Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  ‘This is my mother,’ Moss had said, indicating Amy. ‘And this is my . . . aunt. Aunt Linsey.’ And Linsey had smiled and shaken hands and made polite conversation, never once betraying her pain. Now Moss felt that this was the punishment she was due.

  But, perversely, she was still hurt. She wanted answers, and decided to visit Robert. He’d been kind to her at the service, attempting to shield her from the worst of Felicity’s venom and thanking her for the music. He had lived alone since his divorce. While he sounded surprised when Moss rang, he readily agreed to the meeting.

  ‘Come about one,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a bit of lunch.’

  Moss arrived punctually and was greeted with a kiss on the cheek—a real one, where lips actually touch the face. Robert was the oldest of the three siblings; Moss estimated that he must be nearing sixty. His face had deep grooves from nose to chin, and his hair, thinning on top, left him with a greying tonsure. He was small like Linsey, and had the same large grey eyes, which looked mildly at Moss over his reading glasses.

  ‘So, how are you, Miranda?’

  ‘Moss, please, Uncle Rob.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, Moss. Come in here while I make us a sandwich.’

  The kitchen/living room was neat and bare. There were no pictures on the walls or cushions on the sofa. A newspaper lay open on the table. Robert must have been reading when she arrived. It looks temporary, Moss thought. Like a motel room. Her uncle made sandwiches and tea with a minimum of fuss, the conversation easy and impersonal.

  ‘Now,’ he said, as they sat down. ‘What can I do for you, love?’

  Moss nibbled at her sandwich. ‘I suppose you know that I had this silly fight with Linsey, and we weren’t speaking when she died.’ She corrected herself. ‘No, that’s not fair. I wasn’t speaking to her. For all I know, she might have been waiting for me to come to my senses.’

  Robert looked at Moss, whose eyes were lowered. Poor little bugger. ‘As far as I understand,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘you were upset about the, ah . . . conditions that brought about your birth. Would that be fair to say?’

  Moss nodded without looking up.

  ‘Well,’ Robert continued, ‘Linsey confided in me a bit. Probably more in Flissy, her being a woman and all, but I do know she wanted a child badly enough to go to all sorts of trouble to have one. I also know that she loved you from the moment you were born to the day she died.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘She was never an easy woman to get on with. I’m her brother and I know, believe me. She was a fierce little thing when we were kids. Used to insist that Mum cut her sandwiches a certain way—triangles, no crusts. Her schoolbag had to be packed in a certain order . . . That sort of thing. Even though I was a few years older, I was always a bit scared of her. But I’ll tell you this, Mir—Moss. When she loved someone, it was the real deal. Nothing you could have done would have changed the fact that she loved you.’

  ‘Then, if she wanted a child so much, why didn’t she adopt me?’ Moss had planned to ask composed and intelligent questions, and now here she was, whining like a child. She frowned, and lowered the pitch of her voice. ‘I would have thought,’ she said, gathering the shreds of her dignity, ‘that adoption would have been prudent under the circumstances.’

  ‘She did mention it at one point,’ he said slowly. ‘Her reasons for not going ahead were complicated. For a start, you already had a legal mother. The law in those days was a bit murky, and she was afraid you’d become a target of the tabloids if they dragged it through the courts. Lesbian Couple in Child Adoption Bid. You can imagine the sort of thing.’ Moss acknowledged this with a slight inclination of her head. ‘Then there was her relationship with Amy. She truly believed—against all the evidence, as far as I can see—that they’d be together till death do us part, if you know what I mean. She couldn’t imagine her status changing. Flissy told me once that Linsey wanted to be your godmother so that she could have some public connection with you. She never believed in God, so why else would she have had you christened?’

  Moss was still unconvinced. ‘What if something had happened to Amy? Where would I have ended up? In care?’

  ‘As far as I know, Amy provided for that in her will. She named Linsey as sole guardian. I don’t think that was ever changed. Their separation was reasonably harmonious.’ He grinned painfully. ‘And I know what an inharmonious separation looks like. I’m telling you the truth, Moss.’

