Tracing Invisible Threads

by C. Fonseca

  Table Of Contents

  Other Books by C. Fonseca

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  About C. Fonseca

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  www.ylva-publishing.com

  Other Books by C. Fonseca

  Food for Love

  Where the Light Plays

  Dedication

  To my family and friends. This has surely been one of the strangest and most testing times of our lives as the COVID-19 pandemic physically isolated us from one another. I’m grateful to have had this project to keep me focussed, and not allow my thoughts to drag me down, dwelling on how much I miss each and every one of you.

  For Jane, who has the patience of a saint and whose devilish sense of humour got me through…everything.

  Acknowledgements

  I love exploring ideas and writing about my corner of the world, here in Australia. To do this accurately and beyond my lived experience, I need a lot of help.

  Heartfelt thanks to my beta readers Elke, Paula and Lariane for their advice and pertinent direction. To Carol who invited me to her Chewton cottage, to dream, soak in the beauty and listen to the birds. Much appreciation to Jules who drove me around the goldfields area of Castlemaine and filled me in on local knowledge. Who’d have thought Prue’s search for her ancestors would trigger my interest in Chinese immigration to Australia? At the beginning of my research, Kathryn and I had hours of fun on our jaunt to State Library Victoria rediscovering the beauty and mystery of this gloriously refurbished Melbourne icon. The trip in the lift up to the Dome was a highlight that day! Thanks also to Anna for ignoring us while Jane and I enacted scenes and argued over the tiniest of details of the story.

  Hats off to State Library Victoria, who during the global pandemic has re-invented itself through social media platforms and other forms of remote communication. I am one of the millions who would have been lost without their ability to adapt. The Library’s resources provided invaluable insights and entertainment as I researched this novel.

  My gratitude to Marita Dyson, from Melbourne band The Orbweavers, who allowed me to include her as a character in my story, and reference one of their incredibly moving songs throughout the pages.

  I am indebted to my publisher, Astrid, and the Ylva Team for all their hard work. Special thanks to my editors, especially Hayley, whose gentle prodding teased all those extra emotions and feelings out of me.

  Thank you to my readers: writing this story took me on an amazing journey, and I hope you enjoy reading Tracing Invisible Threads as much as I loved writing it.

  The two main locations featured in Tracing Invisible Threads are set on the traditional lands of the Kulin nation and the lands of Dja Dja Wurrung people, and I acknowledge them as the traditional owners. I pay my respects to their elders, past and present, and recognise their connection to country and community.

  This book would have never been finished without Jane. To my darling, thank you.

  An invisible thread connects those who are destined

  to meet, regardless of time, place, and circumstance.

  The thread may stretch or tangle.

  But it will never break.

  Chinese proverb

  Chapter 1

  East wind

  Waterloo Television Studios, London.

  Eleanor drummed her fingers on her thigh. She glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time, looking up with a start as the program assistant stuck her head around the open door. “Ms Heysen,” she said, elongating her name with a thick Scottish accent. “Two minutes, and we’ll move you behind the set.”

  “Here we go.” Eleanor jumped to her feet and spun around, her black leather sneakers making a squeaky sound on the polished tiled floor. Something sharp dug into her back, so she reached behind her and lifted the lightweight suit jacket, where the techie had tucked the battery pack into her matching heather-grey trousers. She adjusted the pack, rolled her head from side to side and followed the assistant who set off at a cracking pace.

  Through the gap between the drop curtains, she spied the host, Ian Sinclair, with his well-coiffed hair, flashy silver suit, and burgundy bow tie. He was charming the audience with his signature pre-show banter. Eleanor placed a shaking hand over her racing heart.

  To calm herself and give her courage, Eleanor twirled the emerald-green bead bracelet around her left wrist. It was a gift from Aunt Helen after Eleanor had landed her first paid job with a small Fleet Street publication. The beads were pale, semi-transparent, and shimmered with hues of green and yellow. She hadn’t wanted to accept such a generous gift, but Helen had wrapped her in a warm hug and told her she’d bought it in a backstreet market on her first photographic assignment in Beijing. Recalling Helen’s earthy, hearty laugh and sparkling blue eyes as she had clasped it around Eleanor’s wrist, Eleanor felt a sad smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

  The audience erupted with a round of applause, and the assistant nudged Eleanor forward. She squared her shoulders, stepped between the curtains and on to the stage.

  She blinked a few times. God, the lights were bright. When her eyes refocussed, Eleanor was comforted to find the set was way smaller and less intimidating in real life than on the TV. She clenched her fists to stop them from trembling, remembered the assistant’s detailed instructions and strode to the sofa, where the chat show host greeted her with a toothy grin and a firm handshake.

