Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  He felt their relief wash over him like a flood.

  ‘Thank you, Michael. You’re a good man,’ said Linsey with simple grace. Amy just smiled. Her dimple had returned.

  So the arrangement continued as before until, several months later, he received a phone call.

  ‘We’re pregnant,’ they sang into the phone. ‘Michael, we’re pregnant.’

  Two days later there was a cheque for five thousand dollars in the mail. A note was attached saying that they were grateful and wished him well, and as the contract stated, he would neither see nor hear from them again.

  But even as he breathed a sigh of relief, Michael couldn’t help feeling just a little cheated.

  3

  Amy, Linsey and Moss

  FOR AMY AND LINSEY, THE disappointment that had followed Michael’s visit each month only compounded their delight when a pregnancy was finally confirmed. The two women looked at each other in awe at what they had achieved.

  ‘We’ve done it,’ Linsey breathed.

  ‘With a little help from Michael,’ Amy giggled.

  The two women had first met when Amy went to work as a temp at the Melbourne University Faculty of Commerce, where Linsey was a lecturer in economics. On Amy’s first day, Linsey burst into the secretary’s office, her brusque instructions 24 arrested mid-speech by the sight of the unfamiliar young woman behind the desk.

  ‘When I saw you,’ an enchanted Linsey later told Amy, ‘I thought of summer—of peaches and honey and lazy blue skies.’

  What she actually said at the time was: ‘I need these by—um . . .’

  Amy looked up from her typing. ‘I’m just a temp,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to show me what you want.’ And she moved over with a gesture of invitation to come to her side of the desk, where Linsey bent over the manuscript with fierce concentration, trying to ignore the drifting perfume and faint female odour that arose from the seated woman.

  For the two weeks that Amy spent at the university, Linsey was distracted. She of fierce efficiency became quiet and absentminded. She worked like a fury on her lecture notes just so she could take them to Amy to format and copy. She replaced her uniform T-shirt with business shirts of crisp white cotton or cream silk. She washed her cap of shining brown hair every night and even tried fluffing it out a bit around her face. She thought constantly of Amy—dreamily imagined intimate dinners, films, concerts—but spoke to her only about work.

  On Amy’s last day, Linsey was miserable. Confident and outspoken in a professional milieu, she was painfully shy socially.

  So it was Amy who made the first move. ‘Are you free for a drink after work?’ she asked when Linsey came to collect her photocopying. ‘Yes? I’ll see you at Gerry’s around five then.’

  At work, Linsey had never made any secret of her sexuality, but she wasn’t sure about Amy’s. They hadn’t developed a friendship or even an acquaintance in the time they had worked together, so to be asked out for a drink seemed like a good sign. But maybe Amy just wanted a reference, or to sound Linsey out about any permanent positions that might be coming up? These questions ran through poor Linsey’s head as she shredded her paper napkin in the twilight of Gerry’s wine bar.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Amy said breathlessly as she sat down in the chair opposite. ‘I was held up while they filled in the agency forms.’

  Linsey smiled, hoping her relief wasn’t too evident.

  ‘Not a problem. What will you have to drink?’

  And so this ordinary, even banal conversation set in train the relationship that, with the help of Michael Finbar Clancy, would produce Miranda Ophelia Sinclair.

  But whole oceans would pass under the bridge before these two—now known as Finn and Moss—would finally meet.

  Amy, Linsey learned that night, came from a Methodist working-class family. She had three brothers, one an insurance assessor and the other two public servants. Her father was a train driver and her mother worked part-time at the local doctor’s surgery.

  ‘They’re good people,’ Amy told Linsey over a second glass of wine, ‘but not the sort to approve of . . . unconventional lifestyles. That’s why I haven’t told them.’

  ‘My parents try to be open-minded, but I know they’re really disappointed in me.’ A shadow of pain passed over Linsey’s face. ‘I have a brother and a sister. They try to understand. They’re quite supportive, really, but you can’t help knowing that they have to make an effort.’

  Both women were silent, each lost for a moment in her own private sorrow.

