Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  ‘So,’ Finn continued now, in the face of Moss’s frown, ‘you can move your things in tomorrow afternoon—if it’s alright with you, of course. She’s a nice old thing,’ he added weakly. ‘Knits tea cosies for the United Nations.’ He indicated his own colourfully encased teapot. ‘That’s one of hers. She gives them as Christmas presents too.’

  ‘Did you say United Nations?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And it was tea cosies?’

  ‘Yup again. There was some story involved, but I can’t remember. She’ll tell you. She could do with some company. Sometimes I wonder if she’s a bit batty.’

  Moss had been wondering the same thing, but sleeping on the floor had little appeal so when Finn said they would still have meals together, she agreed to move next door on a trial basis.

  When Finn had gone, Lily Pargetter went up the stairs and stood looking at the closed door of her spare bedroom with something like fear in her eyes. She opened the room once a week to air and dust it, but this was different. If the girl came, then the room would be disturbed, unsettled. Things would be displaced. What would happen then to the sorrow she had folded and stored away there? Looking at Finn, standing irresolute on her doorstep, she had seen a sadness that echoed her own, and had let down her guard. She had been foolish to agree, but could always go next door and tell him she’d changed her mind. It was her house, after all. Her private domain. But what could she tell him? The truth was too painful, and a lie would drive him away. She didn’t want that. She’d come to rely on his presence, his quiet companionship over scones and tea.

  The door creaked a little as she opened it and switched on the light. Her fingers trailed over the wallpaper. She had decorated this room so long ago. A musty smell sent her hurrying to the window to let in some fresh air. She shook out the curtains. Perhaps the musty smell came from them. ‘I have to do this,’ she muttered. ‘Merciful God, help me do this.’

  Determined to concentrate on the task at hand, she applied herself in a housewifely manner, polishing the dressing-table, smoothing fresh linen on the bed, checking there were coathangers in the wardrobe. She switched on the little bedside lamp and was pleased to see its soft glow. The room remained curiously aloof, so she went out to the garden and cut some camellias. ‘Thank goodness the drought hasn’t got these yet,’ she murmured to herself. She arranged the pale pink blooms in a blue-patterned vase and stepped back to admire them. This cleaning had taken on the elements of ritual, as though sweeping away the dust and polishing the surfaces would drive her sadness into the darkest corner. It still lingered in her heart—a small, hard knot of misery—but she called on her reserves of strength and refused to let it overwhelm her.

  She was startled to hear the clock chime six and realised that she had achieved a victory of sorts: she could never have imagined spending so much time in that room. More than that, she was actually excited by the prospect of playing hostess for a few days. It was nice to feel needed.

  The following day, Moss and Finn arrived just before three o’clock, Finn carrying a backpack and Moss a handbag and a basket of fruit. The old lady greeted them at the door, her hands in a flurry of flour.

  ‘Come in. I’ve just put some scones in the oven. We can have a cuppa. Or would you rather see your room first? What am I thinking?’ She smiled a welcome through unwieldy teeth. ‘You must be Fern.’

  ‘Moss, Mrs Pargetter. And thank you, I’d love a cup of tea.’

  Mrs Pargetter pottered around the kitchen, insisting that she wait on her guests. She was of medium height, her body melted into the shapelessness of old age. She carried the beginnings of a dowager’s hump, a feature that was accentuated by her habit of holding her head down to one side whenever she spoke. Her grey hair was drawn back in an untidy bun, and what was once a wide and generous smile was marred by ill-fitting false teeth which she occasionally needed to slurp back into place. She found this manoeuvre quite embarrassing but managed to perform it with some delicacy, simultaneously sucking and patting at her mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  As Mrs Pargetter poured the tea, Moss commented on the Fair-Isle tea cosy.

  ‘How pretty,’ she said disingenuously. ‘Dad has one just like it.’

  The old lady smiled so broadly that her teeth wobbled dangerously and the handkerchief was hastily deployed. ‘Thank you, dear. I’ve knitted three thousand and twelve over the past thirty-odd years. Jam? I’m afraid it’s shop-bought. I used to make my own, but I’m getting on. Eighty-four next birthday.’

  Moss helped herself to a scone and took a small spoonful of jam. She hesitated over the cream.

