Read Online Homesickness by Murray Bail - Free Book Online

radical design. Straight lines are anathema to these people, remember. Their experience is mainly coned and rounded.’
    Gerald shrugged. ‘You’ll probably find it’s designed by an American.’
    Hofmann looked at his watch as Louisa wiped her forehead.
    â€˜This is ridiculous,’ Mrs Cathcart hissed. ‘All the way—’
    Sasha called out. ‘Come on. This is giving us the creeps. Where’s our driver?’
    North was talking to him in the corner. He turned:
    â€˜For an extra few shillings he says he’ll take us back a different way. Agreed?’
    Achchha , seated in the bush again it was good to take the weight off the feet, to sit back; and there was the prospect of further scenes unfolding, and at the end at dusk the hotel with its now-familiar entrance foyer, its chairs and mustard carpet upstairs, a hot shower.
    Borelli put his chin between the Hofmanns and cleared his throat, ‘Didn’t you feel, well, I mean, a bit small in there?’
    Louisa looked at him and laughed.
    Hofmann didn’t turn from the window. ‘It was almost as bad as the place yesterday, whatever it was called.’
    Across the aisle Garry was telling Violet, ‘I’m sorry, but Africa just isn’t my scene.’
    â€˜The Museum of Handicrafts yesterday? I liked that.’ Borelli stared at Louisa. ‘But didn’t you?’
    â€˜I certainly did not!’ she laughed again.
    â€˜If they want foreign exchange,’ Ken Hofmann said (another long sentence for him), ‘they’re sure going about it the wrong way.’
    â€˜Today’s, you’d have to admit, was extremely well done. And it’s had its effect. We are a shade different from when we arrived. The damage is done. There’s a little worm inside our heads.’ He laughed. ‘And there’s nothing we can do about it.’
    But here Hofmann swung around with the rest to see the galloping giraffes and Borelli looked closely at her. ‘Then what is it you’re interested in?’ he asked. Louisa looked out the other side and frowned. ‘You’re making our holiday sound very complicated,’ she smiled.
    Borelli nodded and leaned back in his own seat.
    They were speeding across a dun-coloured plain, across the afternoon. The mimosa trees and piles of boulders broke the horizon. Spasmodic cultivation at mid-distance: sweet potatoes chiefly, some maize. Such right-angled patches here were distinctly unnatural, man-made. Over to the right a distant village, ‘Leon,’ Mrs Kaddok suddenly pointed, ‘would like to take his photographs. Do you mind?’
    Garry Atlas immediately gave two loud sharp claps to the driver. He slowed down and turned. ‘Ah!’ Sheila cried. Stock pigeons flew up from the verge and one hit the windscreen. The bus went on to the village.
    â€˜But they’re beau-tiful!’ Sasha whispered as they stepped out. ‘Look at her.’
    The village women had remained squatting around their cooking fires: smooth dark bodies, their shaved heads. A young girl was pregnant. Violet Hopper and Louisa Hofmann both had their sunglasses resting up on their hair and didn’t say anything but gave them an interested smile. Bold as brass then Mrs Cathcart went up and casually stood beside a group. Pale-skinned and holding the handbag she suddenly appeared to be burdened with superfluous weights—the extra pale-blue cardigan, sunglasses, gold watch—and by her flesh which spread out and fell beyond her basic skull, camouflage. It was further aggravated or even symbolised by her hair: uplifted, distinctly caliological. It tilted like a frail tower. By comparison, the shaven heads of the village women were close to the original: sculptural, flowing into their bodies. Yet Mrs Cathcart stood around unaware. Some of the others became awkward. They found their shoes clattered on the white ground.
    Louisa watched Borelli gazing at a