  ‘I rejected her in the end, though, didn’t I?’ Even as she said it, Moss knew that rejection had taken place years before, at a school parents’ night. ‘Her loving me makes it even worse.’

  ‘Young people do that sort of thing all the time. Don’t let the fact that you had two mothers complicate what was no more nor less than a family row. Cal wouldn’t speak to me for months after Trish and I broke up. I simply waited, then one night he rang and asked me out for a drink. Just like that. We get on fine now by agreeing not to discuss certain matters.’

  ‘I didn’t have the luxury of a healing time,’ Moss responded, blinking hard. ‘I said some pretty harsh things. And it’s too late now to do anything about it.’ Having two mothers was an issue, she thought bitterly. I turned my mother into my aunt and expected her to still be there when I was ready.

  Robert continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘You know what she said to me? Poor Miranda. I hope she returns to her music. It gives her so much pleasure. Note she didn’t say that it gave her pleasure—although it did. She was concerned for you. She was a mature adult, Moss, and you were barely out of your teens. I’m sure she knew in her heart that she only had to wait.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Rob. I just wish that it hadn’t taken her death to make me understand.’

  Even though it clarified some issues, Moss’s meeting with Robert did little to relieve her pain. She could accept that Linsey’s decision regarding adoption was not a rejection. But there was an ambivalence inherent in that understanding. If she could continue to believe that Linsey had rejected her then her subsequent rejection of Linsey was to some degree justified. Now she’d been assured of Linsey’s love, her own actions were even more open to censure. Not only had she denied her mother in public, but their last meeting was a source of pain for one and shame for the other. Moss’s words had been cruel, and she would never have the opportunity to withdraw them. Even worse, each word had been calculated; she knew at the time the intensity of the pain they would engender.

  ‘I used to hear them arguing sometimes. Or at least Linsey would argue,’ she told Finn later that day. ‘Afterwards Amy would simply go about her business, cold and polite, and there was Linsey, literally shrouded in misery. Eventually she’d apologise, just to see Amy smile at her again. I used to believe that Amy was the one person who could bring her undone. But I know now that I hurt her much more. She left because she couldn’t keep hiding how much I was hurting her, and so she . . . so she wouldn’t embarrass me.’ There. She’d finally said the unsayable and looked at Finn, her eyes dark with misery.

  Finn rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know much about it, Moss, but it seems to me that the relationship between lovers is different from the parent–child situation. With a child, people seem to be able to forgive almost anything. It’s part and parcel of loving them, I suppose.’ He was struggling here. Guessing.

  ‘In the end, people seem more able to forgive their children than their lovers.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Moss replied, ‘but it’s much harder to forgive yourself.’

  Finn nodded. He, of all people, understood the truth of that.

  13

  Moss and friends

  IN THE FIVE WEEKS SINCE the memorial service Moss had done very little. She nursed her grief and churned over her last conversation with Linsey until her nerves were frayed and she snapped irritably at the mildest of Amy’s comments. She could have been kinder to Linsey while still making her point, she mourned. She could have simply accepted the circumstances of her conception and kept a
sense of proportion. She could have let Linsey stew for a while and then offered her forgiveness. But forgiveness for what? For being her mother? For loving her? Her head ached, and she either ate feverishly or picked at her food.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Amy said. ‘You have to get out of the house. You can’t brood like this forever.’ This elicited a sharp retort and more tears.

  ‘Why don’t you see about re-enrolling in your course?’ Amy said at last. ‘It’s certainly what Linsey would’ve wanted.’

  So Moss made a desultory effort to re-enrol for the following year and was mildly flattered by Dr Cuicci’s response to her enquiries.

  ‘Talent like yours should not go to waste.’ Dr Cuicci frowned. ‘But to succeed at the highest level you need more than talent. You also need discipline and an iron will. Do you have those qualities, Miranda?’

  Moss didn’t know. ‘I’d like to think I did,’ she said with painful honesty, ‘but I need to sort out a couple of things before I can really commit.’ She had no idea what these things were; she just felt unable to make a decision.

