Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  13 March. George was gone when I woke but last night he was very masterful as we . . .

  Sandy snapped the journal shut and mentally begged his mother’s pardon. He felt he might be on safer ground in the war years and shuffled through the pile to find 1943.

  12 May. George has returned to camp, and I feel such relief. It is a sin, I know, to feel so about one’s husband. He has very little patience now with his little duffer. I feel he has lost all affection for me, and if it weren’t for the conjugal act I fear he would barely tolerate me. Thank God I have been able to provide him with a son.

  13 August. I went with Father to visit Lily today. My sister is so unhappy in that place. If ours were a different household I would bring her straight home and care for her here. Why must good men like Arthur die in this horrible war while George . . .

  14 August. I am so ashamed of my entry for yesterday. George is an excellent provider and we want for nothing. I pray that he will return safely.

  Be careful what you pray for, Sandy thought grimly. So it had taken only five short years for his father to reduce his new bride to the timid, apologetic ghost he remembered. He was sickened, but a dreadful fascination impelled him to continue. He picked up the next volume and opened it at random.

  19 June. I couldn’t go to church today. My back still aches from George’s blows. He would have forced me to go with him but my cheek is bruised from where he pushed me down the steps. He’s usually more careful. Now he blames me for bruising where it might show. I’m not able . . .

  Sandy sat in the room that had been his mother’s refuge and felt a terrible desolation. There, in his mother’s handwriting, was the truth he had always denied. For the first time since his father’s death, he looked, really looked, at his childhood. He saw his mother’s pretty face become more ravaged, more haggard, as she strained to please her jeering, violent husband. He saw the warning in her eyes, felt the protective hands tighten on his small shoulders, tasted the treats she offered to sweeten the bitterness of their lives. Ashamed, he heard his youthful self speaking to her in his father’s voice. He saw the bruises and the tears he’d chosen to ignore. Yes, he had been a frightened child at first, but as he grew older, he’d joined the oppressor. He could have found a job and taken his mother away, but he was too craven, and in the end too complicit, to challenge his father’s power. And now, he realised, he was planning to build a memorial to the war hero who abused his own wife and all but stole her child.

  Sandy had disciplined his memories for years, refusing to face the truth of his past. Occasionally dreams or rogue memories breached his defences, but he learned to put them aside, unaware of a slag heap of suppressed emotion that was becoming dangerously unwieldy. Now it collapsed, and he was horrified to see the slimy, eyeless creatures that lay hidden there.

  Unable to continue reading, he went down to the kitchen and made a coffee laced with a generous portion of whisky. Then he sat on the sofa and had three more whiskies, neat this time. Finally, he went to bed with the bottle and fell into a drunken sleep.

  The next day he awoke with a dry mouth and throbbing head, cursing the whisky, which always gave him a hangover, even when drunk in moderation. He made some strong coffee and went outside. The morning was crisp and clear, with some frost evident on the ground, on which there were pathetically few green shoots. The sky was cloudless: a hard, uncompromising blue. A flock of marauding galahs was attacking the old wooden shed by the home paddock. He thought of getting his shotgun—I’ll blow them to pink and grey pieces—but he was too weary to move. Instead, he sat on the verandah and gazed out at the dry, flat terrain. I am a great galah. You were right there, Dad. Maybe I should use the shotgun on myself. I’m just a great, useless galah.

  Staring out across the paddocks, he ignored the phone the first time it rang. I’ll tell you one thing, Dad: there’ll be no Great Galah now. When I die, you’ll be forgotten, you fucking bastard. Anger energised him and when the phone rang again ten minutes later, he got up to answer it. It was Moss.

  ‘Sandy,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’d like to help Finn the way you’re trying to help your Aunt Lily.’

  Sandy was puzzled for a moment. He’d actually forgotten the reason he’d looked at the journals in the first place. That’d be right. Too busy with my own problems.

  ‘Sandy? Are you there? I want to find out who Amber-Lee really is . . . Sandy?’

