The Pages by Murray Bail Page B

with me. It must be something I’ve said or done. I’m trying to think. There was no warning. Do you know he sent me a letter?
    â€˜I am a discarded woman. In coming here I feel I’ve made the correct decision. I definitely needed my mind somewhere else.’
    Having heard this in the car, Erica allowed herself to gaze at the cream-enamelled, industrial-strength wood stove. Pots and pans and kettles were larger out here.
    â€˜I am sorry,’ Lindsey said. And she was. A confusion now twisted Sophie’s face as the two women looked on. Perhaps Lindsey should have touched her shoulder. A warm handful of life making a connection, a helping hand; it can sometimes make a difference.
    To restore possession of herself, Sophie looked up and asked Lindsey about her two brothers.
    Lindsey leaned over to pour the tea and wondered what she could say that would interest them.
    â€˜They were my brothers, yes. And they could hardly be more different. One day I would prefer Wesley, the next day it was Roger. The two of them and their opposite opinions on every subject under the sun, though they never really got into rows. I don’t think Wesley could be bothered, Roger – he should be here in a minute – he has his practical side. He gets on with it. I suppose his common sense, which he has in spades, comes from being on the land. Wesley has been the more difficult one.’
    â€˜And?’ Sophie prompted. ‘Keep going.’
    â€˜And what?’
    â€˜You were talking about difficult. Do you mean moody, habitually withdrawn?’
    In the brown glaze of the teapot the table was reflected as a sphere, spoons and a fork clinging to the underside of the curve. Lindsey tried to think of anyone at all like her brother – especially when he came back after years away, his differences then. If Wesley had a difficult manner it was because he was constantly and unusually different.
    â€˜Going on and on about photography. He could not stand it. Just the sight of a person holding a camera was enough for him to cover his face or bend down to do up a shoelace. He’d only been back here a few weeks when he was accidentally photographed on the main street in town, and it appeared in the local paper, just the back of his head, but recognisable. It wasn’t about him at all. He went berserk. The idea of being photographed made Wesley physically ill. His very words. I know you’ll think there’s vanity in that sort of carry-on. Who can make sense of our many foibles? These ideas, his hatred of photography being one, were necessary for his work. Don’t ask me to explain. It made perfect sense to me. And Roger would agree.’
    â€˜Can a photograph be as bad as all that?’ Sophie sounded annoyed. In her apartment she had at least a dozen photos of herself, different stages of, arranged on sideboards and small tables.
    Lindsey turned to Erica.
    A photograph excited curiosity, because it wasn’t true enough; a chemical image is at one remove from the original.
    But Erica said, ‘Whatever helps in difficult work is what I say. I must admit, though, I would like to see a photo of him. Could a person tell you were brother and sister?’
    â€˜Wesley had biggish ears and they stuck out, not like mine, as you can see. He called them outlandish ears. He didn’t like them one bit, until he came back here years later to live, and he convinced himself that his ears made their own separate contributions, as he put it, to the task he was involved in. A philosopher has to look the part, just like a farmer or a priest does. I think he’s right, don’t you think?’
    â€˜A phobia can begin with an earlier embarrassment. My mother,’ Sophie suddenly remembered, ‘she had exceptionally tiny ears and never went without earrings. I think I got my father’s.’
    Erica felt herself separate – in thought, and almost bodily – from the two other women.