  Emilia Cuicci sighed. These young people with their dramas and busyness. I despair of them. ‘I will give you until the New Year to decide,’ she told her student. ‘Come to me by the first week in February. There are many other talents who wait for an opportunity like yours.’

  Opportunity. The word now had a new layer of meaning. The little town beckoned and she was impelled to return. Her closest friends at the moment, she thought with surprise, were an old lady, a nutty visionary with sweaty hands, and her father, Finn, a man burdened with guilt. Perhaps she did have unfinished business there after all. She couldn’t explain this feeling to herself, let alone Amy, and simply told her mother that she had a few loose ends to tie up.

  Amy was ashamed to realise that she was happy to see her go. When Moss was in the house, undercurrents, ripples and whirlpools disturbed the calm waters of her life. Moss was a lot like Linsey.

  ‘A good idea,’ she said when Moss announced her impending return to Opportunity. ‘You should call and warn them you’re coming this time.’

  So Moss rang Mrs Pargetter, who was delighted to hear the news. ‘Moss is coming back, Errol, how about that?’

  Errol’s delight shone in his eyes, quivered in his tail. The old lady opened the door to the room with the stoic little teddy bears, confirming the absence that had returned to occupy its every dark corner. The pain of her long-ago loss had been held at bay in that room, imprisoned behind the white-painted door. When Moss had arrived, the old lady was inexplicably moved to allow living light to enter and felt, for the first time in years, a desolate little spirit begin to move timidly towards her. It had withdrawn with Moss’s departure, leaving Mrs Pargetter to grieve afresh. She closed the door softly and sat for a while with Errol’s head on her lap.

  When Moss arrived on the evening bus, Finn was at the stop to greet her. It was his Silent time, she noted gratefully. She swung her backpack down to his waiting arms, and when she alighted, stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. He actually beamed, the down-drawn lines of his face relaxing, his expression suddenly youthful.

  ‘Good trip?’ he asked. ‘At least the train was on time for this visit.’ He fumbled with the straps of her backpack, trying to lengthen them to accommodate his broader shoulders. ‘We missed you—I missed you,’ he said diffidently, peering at the buckles as though they were marvels of innovation. ‘Mrs Pargetter and Sandy are back at her place for a sort of, you know, welcome home.’

  Errol met them at the gate and, in a surprising display of agility, capered joyfully around Moss, tongue lolling, tail wagging frenetically.

  ‘Good boy. Good dog.’ Moss knelt and rubbed his head and ears with both hands. ‘Did you miss me too, Errol?’ Leaving her in no doubt as to the answer, the dog led her to the front door where Mrs Pargetter greeted her with a kiss.

  ‘I’ve got a nice lamb roast,’ she said. ‘Sandy brought the leg around specially.’

  Sandy was hovering in the background like a self-conscious full moon. ‘Nice to see you, Moss. Hope you like lamb.’

  Moss hadn’t forgotten the big man’s kindness after Linsey’s death. He’d been quiet and unobtrusive as he made her comfortable in the car, his face betraying real concern. He had sent her flowers and a handwritten card. Losing a mother is a terrible thing, he wrote in his large, square handwriting. No platitudes. No preaching. Just the truth. Losing a mother is a terrible thing.

  Since then, Moss had begun to look at Sandy with new eyes. Forgetting her former distaste, she planted a kiss on his astonished cheek. ‘I love lamb,’ she responded. ‘By the way, Sandy, I’ve never thanked you properly for driving me to Melbourne. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.’

  ‘No worries, love,’ Sandy replied gruffly.

  The meal took on a festive tone, and the obsessive Sandy brought Moss up to date with his plans for the Great Galah. The blueprints were now with a design engineer, he told her. They’d have to make some adjustments to the slide for safety reasons, but, all in all, things were going along very nicely indeed. Mrs Pargetter seemed to take all this in her stride, but Finn squirmed in discomfort while Moss made polite murmurs, which were sufficiently encouraging for Sandy to raise one of his concerns.

  ‘I do have a bit of a problem,’ he said. ‘And I’d be interested to know what you think, Moss.’

  Finn gazed studiously at the curtains, ignoring his daughter’s silent plea for help.