  ‘Amber-Lee? Who’s she?’

  So Finn hadn’t confided in anyone else. ‘Just someone Finn knew once. She was buried at the City General,’ she said vaguely. ‘How are you going with Mrs Pargetter’s baby?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get back to you if I have any news.’

  ‘The least I can do for Mum is to finish the job,’ he muttered to himself as he hung up. ‘I owe it to Aunt Lily too. I think she was the only person who really loved Mum.’

  He returned to the sewing room and rummaged through the diaries to find the year he estimated the events took place. There it was: 1954. He opened it at random and then closed it again, taking it out to the kitchen where he made himself another coffee. After yesterday’s revelations, he felt like a guilty child and didn’t want to read it in his mother’s room.

  It was the beginning of the second term, he recalled, skimming the pages. They were packing football gear and his winter blazer. His eye caught an initial and he was unable to resist reading on.

  9 May. I have entrusted the correspondence to S. He’ll do the right thing, I know. He has a good heart, despite his father’s influence. I must be patient and wait. I do miss my boy when he’s at school, but it’s safer there. G is becoming surlier by the day and this is such an unhappy house. I’m glad the bruises were gone by the time S got home for the holidays. He’s so fond of his father. Perhaps in time he will see things more clearly. I was right to trust him. I’m sure I was right . . .

  Such a little thing to ask . . . Sandy felt shame seep out through his pores where it lay, a clammy film on his skin. He read on.

  10 June. S came home today for the long weekend. He has grown even taller in the last couple of months. Bought some linctus for his nasty cough. I’d like to know if they give him enough blankets at night but I daren’t ask him. Sandy winced. No letter from the hospital. Poor Lily . . .

  He moved on to the September break.

  22 September. S home tomorrow. Have made cream sponge and some chocolate slices. G seems a bit mellower at the moment. I hope he stays that way while S is home.

  23 September. S home. Taller than ever. He’s put on even more weight. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it. Neither his father nor I carry any weight. His school report was good. Nearly all As. He doesn’t take after me, thank goodness. I never was a scholar. Not sure if S has a letter from the hospital. Will wait until G goes into town tomorrow.

  24 September. The hospital has been no use at all. They say that the baby would have been buried in the Melbourne General Cemetery, but have no records of the birth. I was hoping we would at least know if it was a boy or a girl. Poor little mite may as well have never existed. I don’t know what else I can do. Surely there are records somewhere? If only George were more sympathetic. He has a way of getting things done. But I daren’t ask.

  Sandy sighed and closed the diary. He felt immeasurably older. The temptation was to succumb to weariness and sleep for days, weeks, forever . . . it didn’t matter. But having read her journal, Sandy knew that he owed it to his mother to carry through with his plan. Soft and flaccid on the outside, he had a small, hard core of courage, and he called upon it again now as he had when, as a frightened schoolboy, he agreed to post the letter.

  If there were no records in 1954, it was unlikely that there’d be any now. Nevertheless, he fished in his wallet for the crumpled note on which he’d jotted down the phone number, and dialled the Stillborn and Neonatal Death Support group.

  The volunteer introduced herself as Eva. ‘Record-keeping was very poor in those
days,’ she affirmed. ‘You say your mother tried to trace the baby through the hospital records?’

  ‘Yes, but with no luck. You’d think there’d be something.’

  ‘You have to remember that stillborn babies were not really regarded as children by the medical and legal authorities. They had no understanding of how a parent might grieve. We try to support these parents as best we can, but to be honest, it’s very hard to locate babies born in the forties. You can usually only do it through the mother’s medical records, but if you’ve already tried that . . .’

  ‘What do you suggest, then?’

  ‘You could take your aunt to one of the communal burial sites at the cemetery. They’re scattered through the various denominations. Did she attend church at the time?’

  ‘Church of England. She still plays the organ.’

  ‘Well, perhaps if you took her to the Church of England area . . . She may find some comfort there. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help. I can send you some information about our support groups, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Much appreciated.’

