The Pages (18 page)

It was time for Erica to return to the shed, to submerge herself in the pages. But it was comfortable on the veranda, in the cane chairs with cushions, looking out past the sheds to the brown-purple horizon, tall spreading gum on the left. Lindsey was easy company. The way she allowed, and even encouraged gaps, imitated the landscape.

‘Both my brothers I would put in the unusual category,' she now said. ‘But then I suppose I'm biased. Wesley was single-minded. You've no doubt noticed. He had our father's jaw. Because of his work, Wesley had very orderly, methodical habits. It almost made him an unpleasant brother. Every other day he had to have boiled eggs.' Lindsey turned to Erica. ‘Do you know he asked for his rain gauge to be buried with him? Can you believe it? Of course Roger carried out his wishes.'

Wesley used to go down with the proverbial splitting headache. No amount of darkened room and Aspro would ease it. They were after-shocks, not necessarily to do with the way he applied his mind to the most impossible of subjects – but then unremitting hard thinking each and every day of the week, from the moment he woke up, was bound to have an effect, upsetting the brain cells even. Often Lindsey came upon him with his hand covering his eyes. He was one of those hungry dogs with a bone, he said to his sister. ‘There's nothing I can do about it, nothing at all.'

Apparently Roger had his oddities too. Nothing serious – but she didn't want to go into them.

Amongst Erica's strengths was an ability to concentrate. All Erica had to do was rest her elbows on a desk, and squash her face in her hands, and look down at a page. For hours at a time Erica could work in that position. Concentrating, she hardened. It was something she was aware of.

Now having skipped lunch she stopped reading to lean back in the chair. Sophie was driving back to Sydney in the small car, music station playing loudly. Couldn't she see that the long solitary drive, a mad dash back, was not going to lead to anything? It was as if she was rushing into a future with sun in her eyes.

Erica stood up and stretched.

She went outside.

Instead of this time walking from the homestead on the right side she took the left side, and walked down and further across and further along until there were no more gates. It became progressively rougher, mallees and scraggy gums, just an occasional animal track. The land also fell away behind her. If she turned and had seen the lack of signs she might have paused. It was while walking that Erica decided to build, definitely, on her strengths, which seemed to be clearness in thought, a dispassionate logic before a given situation, an expressionless firmness, even a bit of coolness – or, all those strengths, while somehow avoiding the coolness. It would help in the appraisal of Wesley Antill's papers, and when the task was finished (concluded) strengthen her own philosophical work, her own papers, as well as keep on even keel the personal aspects of her life. It was while thinking along these lines, and glancing at birds and stopping to look at ants, that somehow Erica lost her sunglasses. One moment she was wearing them, next she had nothing.

As she searched she cursed and wished she had someone alongside to help. She moved around in circles, searching low branches, under bushes, on bare ground. For this to have happened she must have been wandering in a dream. She even began to doubt she had been wearing them at all.

When she turned to go back she didn't recognise anything. She kept walking in the direction she imagined the homestead to be. She also wanted more open ground – away from the dry bushes. Another reason for walking was to avoid getting cold. It was past four o'clock. All Erica had on was a short-sleeve cotton shirt, stopping short at the hips. Keep on walking just a little longer until she met a fence; a fence – any post with wire – would lead to the house.

Less than ten paces away Erica saw the beer-coloured fur move. It was behind some grass. The fox remained side on, then walked away, stopping and looking back at Erica, who had frozen, before it disappeared.

The ground now levelled out, but still no fences.

In the space of a few days so many things had happened. Now this. It was not yet panic stations, but she had to be careful. She sat on a very large rock – ‘to gather her thoughts', a phrase she had always liked. She was lost, but not really lost. It would soon be dark. What if it started snowing? Be like the fox –
fit in, be unafraid.
And her small face assumed the expression of looking ahead, determined, clear, set.

Still she remained in the one spot.

At first the sound coming from somewhere was so unexpected Erica barely noticed. Only as it came closer and an unhurried bumping and rattling took over, which became altogether louder and intrusive, did Erica stand up.