  Later, over dinner, Amy told Linsey about her music. ‘I go to classes,’ she confided. ‘It gives me somewhere to practise. Our house is pretty small and there’s nowhere to go to escape the sound of the TV. I know it’s ridiculous still living at home at my age—I’ve moved out a couple of times, but it hasn’t worked out. I moved back a few months ago.’ She shrugged. ‘Just haven’t got around to finding another place yet.’

  ‘What made you decide on the harp?’ Linsey was enjoying a vision of Amy, in a deep-blue silk gown, playing her harp, looking for all the world like one of God’s own angels. She was already planning to offer her spare room as a practice studio.

  ‘Well, there was this old lady next door. I used to do bits and pieces for her, you know, shopping and such. Mum wouldn’t let me take any money from her, so she offered to teach me the harp instead. When she moved into a nursing home, she gave the harp to me. Mrs Hirschfield, her name was. A nice old lady. She always wore a black velvet band around her hair, like a little girl.’

  Linsey lived in a fine old house left to her by her Aunt Shirley, the widow of ‘Flash Jack’ Mitchell, the extruded-plastic-pipe magnate. Of course Aunt Shirley never called him ‘Flash Jack’. She always referred to him as ‘dear-John-God-rest-his-soul’. And well she might. He left her over two million dollars and no children to share it with. After a short period of mourning, Aunt Shirley blonded her greying hair and dedicated herself to spending the lot. I’m sure it’s what dear-John-God-rest-his-soul would have wanted, she explained prettily as she watched the roulette wheel spin. Fortunately for Linsey, however, Aunt Shirley died of food poisoning after eating some dodgy oysters in Marrakech, leaving her niece with a very nice house, a red MGB and a comfortable number of blue-chip shares.

  Two weeks after their dinner, it was to this house that Linsey welcomed Amy as they extracted the harp from Amy’s battered Corolla. If she winced a little at the drink bottles, fast-food cartons, magazines, tissues and indeterminate articles of clothing strewn carelessly around the small car, Linsey was hardly aware of it, so pleased was she to play benefactor.

  ‘You can use this,’ she said, opening the door to a small well-lit room, sparsely furnished with two ladder-backed chairs, a small table and a music stand. She was particularly pleased with the music stand, which she’d found at a local antiques market. She smiled at Amy and her wide-armed gesture seemed to take in the whole house. ‘I hope this is suitable. You’re welcome to come at any time.’

  Amy was delighted, of course, and took Linsey at her word. Linsey often came into the small music room and stood quietly by the door as Amy played. She looked so graceful and serious as she stroked and plucked the strings, and Linsey gratefully drank in the serenity that seemed to enfold both music and musician. Often, though, she would find Amy just sitting, hands folded in her lap, looking dreamily out onto the garden.

  ‘Play some more,’ Linsey would say, and receive a smile of surpassing sweetness as Amy obediently returned to her music.

  It wasn’t long before Amy began to stay the night, and gradually evidence of her claim on the house appeared in scattered items of clothing, sheet music, makeup, and long blonde hairs in the bathroom. Grumbling a little, Linsey would restore the house to its normal order, but each time Amy returned, chaos followed. It was only in comparison to Linsey’s pathological neatness that such a strong word as ‘chaos’ could be used to describe Amy’s cheerful mess. But one day, when a stressed Linsey flung
this word (and a good many others) at the untidy Amy, it provided not only the cause of their first quarrel but, oddly enough, the catalyst for Amy to move in permanently. Following her impatient outburst, Linsey watched in horror as her lover’s blue eyes filled with tears and her sensuous mouth trembled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Amy with an air of dignified grievance. ‘I’ll just get my harp and music. I won’t bother you again.’

  Appalled at the thought of losing her, Linsey petted and cajoled, wept and apologised, until Amy allowed her to kiss away the tears and lead her to the bedroom.

  Lying in the quiet embrace that follows passion, Linsey turned and looked at her lover. ‘Don’t go tomorrow,’ she said simply. ‘Stay with me. I love you.’

  Amy kissed the tense mouth and delicately traced its perimeter with her finger. ‘I love you too, Linny. I have to go tomorrow, but if you really want me, I’ll be back. As soon as I can, I promise. I just need to organise my things.’

  It took nearly two weeks, but Linsey finally found herself being introduced to the Sinclair family as Amy’s housemate.

