The Pages by Murray Bail Page A

letter to her married sister – and to his surprise concentrated on the problem (what ‘problem’?), and asked detailed questions from every conceivable angle, the original cubist, trying to give a shape to the situation. Analysing possible reasons-for could absorb Rosie for hours at a time.
    â€˜Anyway, he’s in strife now.’
    â€˜I can see you having a shocking temper,’ she said, still thinking of the business with the chair. And not for the first time she asked, ‘Why is that?’
    â€˜The emotions are a difficult category,’ was all he could say – attempt at a joke. ‘I am working on it.’
    Strange how lead-footed he became during these conversations, even with Rosie. Wesley had wanted his chair back; it was his. That was all. But to march up and simply lunge at Sheldrake – where was David Hume’s courtesy of argument? He wondered whether the plainness of the dry-grass rural life could be responsible.
    Every day he and Rosie spoke to each other, and the nights he wasn’t at Virginia Kentridge’s they slept together. More and more Wesley wanted to talk to somebody about his latest philosophical understanding or misunderstandings, really a thinking aloud. It was sometimes a matter of shaking off a loose idea. While he tried to narrow his way of seeing, Rosie encouraged him here and there to enrich his way of seeing. She had a broad take on subjects parallel to philosophy – religious thought and three ancient languages being some – which filled out her voice and shadowy flesh, her lips, and scented her skin, at least as far as Wesley was concerned. Areas of soaked-up learning had added to her; they were hidden, but came out as generosity. Her mouth was open. ‘I don’t want to be regarded as something like a sister,’ she said late one night. By then they were sleeping naked, his wrist warming her waist.
    Wesley asked if he could bring Rosie to one of his mother’s Thursday soirees. To be on the safe side, Mrs Antill didn’t invite any of her friends. From the sofa she held out her hand and let it droop. ‘Excuse this,’ she apologised, ‘I am feeling fragile these days.’ Mrs Antill wore a wheat-coloured satin dressing gown which added to her leisured watchfulness. She had a steady handsome face containing trace elements of Wesley’s jaw, all the more interesting for being haggard. Although she looked carefully at the younger woman she wasn’t sure what to make of her.
    Walking home Rosie said, ‘Definitely a statement, your mother stretched out there on the couch.’
    â€˜I haven’t seen her like that before,’ Wesley admitted.
    â€˜She’s smaller than I thought. I liked her. Is she still not speaking to your friend, the black widow?’
    Virginia Kentridge? In the space of an evening she’d go through three or four different moods. Overall she insisted on pulling him towards her; wanting to keep him there. Virginia was serious about this. During the day she couldn’t understand why he couldn’t be there, and when he was there how his mind seemed to be somewhere else. His large presence in her house, inside her, it was almost enough; for they didn’t talk much. She dressed up for him. She could be shameless. There was a general moist breathlessness, as when she directed his head to between her legs, as if there was not a lot of time.
    For Wesley it became confusing. It was not something he could discuss with Rosie, and as a sign of loss of interest he was especially attentive to Virginia – and in turn her happy response confused him further.
    With some difficulty he found where Sheldrake lived. It was near the hospital, off Forbes Street, a ground floor one-bedroom in a brown building without a locked entrance; Hendrik kept his front door ajar, to entice people to enter.
    When Wesley knocked and poked his head in, he showed no surprise.
    â€˜This is