Any relief she felt seeing the familiar truck made her annoyed at herself.

‘Are you coming with me, or do you want to freeze to death?'

Once seated Roger Antill looked at her. He took off his coat.

‘Thank you,' Erica said. Heavy, and far too large, it smelt of sheep, soil and wheat dust.

‘It suits you.'

Driving one-handed he went in the opposite direction to where she had been heading.

‘If it's Sydney you were looking for, it's that-a-way.'

‘I'm not in the business of following Sophie.'

‘Sophie. What's she been up to?'

Erica explained why Sophie had rushed back to Sydney – for no good reason, in her humble opinion. We are talking here about a married man who has a wife. Sophie had never given a full description of him.

Roger didn't have a lot to say about this, and as Erica, feeling comfortable in the cabin in his warm coat, went on critical of Sophie and her impulses, he said, ‘Is she keen on him, or not?' It was sometimes difficult, Erica explained, to tell the difference between Sophie's restlessness and her sudden interest in another person, a man especially. Roger nodded.

So they drove and Erica waited as he stopped and checked a few things, such as stray ewes and the floats in the water troughs. Everything threw a long shadow; then it was dark.

‘Anyway,' he said accelerating up to the lighted house, ‘it looks as if you're marooned here, on this place.'

‘Marooned?' That was funny. ‘I don't think I've ever been marooned before in my life.'

And to Lindsey in the welcome of the kitchen he reported, ‘I've saved her from the crows and the ants. She would have been picked clean inside a week.'

Lindsey saw Erica in her brother's coat. ‘I, of course, assumed you were working in the shed.'

‘Just a walk,' Erica shrugged, ‘that took longer than expected.'

‘Down past the long paddock,' Roger said in a low voice.

‘See if there's a special bottle left in our father's cellar.'

After a two-course meal and one glass too many, and if the hands were past ten, Erica normally would be feeling drowsy. She would be thinking about the next day. But circumstances were not normal. She had survived an adventure, just. She had been saved by him. Here he was seated next to her. A very strange sensation, one she had not experienced before. She was grateful to him for coming by chance upon her, and then to treat it all lightly. Otherwise, she would still be out there, by herself, freezing to death. No wonder she felt light-headed, more talkative than usual. And it was why she followed him out onto the veranda on his suggestion, instead of hesitating or saying no thank you very much, her usual automatic response. Be unafraid. Why not? Besides, he leapt to his feet to find a coat, this time a heavy greatcoat – the sort that used to feature in Army Disposal stores – and smelling of sheep, but also metal, engine oil, poultry – not unpleasant, not at all – which he draped ceremonially over her. She could recline in the deckchair, a philosopher at rest, except for one leg hanging over. ‘It's too cold out here,' Lindsey said. ‘I'll leave you to it.' Through the kitchen window Erica glimpsed her taking a swig straight from the bottle (and didn't feel surprised or saddened).

To her left he cleared his throat.

‘Philosophy is your expertise. So what have you figured out for yourself ?'

‘I am still working on it. Working through it.' This may have sounded precious, so she added, ‘I don't like the word “philosophy” anymore. It sounds a bit off-putting, doesn't it?'

Whatever she said out there on the veranda was sounding dry, theoretical, tentative,
small
, and her ‘philosophy' was all of those things, of little use for the complexities of living.

While listening, Roger Antill hadn't moved.

Erica felt a pleasant warmth through her hands, face and legs.

‘As far as I can see, your brother was constructing a theory of the emotions.'

‘What's that, based on personal experience?'

‘I suppose, in part. Whoops! Sorry.' Her left foot touched his. What an idiot: he'd think she was – .

‘All I know,' Roger from the left, ‘is when our brother returned here, and he stood outside looking at the view, I said to Lindsey, “He's gone all white in the hair-department, and he's not much older than me.”'

‘This can happen,' Erica nodded from her chair. The difficulty was knowing how to live in reaction to others.