  ‘The fact is,’ confided Sandy, ‘galahs are grey.’ He waved his hand to ward off premature comment. ‘I know they’re pink as well. A very nice pink, when you think about it. But there’s no getting away from it: there’s just too much grey. Can you see where I’m going with this, Moss?’

  ‘Um . . . grey. A problem with grey?’

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head. What sort of tourist attraction is grey?’

  ‘A grey one?’

  ‘A grey one! Exactly. A boring, unattractive grey one. Now, can I make it yellow, or blue, or even all pink? Would it still be a galah?’ He sat back, folding his arms. ‘That’s my question, Moss. My dilemma.’

  Moss tried to sound judicious. ‘I can’t see a galah being any other colour, Sandy. You could maybe get away with a bit more pink than you’d find in nature . . . but not blue or yellow. If it’s a galah, it has to be mostly grey.’

  ‘That’s what Aunt Lily and your father say too.’ He looked momentarily hopeful. ‘What about silver?’ The other three shook their heads. ‘Well, I’ll keep working on it. You never know. Solutions can pop up out of the blue.’

  ‘He’s a strange bloke,’ said Finn as Mrs Pargetter saw her nephew to the door. ‘He’s made a fortune on the stock market while other farmers are struggling to pay the mortgage. He looks after his aunt. He’s done some fine things for Opportunity, but where on earth did he get this hare-brained scheme?’

  Mrs Pargetter re-entered the room in time to hear Finn’s question. She held the curtains aside, watching Sandy’s back as it retreated down the path. ‘I may be wrong, but I believe there is more to it than meets the eye,’ she said. ‘The idea of a memorial to that brute of a father would be more than I could bear—except that it has to be a monumental failure. I’m happy to say that it’ll make Major Bully-boy Sandilands a laughing stock.’

  ‘But what about our Sandy? Won’t he be a laughing stock too?’ Moss was horrified. This nice old lady had a vindictive streak she hadn’t guessed at.

  ‘Poor George. He’s not vicious like his father, but he is weak. He never stood up for his mother, even when he was old enough. I’m no psychologist, but I’d say that my nephew is killing two birds with one stone, if you’ll pardon the pun. His Great Galah will not only punish his father—it will also punish him.’ She went on as Moss and Finn looked at each other: ‘I don’t think he’s really aware of this. Or maybe he is. Either way, it’s for him to work his way through without interference.’ And she suck
ed in her teeth in a very decisive manner.

  After Finn left, Moss helped Mrs Pargetter clear the table and wash the dishes.

  ‘I think I’ll just start a new cosy—knit a few rows,’ the old lady said when they were finished. ‘You’ll want to unpack, I suppose.’ She picked up her needles and began to cast on the stitches . . . Fourteen, sixteen, eighteen . . . She looked up. Moss had vanished into her room. Her room. Mrs Pargetter felt a tension in her scalp.

  As Moss set her case down on the bed, she felt a little exhalation, a sigh so small that it registered only on the periphery of her senses. At the same time, she became aware of an expectation, the waiting feeling she had experienced the first time she entered the room. It was all too subtle to grasp, and she simply stood for a moment before returning to her elderly friend, who was still counting her stitches.

  ‘I seem to keep losing count,’ she said crossly. ‘Moss, can you check for me, please?’

  Moss counted and found that there were almost twice as many stitches as were needed. She quietly unpicked the excess and rechecked the number before handing the knitting back. Mrs Pargetter making a mistake with her knitting? It was unheard of. Now that Moss came to think of it, the old lady had been distracted all night. Perhaps she was just tired.

  ‘You look worn out, Mrs Pargetter. I certainly am.’ Moss began the nighttime ritual of ensuring the fire was safe and setting the table for breakfast. To her relief, her companion took the hint. Folding away her knitting in an embroidered pillow slip, she headed for the bathroom, wishing Moss goodnight.

  Moss, never a good sleeper, always read for an hour or two before settling for the night. She had just placed the bookmark when a movement at the door startled her. It was Mrs Pargetter, in a flannelette nightgown, a long grey plait hanging over one shoulder. She looked at Moss with hungry eyes.