  Sandy replaced the receiver and wrote a generous cheque to the support group on behalf of his mother and aunt. He addressed the envelope, began to rise, then sank back into the chair, irresolute. Perhaps he was stirring up things that should be left to lie? There was very little to tell. Lily’s baby boy, or girl, may or may not have been buried in the Melbourne General Cemetery, possibly in the Church of England site. Should he take this meagre offering to his aunt or just let her be? She was eighty-three and becoming frail. He felt unequal to the responsibility and decided to talk to Moss and Finn. They’d know what to do.

  15

  Moss and Amber-Lee

  MOSS’S DECISION TO SEEK AMBER-LEE’S identity was not wholly altruistic. Sandy’s quest for his aunt’s baby had been the catalyst, and the visit to the cemetery had moved her profoundly. She was truly saddened to think of the baby and the young woman, both buried without a name. She had also come to care for Finn and was disturbed to think of him growing old with his guilt and grief. But she had her own guilt and grief, and until she could return to the Conservatorium or some sort of employment, she knew that unfettered time would corrode her resolve. She was absurdly afraid of becoming an old lady who talked to her dog and knitted tea cosies for the United Nations. Or a person who spent hours a day in silence. She needed activity; she needed a challenge; and Amber-Lee’s identity could provide both while Moss sought to help the parent who still needed her. It was too late to reconcile with Linsey, but Moss still longed for redemption.

  She debated within herself whether she should tell Finn what she had planned. There was still a remoteness about him, and she often felt that he would have retreated from the world altogether had it not been for his friendship with Mrs Pargetter and her nephew. And now her own arrival too, of course. There was something suspect in his apparent solidity. She had moments of insight when she felt that his component particles were only held together by an effort of will. That one day he would simply give up and allow himself to disintegrate. She would have liked him to know she was planning to help him, but feared what would happen if she were unsuccessful.

  So she set out for Melbourne alone. Before leaving, she had dug out the files, feeling like a thief but excusing herself on the grounds of the greater good. Finn was off on his evening Silence, so she had time to take notes. As well as the dates and places of the accident and subsequent inquest, she had the names of key contacts, such as the police officer in charge, the social worker, the doctor and the prostitute, Brenda Watson.

  She caught the bus in time for the morning train, and as she watched the houses and trees fly past, she wondered at the wisdom of her undertaking. If no-one could identify the young woman at the time, what made her think she could do any better now, over ten years later? True, she had found her father, but he was a well-published academic; he’d made a name for himself (she smiled fleetingly at the irony). This girl had appeared as if from nowhere and left as anonymously as she had come.

  Amy was holidaying with friends in Darwin, so Moss had the house to herself. She unpacked, opened a few windows, threw some clothes into the washing machine, and made herself a cup of tea, smiling as she replaced the hand-knitted tea cosy over the pot. She flicked through a three-day-old newspaper, took out her notebook, closed it again and went to check on the washing. It was only halfway through its cycle.

  When Amy had finally agreed that she was old enough to stay alone in the house, Moss had revelled in the sense of freedom and ownership of her space. Now the house seemed vast, its outer walls retreating until she was a mere speck in the midst of the vastness. At that moment she understood Mrs Pargetter’s sense of absence as a presence. Linsey, wherever she was, was not here.

  Moss tried to dismiss these thoughts. Mustn’t become morbid, she told herself sternly. I need some company. Hamish, she thought. I wonder if Hamish is home?

  As she dialled his number, she had the grace to feel guilty. She always seemed to contact Hamish when she needed something. And he always responded. He was like a big brother, and she treated him with the careless affection characteristic of such a relationship.

  Hamish was delighted to hear from her. ‘We thought you’d dropped off the edge of the earth,’ he said, then recollected himself. ‘I mean, I’m so sorry to hear about Linsey. I would’ve come to the memorial service, but I didn’t even know about it until I spoke to Magda. I was in Sydney at the time.’