‘I don't know why our brother became like he did. Sophie might be able to throw light on that one.'

‘She must be in Sydney by now.'

She wondered if Roger was at all like his brother; did they even look similar? Was Wesley a helpful man?

Erica touched his arm. ‘I hope today you hadn't gone out specially looking for me. If you hadn't found me, I'd be in a sorry state by now.'

‘I'd be driving around all night sounding the horn, letting off firecrackers. I'd be organising search parties, hundreds of men beating the bushes with sticks. Helicopters using searchlights. We would have found you. You might have ended up a bit worse for wear, that's all.'

It was the general immensity she was no longer afraid of. ‘Over-arching', a word she had used in her philosophical work before.

When he asked how long it would take to finish the appraisal, Erica looked straight ahead and answered, ‘Many months, at least. Possibly more.'

In the dark alongside came an exaggerated groan.

She gave him a push. ‘You should be pleased to have a guest, and one who doesn't give the slightest bit of trouble.'

‘I could do with a philosophy for myself. Nothing fancy.' He stood up. ‘You must be getting cold.' Taking her hand he raised her from the deckchair. Taller than her, he let his hand settle on her hip. It didn't go away. But it seemed he was thinking of something else. She couldn't see his face.

Erica reached up. ‘Thank you for today.'

She didn't know whether it was relief, gratitude or carelessness. One of philosophy's functions has always been to shine light into the dimly lit, the imprecise, the hopeful.

As Roger walked to the door he kept his arm around her waist. In the kitchen she took off and handed him the greatcoat and stood there the way she would remove for him a gown of some sort, a bathrobe.

27

—
NATURALLY, I assumed – took for granted – could not think otherwise (I hadn't thought about it enough) – that Cynthia, laden down with the embarrassment of her cameras, would come with me to the adjoining country, Germany. I didn't let on it would be on my way home.

It was unthinkable that I would not include Germany. My studies in Sydney, and wanderings in England and Europe to establish some sort of deep-footing in philosophy, would not have culminated; I would have demonstrated, if only to myself, a
lightness
towards the subject. Never has there been so much dilettantism as today! Everywhere I look. The various recent
isms
have seen to it. After Greece – I had decided not to set foot in Athens – Germany is the natural home for philosophy. It is hardly worth stating.

Germany has given us not one or two, but five of the giants in western philosophy.

‘It must be something in the water,' was George Kybybolite's explanation. Or was it his brother, Carl, trying to make light of it?

Although it was high time I returned home, I toyed with the idea of learning German.

I told all this to Cynthia who had her camera resting on her thigh. We were in a beer cellar, near the station. She seemed to be only half-listening. I took it to be an obvious acceptance of the invitation – why would you even bother asking, et cetera? By train we would slowly zigzag via Hanover, Leipzig and other important centres, to Berlin. I began to anticipate my entry into Germany as a kind of smothering newsreel-dark greenness.

Raising the camera and focusing on nothing in particular Cynthia told me she was going off to Vienna with one of the Kybybolite brothers, George. They were leaving in the morning.

It had been going on under my nose!

As she kept her camera to her eye panning along the patrons of the beer cellar, I didn't know what to say.

I must admit my relaxed attitude to the present – to myself and those around me – and to things like the taste of beer – was blown to pieces. Suffering a rejection hadn't happened to me before. As an attempt at justification I told myself I didn't really know Cynthia, because there was not a lot to know. She was at least fifteen years younger than me. If we talked she seemed to be somewhere else. Although we had been eating and sleeping together for barely a month or so, I wondered if I had mistreated her. (Answer was: how?) I sat very still and imagined how I must appear to her. But my abruptly altered view of her made this difficult. In her eyes I was a man, but one of the solemn ones. The marble brow, constantly trying to make sense – not far from coming across as a pedant. Boring! Meanwhile, the loud Kybybolite brothers in their democratic shirts and lumberjack boots went on horsing around, cracking jokes, ‘good company'.