  ‘Eat up. Young girls are all too thin nowadays. Men like something to hold on to.’ Moss’s eyes widened. ‘Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Your father’s skinny, so it must be in the genes.’

  Having encouraged Moss to tuck away a surprising number of scones, Mrs Pargetter then showed her to her room. It was large and airy, with a casement window and peeling wallpaper where little yellow teddy bears played on a blue background. A mahogany chest of drawers stood in one corner, and a battered wardrobe lurked in the other. The high, narrow bed wore a quilted silk bedspread the same colour as the teddy bears.

  This room has been waiting, Moss thought suddenly. And for a moment she felt a heaviness of spirit. Mrs Pargetter seemed to sense it too and took Moss’s hand.

  ‘This room hasn’t been used since . . . for some time. I’m entrusting it to you.’

  Before Moss had time to think about the oddness of the last remark, the old lady began to bustle about, opening drawers and patting the bedspread.

  ‘I picked you some camellias,’ she said, touching the mass of soft pink blooms. ‘As a sort of welcome. I’m afraid there’s not much else in the garden at the moment.’

  Moss smiled her thanks as Mrs Pargetter left her to her unpacking, which took very little time. Even when she had laid her things out, the room continued to brood. She sat on the bed and tried to analyse the feeling. There was no sense of threat or foreboding; rather it was something like—but not quite—nostalgia. Longing, maybe? Closer. Moss shook off the weight of her thoughts, chiding herself for being fanciful.

  ‘All done,’ she announced, coming back into the kitchen. ‘It’s a lovely room. Thank you, Mrs Pargetter.’

  ‘It’s Thursday. Let’s have the Thursday pub roast,’ said Finn as he left. ‘My treat. I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  Moss watched at the door as her father fled down Mrs Pargetter’s path and up his own, returning to the sanctuary of his house. She noted his haste and felt a wave of self-pity. Another parent who doesn’t want me. Then: He needs time, she reminded herself sharply and, straightening her shoulders, she turned back to sit by the fire with Mrs Pargetter. The old lady was busy knitting a large purple square.

  ‘That looks a bit big for a tea cosy.’ Moss smiled.

  ‘It’s another jumper for your father,’ she replied. ‘That green one is getting very shabby. I’m glad you’re here, dear. He doesn’t look after himself very well, you know.’

  Moss acknowledged this statement with a nod, and changed the subject. ‘You’ve knitted over three thousand tea cosies, Mrs Pargetter? That’s a lot of teapots.’

  The old lady frowned. ‘There are a lot of poor people in the world,’ she admonished. ‘I usually try for at least two a week. I have four weeks’ holiday at Christmas, of course. All work and no play, as they say.’

  ‘So how do they get to the . . . poor people?’

  Mrs Pargetter sniffed. ‘Well, first of all I sent some samples to World Volunteers and got a very terse reply, I can tell you. Apparently they could see no need for tea cosies. As though the poor had no right to a decent cup of tea.’ Her breast, lumpy like an old pillow, heaved with indignation, and Moss shook her head at the World Volunteers’ callous disregard for the poor. But Mrs Pargetter was a woman on a mission. ‘I tried the African Aid Society. Their letter was nicer, but apparently they had enough te
a cosies.’ She stopped to count her stitches. ‘It was then that I had a brilliant idea. Well, Errol has to take some credit.’ She patted the dog, who woofed his agreement. ‘It was so simple I could have cried. I sent a parcel of one dozen cosies to the quartermaster of the United Nations, New York City.’ She spaced each word to emphasise her triumph. ‘And I got a letter back from a Mr Lusala Ngilu, thanking me personally for my extreme kindness. That’s what he said. I can show you the first letter. Extreme kindness.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Mrs Pargetter. The UN has a quartermaster? 101 In New York City?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I get a lovely thank you each time. I can show you the letters. I have a box full of them. They’re on official letterhead signed by Mr Lusala Ngilu, Quartermaster, United Nations. I get a card every Christmas as well.’ She looked over her glasses. ‘I know you young people like to make initials of everything. Your father thought he could get away with calling me “Mrs P.”, but I soon put a stop to that. It’s just laziness, I said. My name is Lily Pargetter and you may call me Mrs Pargetter. So you see, dear, I must insist you show proper respect to the United Nations. If anyone asks what I do, tell them I work for the United Nations.’