  ‘Linsey’s a bit scared, living alone in such a big house,’ Amy explained. ‘The rent’s very cheap and I can practise my harp as often as I want.’ She hugged her doubtful father. Her mother, usually undemonstrative, squeezed Amy’s shoulder as she helped her load the last box into the car.

  ‘You can always come home if it doesn’t work out,’ she said. ‘Although she seems like a nice young woman. Here, I made you some almond biscuits. You always say they’re your favourite.’

  Amy hugged her mother as she took the biscuit tin. She noticed it was the one with Edinburgh Castle on the lid. She and her brothers used to make up stories about that castle. Her mother had already given her some towels and sheets (single-bed), but the tin and the biscuits came laden with obligation and love. She ate all the biscuits herself; it would have felt like a betrayal to share them with Linsey.

  Before meeting Linsey, Amy had drifted in and out of relationships without ever becoming emotionally engaged. Her tendency to prattle masked an essential inertness that allowed her life to ebb and flow at the will of others. Good-natured but mentally and emotionally lazy, she relied on beauty and charm to smooth the creases from her life, and when thwarted, her natural response was a passive aggression that drove its target to tears of frustration. Curiously, at this stage she often simply gave in, as though even witnessing such passion was more than she could be bothered with.

  In Linsey, Amy found stability and a generous wholeheartedness lacking in her other relationships. She liked being admired not just for her beauty but for her talent. It wasn’t inertia that made her stay. In a world where sexual norms would brook no divergence, Amy was uncertain of who she was. And it was with Linsey she felt valued.

  They settled into a life of pleasant domesticity until one deceptively bland evening when Linsey came home from visiting her sister, Felicity, who had recently given birth to her second child.

  ‘You should have seen her, Amy. She has this little round face with a funny pointy chin. I swear she smiled at me. Felicity says it’s just wind, but she was looking straight at me. And Toby calls her Pippa. He can’t say Phillipa.’ Linsey sat down and continued: ‘I really didn’t want to hand her back. Look, I stopped at Baby World on the way home and bought her this.’ She scrabbled in her bag and produced a tiny navy-blue voile dress.

  At the sight of the dress, Amy became interested. ‘Gorgeous, Linny. I might get her a little hat to match. What do you think?’ And they spent a pleasant half-hour discussing baby clothes and their favourite childhood books and toys.

  In the days that followed, Linsey’s amorphous need for love took shape. A tiny phantom hand gripped her finger and drew her on to seek information, which she diligently garnered before making her approach. Was she insane to risk this relationship to further a dream that she wasn’t sure Amy would share? She wasn’t blind to her partner’s faults and knew that a child would encroach upon Amy’s fundamental lassitude. On the other hand, she hoped—no, knew—that a child would bring them closer together, would provide the key to the store of love Amy surely possessed.

  One evening, Amy sat languidly on the verandah, sipping a glass of wine. She was in one of her pensive moods, staring out at the summer rain that plashed softly on the warm earth and spangled the velvety petals of Aunt Shirley’s roses. Linsey poured herself a glass of wine and hesitated before sitting down beside her.

  ‘I love summer storms,’ Amy said. ‘It’s worth putting up with the heat just to smell the ozone.’ She lifted her head and took in a theatrical breath, but Linsey was lost in her own thoughts. For once, Amy noticed. ‘You seem a bit preoccupied, Linny. Is something the matter?’

  ‘No—well, yes. In a way.’ Now the time had come, Linsey was not sure how to begin. ‘I’ve been, um, thinking.’ And she plunged once more into silence, twisting her glass and picking imaginary specks from her sleeve.

  ‘Come on, Linny. What’s up?’ Amy affected a childlike whine, tugging at Linsey’s sleeve. ‘Tell me. Tell me.’

  Linsey put down her glass and grasped the other woman’s shoulders, turning her so that they were face to face. ‘Look at me, Amy. I need you to be serious. Serious—and completely honest.’

  ‘Of course. You’re not sick, are you, Linny?’ She sounded frightened.

  Linsey took a moment to savour the thought that Amy cared. ‘No. I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I want to ask you something. Amy, what would you say to the idea of having a baby?’