  ‘No need to apologise. Linsey hated a fuss. Now, what are you doing for dinner?’

  ‘Beans on toast, I should think. Or perhaps pizza, if I can’t be bothered cooking.’

  ‘How about coming over here? We can order pizza and open a bottle of Amy’s red.’

  Hamish arrived promptly at seven with the pizzas, his grey eyes smiling behind thick-–lensed glasses. He stooped to kiss Moss’s cheek as she took the pizza boxes.

  ‘Come on through. We’ll eat in the kitchen. It’s cosier. The dining room’s a bit grand for pizza.’

  As they chatted amiably over pizza and wine, Hamish looked across at Moss and wondered where all this was going. They’d known each other since high school, where they’d both been involved in the annual musical productions. He grinned to himself as he remembered their performance in Jesus Christ Superstar. Moss had played Mary Magdalene, and he was cast as an unlikely Judas. They’d gone their separate ways at university, she to continue her music, and he to study landscape architecture, but they had remained friends.

  I wonder why she asked me over? he thought. It’s usually me who makes contact. He’d had a futile crush on her at school, but his temperament was phlegmatic, and when he received no encouragement, he moved on without rancour. An only child, he cheerfully took on the big brother role into which he was cast. Now, sitting in her kitchen eating pizza, he began to wonder, to hope that they might move on from ‘just mates’ to something more. He watched closely as Moss absently ran her fingers through her hair. She wasn’t actually pretty, but her features were regular and those dark blue eyes—they got to him every time . . .

  ‘Dessert,’ she said, embarrassed by his appraising look.

  He did a mock double-take when she brought out a homemade ginger fluff sponge. ‘Don’t tell me you made that. What happened to our vow to never make a recipe that had more than two steps? That looks like a six-or seven-stepper to me.’

  Moss had to confess. ‘An old lady I’ve been staying with— Mrs Pargetter—she made it for me. We can have it with our coffee.’

  The sponge was a bit rich after the pizza, but Hamish wolfed down a second slice while Moss told him about Amber-Lee. She didn’t tell him about her relationship to Finn, just that she was making some enquiries for a friend.

  ‘The truth is,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where to start. I thought we could, you know, toss around a few ideas.’

  Hamish sighed. So she did just want his help with some
thing. The story of my life, he thought ruefully, but he accepted it with good grace and put his mind to the problem at hand.

  ‘As far as I can see, your best bet is to start with the police officer—what’s his name?—Graham Patterson. You may have some problems with the privacy legislation, though. And he might have moved on by now. Almost certainly, when you think about it.’

  ‘He was a senior constable at the Fitzroy police station. Finn, my friend, said he was quite nice. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Not much to go on. Tell you what. Mum’s friend, Judy— her daughter’s married to a copper—she might be able to help us. If we can’t trace your man through Fitzroy police, I’ll ask her.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you with all this, Hamish.’

  ‘No worries. Nothing like a mystery to put a bit of spice into life.’ He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Two heads are better than one, I always say.’

  They finished their coffee, and Moss made some more. She enjoyed the uncomplicated company of someone her own age—someone she could laugh with. It was two am before Hamish left, promising to contact Judy’s daughter if Moss had no luck at the Fitzroy police station.

  She went there the next day. There was no Graham Patterson and no-one was telling her where to find him. ‘They probably thought I was out to get him—that he’d arrested my lover or something,’ she said plaintively to Hamish. ‘Do I look like a gangster’s moll?’

  ‘Yep. It’s that big handbag you carry. Could hide a concealed weapon.’

  Judy’s daughter proved to be a useful contact, however, and provided a phone number for Patterson—now a senior sergeant who was stationed at the large police complex in St Kilda Road. Moss rang him and arranged a meeting. The constable behind the desk was expecting them, and ushered them through a maze of corridors into the senior sergeant’s office. Moss noticed the overflowing intray and guiltily thanked him for taking the time to see them.