  The kelpie that had followed her home turned out to belong to Mrs Pargetter, and Moss offered to take him for a walk. He was named after Errol Flynn, and surprisingly, he bore no grudge. He loved Mrs Pargetter with all his doggy heart and they enjoyed many a good conversation about the old days. So far he tolerated Moss’s presence in the house. She spoke softly and scratched his ears just the way he liked.

  Thursday was obviously a busier day in town, and there were quite a few cars and utes angle-parked into the deep bluestone gutter. A hum of voices came from the pub, and women stood talking under shop awnings. Most looked at Moss and Errol curiously, and a few nodded pleasantly. An old man in a faded flannel shirt lifted his hat. ‘G’day, girlie,’ he said, and gave her a gappy grin. She smiled back, wondering why she didn’t mind being called ‘girlie’. Her mothers had made it very clear that this was a demeaning form of address.

  Moss and Errol returned home around five to find Mrs Pargetter already dressed for the pub meal, which she clearly looked on as quite an event. She had changed into a cable-knit jumper and a long cotton skirt. She wore pearl clip-on earrings and her bun was tidied into a black lace snood. The effect was spoilt by the shaky application of pink lipstick and pale blue eye shadow, but when Finn arrived an hour later, he gallantly kissed her hand and said she looked lovely. Moss, who had brought very little clothing with her, was going to wear jeans but in deference to the old lady’s sense of what was proper changed into black trousers and a clean white shirt. Her taste in clothes mirrored Linsey’s rather than Amy’s. Neat, practical, classic—that had been Linsey’s advice.

  The pub’s small dining room was crowded, and most of the patrons seemed to know Finn and Mrs Pargetter. Moss felt quite shy as she was introduced, and sensed Finn’s similar discomfort in crowds. She was glad to be seated at a corner table with a glass of wine. Mrs Pargetter sipped a shandy, and Finn had a Coke. They were not left in peace for long. A large red face imposed itself and wheezed a greeting in a voice that sounded as though it were being forced out from somewhere high in the throat. The barrel chest, a perfect resonator, had no part to play.

  ‘Heard you were here, Finn.’ His diction was unexpectedly cultured. ‘Needed to catch up with you about the project.’ The speaker suddenly noticed that there were other people present.

  ‘G’day, Aunt Lily.’ Mrs Pargetter offered him a frosty Good evening, George, and returned to her shandy.

  Finn introduced him to Moss, who felt her hand sinking unpleasantly into his soft, sweaty palm. She hastily withdrew her own. He was a strange-looking man, his small, quite handsome features all tightly corralled in the centre of his very large face, while tiny red capillaries traced complicated map lines on his cheeks. He was dressed in neat moleskins and an expensive-looking linen shirt.

  Moss smiled politely. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sandilands.’

  ‘Sandy, please. Everyone calls me Sandy.’ Mrs Pargetter looked up sharply. ‘Well, almost everyone.’

  There was no room for Sandy to join them, so after making a time to meet with Finn the next day, he wandered off into the bar.

  ‘What’s this project?’ Moss asked.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ Finn responded. He hardly believed it himself. ‘You’ve heard of the Big Banana and the Big Pineapple?’ She nodded. ‘Well, Sandy is planning something similar for Opportunity.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Actually, it’s a Great Galah.’

  ‘A Great Galah? What on earth gave him that idea?’

  ‘His father was always calling him a great galah, apparently. Sandy seems to think it was a term of affection. He says it will not only honour his relationship with his father, Major Sandilands, DSO and Bar—I’m not joking, that’s how he refers to his father: Major Sandilands, DSO and Bar—but he reckons that this galah thing’ll bring in the crowds. You wouldn’t know it, but he’s the richest man in town. Worth squillions. He’s willing to pay for the lot himself. He’s very passionate about it.’

  ‘He’s barking mad,’ pronounced Mrs Pargetter. ‘And his father was a nasty bully of a man.’ She drained her glass for emphasis.

  ‘Drawing up the plans keeps him happy,’ said Finn mildly. ‘It keeps the demons at bay.’