  ‘Who? Who’s having a baby?’

  ‘Us, Amy. What would you say to the idea of us having a baby?’

  ‘Us? How?’

  ‘We could try to adopt,’ Linsey explained, ‘but they won’t accept applications from same-sex couples.’

  Amy giggled as she took another sip of wine. ‘So it looks like we’ll have to steal one. I think that’s against the law too.’

  Linsey had prepared for this moment. ‘There’s another way.’ Amy was shocked. ‘No, Amy. Not that. We can arrange for artificial insemination. It does work. That’s how Margaret and Kris conceived.’ She looked at the other woman, trying to gauge her reaction. ‘What do you say?’

  Amy was dumbfounded. Surprised to discover that she wasn’t averse to the idea; she just needed time for the thought to grow.

  ‘This is a bit sudden, isn’t it, Linny?’ She held up her glass. ‘Another drink please, darling: I need to think.’

  The women sat in silence, each following her own train of thought. It was several days before Linsey got her answer. All that time, Amy was preoccupied, spending much of her spare time on the verandah or in the music room, looking out onto the garden. Meanwhile, Linsey prowled and fretted, tidied and swept, dusted and polished, weeded and pruned, until she was quite exhausted. She knew better than to harass Amy, who, as always, moved at her own unhurried pace.

  Amy had always liked children. Babies smiled and cooed at her and her nephews and nieces jostled for her attention. She absently stroked her stomach. Imagined it stretched, rounded. Imagined her breasts dripping milk. She sat on the verandah and tasted the late summer, the teeming life of the sunlit garden: lush green lawns, full-blown roses, fragrant lavender and slow, fat, murmurous honey bees. Slightly intoxicated by sensory excess, she felt her body soften in welcome to her imaginary child. Cupping her breasts in her hands, she resolved to speak to Linsey that night.

  A moment later she stiffened in dismay, jolted from her reverie by a sudden thought. What if Linsey wanted to carry the child? She had as much right. Would she, Amy, feel the same way if she were not to be the birth mother? She wasn’t sure that she would. If they were to have a child, it had to be a child of her body, the body she knew was ripe and waiting.

  That night, over dinner, she asked the question. ‘Linny, if we have this child, who’d be the birth mother?’ A small knot of panic formed in Amy’s throat, and her words had to push their way out through constricted airways.r />
  On this matter, Linsey had never had any doubt. ‘You, of course, darling. We want our baby to be as beautiful and talented as we can make her.’ She looked at the other woman. ‘Is that what you want? I mean, if you decide you don’t . . .’

  Amy felt the tension drain from her body. ‘A baby would be wonderful,’ she replied. ‘Really, I want to carry the baby, Linny. The answer is yes . . .’

  Linsey left her place and knelt beside Amy’s chair, hugging her tearfully. ‘Just leave the details to me. Darling, darling Amy. I’m so happy.’ And she even giggled a little. ‘Listen, I have a plan.’

  Amy settled back to listen. Linsey was a very good planner.

  ‘We’ll advertise in Vox Discipuli,’ Linsey told her. ‘Offer money. That should find the target market.’

  Target market. Odd language, Amy thought briefly.

  Linsey would always look back on the period of Amy’s pregnancy as the happiest of their lives together. After a passing nod to morning sickness, Amy bloomed. Her skin glowed, her dimple deepened and her hair shone. As her belly rounded, she lay on the sun-lounge, sleepy-eyed and full of promise, with a kind of tawny, feline grace that reminded Linsey of the great cats of Africa.

  ‘But without the claws.’ She laughed as she stroked the burgeoning belly. And Amy laughed with her. At the time, neither of them understood the ferocity at the heart of a mother’s love.

  Linsey fussed, of course. And Amy cooperated amiably with the exercise and diet regime that Linsey devised from the many books she’d acquired on the subject of pregnancy and childbirth.

  As the pregnancy unfolded, their families, knowingly or unknowingly, participated in the fiction of the two women as housemates. Amy’s mother, Kathy, was very impressed with Linsey’s devotion to her pregnant daughter. ‘Linsey’s so good to her,’ she said to Linsey’s mother. ‘I don’t know what she would have done without her.’