous, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, and other chestnuts, ‘Let it Be’ and ‘Up on the Roof ’.
    After that Sophie tried the radio – nothing but static. How could anyone live out here? To Sophie, the large paddocks represented a mind emptied of variety, of life itself. Except in the occasional towns they had hardly seen anything on two legs. But the great homesteads set back and surrounded by trees were not visible from the road.
    They were bumping about along a reddish track.
    Sophie had a handkerchief pressed to her nose. ‘I’ve never been enamoured of dust. I’m going to start sneezing in a second.’
    Erica was beginning to wonder why she had agreed to the task, which required a long drive, shaking the car to pieces, and every minute leaving further behind what was familiar. She had been restless. She needed some sort of change. As they went on, the names of the places had become more and more remote; Merriwagga, Goolgowi. Where did they come from, and what did they mean? Now as they turned south on a stretch of bitumen the two women began talking again, in anticipation.
    â€˜Do you have any idea where we are?’
    Erica had stopped to consult the hand-written map. ‘What time is it?’
    â€˜Is that handwriting his? Let me see.’
    Erica got going again. ‘He has a sister. I believe I told you that.’
    Both