  7

  Lily Baxter and Arthur Pargetter

  WHEN MRS PARGETTER WAS LILY Baxter, she and her older sister, Rosie, were considered to be beauties, although it was generally agreed that Rosie, laughing and vivacious, was the more attractive. The girls were well-read and genteel, daughters of the schoolmaster, but it was still considered a great coup for eighteen-year-old Rosie when she married George Sandilands, the son and heir of a wealthy local grazier. Despite her supposed good fortune, the only peace Rosie Sandilands experienced in her thirty-eight years of marriage was the four years in which her husband was overseas becoming a major and winning medals. Rosie was always publicly addressed by her husband as Rosalind, and privately as Woman, in tones of exasperation, anger or contempt. He prided himself on using physical force only when he considered it to be absolutely necessary. Lily was the only one Rosie ever allowed to see the bruises.

  Their son, George Junior, was known as Sandy. From an early age the boy learned that to show affection to his mother would only enrage his father. So he trembled in the suffocating dark beneath the bedclothes when he heard his mother cry, and cravenly sought his father’s approval at every opportunity. This went some way to protecting him from the Major’s anger, but not from his contempt. He was a bright enough lad, but not well coordinated, and his father’s jeering voice could be heard at school sports days and football matches: You great galah! Can’t you do anything right? The boy’s attempts to read quietly, a pastime that he loved, called forth similar abuse. Nancy boy, his father called him, and in his misery Sandy ate the cakes and scones and sweets his mother pressed on him, the only way she could express her love and pity.

  At nineteen, Lily was still not married and lived a quiet life, keeping house for her father and playing the organ at St Saviour’s. She was a dreamy girl and looked forward to a future as a wife and mother. Her sister’s early marriage had left her a little uneasy on this score, but her father, a widower for fifteen years, was in no hurry to marry off his second daughter. He was afraid of George and averted shamed eyes from any evidence of Rosie’s unhappiness, privately vowing to protect his younger daughter from the same fate.

  Lily was a talented musician and was often asked to play piano at various gatherings around the district. Because of this, she went to many dances but rarely danced, sitting conscientiously at the piano with a straight back and firm wrists as she’d been taught. The women all agreed that she was a pretty girl but a bit too pleased with herself. The men granted that she was a bit of all right, but felt that she thought herself too good for them
. Why else, they asked, would she sit all snooty-like at the piano when she could be dancing? There are plenty more fish in the sea, they told each other. Don’t have to chase Miss Up-Herself. Lily, meanwhile, would sit with her straight back and pretty face, wishing only to be swirling on the dance floor with some young man or giggling in the corner where the girls assembled like multi-coloured butterflies.

  The ensemble she played with included old ‘Trooper’ Morgan on drums and Tony Capricci (Eyetie Tony) on the saxophone. Both men treated her with a kind of elderly gallantry, which she accepted with rueful gratitude.

  The night she met Arthur she had slipped away from the piano for a cool drink, leaving Tony exuberantly calling for a ‘Pride of Erin’. She was looking particularly attractive in a dress of butter-coloured lace, her long auburn hair framing her face.

  ‘Is the pianist allowed to dance?’

  She turned to see a small, dark-haired young man with soft puppy-dog eyes, and a nervous grin over which struggled a self-conscious pencil moustache. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit with an obviously new white shirt. His tie, she noticed, needed straightening, and his hair was just a little too long over his collar.

  ‘I thought you needed looking after,’ she would say on their honeymoon. ‘That’s the only reason I agreed to dance with you.’

  ‘Not the only reason you agreed to marry me, I hope,’ Arthur would retort. ‘My good looks and charm must have had some effect.’

  The truth was that his charm lay not in his looks, exactly, but in his shy smile. It had taken all his courage to approach her, but he managed to hold out his hand in invitation. Lily looked over at Tony. Please? her eyes said.

  ‘Go ahead, bella mia. We can play without you.’ Tony beamed.

  Arthur was the new clerk at the Commonwealth Bank. A job with prospects, her father noted approvingly. Their courtship was brief. War loomed, and there was a kind of desperate gaiety and sense of urgency that fermented the social process. So, ten months after their first dance, they married at St Saviour’s and honeymooned at Marysville, where they fumbled through their first sexual experience with enthusiasm and good humour, returning to Opportunity with smug little smiles.