  “Sit yourself down, Eleanor Heysen.” Ian gestured with a flamboyant arm wave. She carefully perched on the edge of the canary yellow sofa—that resembled a relic from the 1970s—while Ian took a seat behind his desk. In his trademark smooth drawl, he said, “To be honest, we don’t need an excuse to highlight exceptional female talent, but since it’s International Women’s Day, we will make sure to. Eleanor, thank you for joining me today.” He paused as the audience cheered and clapped. “We are here to honour and celebrate women and their achievements and you are my lucky, lucky, lucky first guest.”

  Lucky, lucky, lucky. Well, that’s what Renate, her publisher had told her and of course she was right. Eleanor took a deep breath. Even though she’d dug in her heels at first, refusing Renate’s suggestion, here she was. The show was a perfect opportunity to promote her book.

  “You have gone from newspapers and magazines, to major photojournalism projects, to capturing the human condition in ways that are compassionate and at times jaw-dropping.” Ian clapped his hands in the air, and his audience joined in. “In recent years, you’ve travelled widely, doing a lot of humanitarian work covering inequality, cultural diversity, and gender imbalance. Thank you fo
r taking time out of your busy schedule to be with us today.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.” Eleanor smiled, shifting her gaze away from the large screen at the back of the set that showed her iconic 2008 photograph of Nelson Mandela chatting with England’s newest princess. It had been taken in Hyde Park at a concert celebrating his ninetieth birthday.

  “Oh, it’s a pleasure.” Ian picked up a remote control device from his desk. “Of course, you are recognised for your individual style of photography and not your gender, but in this industry…well, all things are not equal.” He regarded her directly. “How do you feel about being labelled a female documentary photographer?”

  “I’m sure my colleagues would agree it will be progress when we are simply known as photographers.” Eleanor quickly scanned the audience. “But I am a woman, and I am a photographer.”

  “Too true,” Ian said, bobbing his head up and down. “Very true.”

  Eleanor reached for her water glass and took a large gulp. She’d half expected that question.

  “Let’s look at some of your career highlights, shall we?” He swivelled around to face the screen and pushed a button to start the slide show.

  While random images flashed across the display, Ian rattled on about her accomplishments, asking her questions, sometimes waiting until the audience quietened. Eleanor wriggled back on the sofa and placed her hands on her knees. She was chuffed at Ian’s generously flattering remarks. It was pleasing to discover that he had a genuine interest in her work.

  “One last picture. I hope you don’t mind, but it shows that being a photographer with a social conscience is damned hard, and sometimes harrowing.” He pushed a button on the remote, freezing a large black and white photograph of Eleanor on the screen. Hell. Her stomach churned as she recalled the time and place. Unsurprisingly she looked a wreck. It was a photograph she hadn’t seen before and never wanted to see again.

  “Whoever turned the camera on you at that moment certainly captured a maelstrom of emotions.” He rubbed his goatee beard between his thumb and forefinger, clearly waiting for Eleanor’s response.

  Eleanor winced. With no small effort, she kept her voice calm and her hands steady. “Yes, they did.”

  Pictures of her had surfaced before, especially in the good old days when the paparazzi would snap shots of Eleanor with her celebrity girlfriend. Why would anyone bother taking a photograph of her now? She no longer had the celebrity girlfriend, and she was just a photographer doing her job.

  “Where were you at the time, Eleanor?”

  “São Paulo, Brazil.”

  Eleanor pulled at her shirt collar, as though the intense heat had drifted all the way from that tiny airless shanty into the air-conditioned Waterloo Studio. The enormous image showed her insect-bitten, blotchy face, the sweat dripping off her forehead nearly blinding her. She looked totally haggard, almost dwarfed by the camera she had her hands wrapped around.

  “What was going on?” Ian asked.

  She lowered her eyes away from the screen, swallowing the lump rising in her throat. “It was the funeral of a fourteen-year-old girl who’d died during childbirth in the favela slums. Fernanda,” Eleanor whispered, almost reverently. “Her name was Fernanda. I was on assignment covering the government’s campaign to reduce teenage pregnancy. It was actually backfiring and the situation was only getting worse. I spent two weeks in the favela, photographing young pregnant girls in the community. Fernanda went into premature labour and died as a result of multiple complications.”

  “Horrific circumstances. It’s not surprising you look so distraught in the photo,” he said, his voice laced with concern.

  Eleanor forced herself to look back at the huge projected image again. Someone had obviously sold it to the press. Eleanor appeared fragile, bedraggled, and distressed. It truly captured her state of mind then, and now. Raw and exposed.

  “You’re thirty-six years old, Eleanor. You’ve been covering traumatic events for over ten years. How have you been affected by this?” Ian asked.

  Eleanor shrugged. Anyone could see. It was pretty obvious in that photo. “It’s my job. I’m a storyteller and documentarian, and sometimes the stories I cover take me into heart-breaking situations.” She lowered her eyes, staring down at her hands. When she looked up again, thankfully the image had gone, and the spotlight had shifted back to the host. “It’s not always like that. Sometimes the occasion is joyful.”

