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was no thinking, no philosophy, and from there begin again. Otherwise what was the point?
    The light angling in from one of the windows varnished the floorboards, lit up the Tasmania-shaped stain on the wallpaper and concentrated a magnesium triangle across Erica’s pillow, splitting her troubled face. At the same time a crowd of large birds she was told were white cockatoos set up a hectic overlapping racket outside.
    When she opened her eyes again Lindsey was holding out a cup of tea and buttered toast.
    â€˜Don’t for a moment think you’ve got to get up. You’re not in a mad rush, are you?’
    â€˜I don’t know what’s got into me.’ Lifting an arm took an effort. ‘What time is it?’ And Erica immediately worried that her voice sounded frail – or not frail enough.
    As for Lindsey, a childhood of sunlight, tank water and calling out across paddocks had given her an outdoor voice, steady and clear, capable of distance, and to Erica it came as no surprise later to learn she once had vague ambitions to take over from where Melba had left off. Resting back on the pillows Erica examined one of Lindsey’s eyes, then searched her face for traces, if any, of suffering, kindness, cleverness, disappointment, serenity. She knew nothing about this woman bending over whose face was rectangular and hair could have been cut with kitchen scissors.
    â€˜This is Wesley’s bedroom. You’re in his bed.’
    As Lindsey went on, Erica noticed the tan rubber band tying her hair, its simple suggestion of modesty. At the same time it worried her that most people she met soon became of little interest to her.
    â€˜Next door is where he had his piano. It’s still there, under wraps. He’d sit and play for hours on end. Honky-tonk, that type of thing.’ Lindsey tossed her hair back. ‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. At least there wasn’t any static, which is what you get out here when you turn on the wireless. He said the piano was necessary to calm his thoughts, to settle himself. When he’d come in exhausted from his work he’d spark up after a few minutes playing. Wesley was the only one of us who could play a musical instrument. Basically he was a city man – the tall buildings. It took me a while to realise. He liked the bright lights. He did not really have an agricultural calling. He didn’t take the slightest interest, not that we minded.’
    If only Erica wasn’t feeling so feeble. Now instead of turning over questions of a philosophical kind she was finding herself picking up the slightest scraps of information on Wesley Antill’s personality. Perched on the end of the bed, his sister now busily gazing out the window still hadn’t said where he actually did his work.
    â€˜He took us by surprise when he came back here to live – the way he straight off began decorating his room with fancy chairs, sofas, some statues, silk curtains – you name it – it cost an arm and a leg. He had some idea in his head of the perfect environment. Anything that could help him in his chosen work. I don’t know how he could make sense of the problems he was trying to solve. Way over my head.’ Lindsey rubbed her eye. ‘It wasn’t long before he threw it all out, the cushions, the lot, and just had a card table, a kitchen chair, no books, not one, and nothing on the walls. I called it the “piano room”. He called it his “simple room”.
    â€˜A woman came to stay with him once. She was from Sydney. I wasn’t sure about her. She had a nice figure, and she knew it. Perhaps that was it. After about a week she left.’
    Listening to Lindsey talking about her invisible brother, Erica felt her energy return and found herself nodding at the bits and pieces on him, though she held back even in anticipation from what remained ready and waiting for her, his life-work.
    Later in the morning, she