  “Thank God for that,” Ian said, walking around his desk and picking up a copy of her brand-new, hardback, publication. “If anyone was born to be a photographer, Eleanor Heysen was. I promise you; her poetic images will trigger a tingling feeling, proving beauty can be found in the most unexpected places, and this extraordinary book of Eleanor’s photographs, Treading Lightly, can be bought at all the best bookshops right now.” He waved the book in the air. “All the money will go to organisations around the globe whose main focus is to save lives and improve the quality of life for women and girls.”

  “It’s a cause that is close to my heart. I hope the sales will make a difference.” Eleanor smiled. She was proud of the book. It was dedicated to Aunt Helen. A small step towards forgiving herself for letting Helen down.

  Off camera, a man, probably the producer made a wind-up gesture with his hand signalling the segment was coming to an end.

  Ian wrapped up, strode across to Eleanor, and shook her hand firmly. “Good luck on your journeys. Come back and visit us sometime.” Covering his microphone, he whispered, “I’ve received two in-ear prompts that someone has been calling, urgently trying to get hold of you.” He gestured to a stagehand, hovering nearby. “Tom, take Eleanor back to the dressing room, now.”

  Eleanor followed Tom backstage. Who was trying to get hold of her so urgently? A weight seemed to press on her chest as she thought of the possible reasons behind the calls.

  “Tom, do you know who rang?” Eleanor called out.

  He stopped and turned around. “Someone from Melbourne, Australia.”

  She gulped. Had something terrible happened back home?

  At the end of the corridor, Tom pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the dressing room door. He pointed to the black antique telephone hanging on the wall. “Go ahead and use that if you want. They’ll put a call through. I hope everything is okay.”

  After Tom left, shutting the door behind him, Eleanor grabbed her rucksack and pulled out her phone—which she’d flicked to silent. A list of notifications dropped down. Three missed calls and a message from her brother. Oh, God. It had to be something serious.

  What on earth could be wrong? She scrolled through the call log. The one from her mother was just over an hour ago. The other two from Leo were more recent—so was the text:

  Eleanor call me ASAP. Dad’s in hospital.

  Her heart began to pound in her chest. All manner of horrifying scenarios flashed through Eleanor’s mind. Had he been in an accident? He did love driving fast and pushing the boundaries of his classic old sports car on the open road. Please. Please, let him be okay.

  Eleanor’s fingers trembled as she called her brother.

  Chapter 2

  High stakes

  Five days later. Melbourne, Australia.

  Eleanor approached the room at the end of a long hospital corridor and read the name plate—Harold Heysen. Even though Leo had told her what to expect and had assured her their father was making good progress, as she stepped inside his brightly lit room, Eleanor had to lean against the doorframe to steady herself.

  Her strong, dependable dad lay propped up on a raft of pillows. His body barely made an impression under the starched white sheets covering him, and his face was gaunt and pale. It was the first time in her life she’d witnessed her father looking so frail and her heart ached for him.

  Reassured by the soft continuous beep-beep-beep of his heart-rate monitor and
the steady rise and fall of his chest, Eleanor moved quietly into the spacious, boutique-hotel styled room to stand beside his bed. Tears welled up, and she sighed deeply, reaching for his hand.

  He grabbed her fingers. “Well, that was a huge sigh,” her father croaked. “It must be jet lag.”

  Eleanor smiled. He knows it’s me. The fear and foreboding that had followed her all the way from London gave way to an enormous sense of relief.

  “I thought I was dreaming that there was an angel beside my bed.” He squeezed her hand again and gave her a sleepy half-smile. “And here you are. My angel. I didn’t mean to scare you, Nell.”

  A tear slipped down Eleanor’s cheek, and she wiped it away with her free hand. “Daddy,” she whispered.

  “My God, you’re more beautiful than any angel I could imagine.” He winked. “You look like Sarah when she was your age, apart from your short snazzy hairstyle.”

  Eleanor leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “Thank you, Dad.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned she resembled her mother. She supposed they did share some physical similarities, like their light-olive skin tone and dark brown eyes. However, he knew as well as Eleanor that their temperaments were very different.

  Her father cleared his throat. “Apart from obviously needing a good rest, you’re still my little Nell.”

  She pulled back, just far enough to gaze into his soft blue eyes. “I’m so glad to see you at last. We sat in the plane for two hours in Singapore sweltering in the heat.” Her voice cracked, and a few more tears escaped, landing on her father’s chest. “I’m so sorry…” She’d been worried sick from the moment she’d spoken to Leo five days ago. It seemed as if weeks had passed since she’d first received his text. Her exhaustion from fear and lack of sleep was catching up with her—it was not like Eleanor to cry openly in front of her father.

  “All that matters it that you’re safely here now.” He tightened his grip on her hand and gave a strained chuckle. “And I’m here. More importantly, the doc tells me, in due course, I will be just fine.” He let go of her hand and patted the bed cover. “Sit up here.”