The Tying of Threads

by Joy Dettman

  ‘I haven’t seen her legs in fifty years and if I don’t see them in another fifty I won’t care, now shut up!’

  ‘You’ll be dead in ten – if you’re lucky.’

  ‘You’ll be dead in fifty seconds if you don’t stop talking – as if it’s her! She looks ten years younger than you.’

  You deal a few of your characters a difficult hand, Miss Conti, the host said as the camera swung back to the woman in pink and caught her trying to break off a dangling thread.

  Life wasn’t meant to be easy.

  What was your inspiration for The Stray?

  I’m here to discuss The Winter Boomerang.

  ‘What did she say?’ Lila yelled.

  ‘Who cares?’

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to discuss the plagiarism accusation, the host said. Your protagonist in The Stray is raped at fourteen, and by the age of eighteen is a single mother of three, and in an era when few unwed mothers raised their children, when those who did were frowned upon. Ms Langhall’s Jessica, in Angel at My Door, is also raped at fourteen and an unwed mother of four by the age of twenty.

  The writer in pink shrugged. When I was a kid I knew a woman who wandered around town with a pillow stuffed under her pinny so she could pass her unmarried daughter’s baby off as her own – which is where I got my idea for the landlady’s cushion in The Stray.

  Where did the idea for your book come from?

  Life, the writer in pink said as she glanced at her watch.

  Are we keeping you from an appointment?

  My dau . . . agent is waiting for me.

  ‘Did they say how old she was?’

  ‘You haven’t shut up long enough for me to hear anything,’ Sissy said. ‘Did she just say The Stray?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Sissy reached for the Tim Tams, but Lila snatched them away. ‘You pinched one before,’ Lila said.

  ‘If not for me you’d be living on the street.’

  ‘If not for me, you’d be catching a bus to bingo.’

  Lila was agile. Sissy had height, weight and determination. They squabbled over Tim Tams while a commercial played, and when it was done the Tim Tam packet was in the kitchen.

  ‘What’s plagiarism?’ Lila asked.

  ‘If you listened you might find out.’

  There are many similarities between the two protagonists, the host said, then the camera swung to the one in pink, who was more interested in the hem of her skirt, so it swung to the other one.

  My research for Angel was done in Traralgon, where the fifteen year old daughter of family friends was brutally raped. I set it in Sydney because I knew the city well.

  You are familiar with the city, Miss Conti?

  My grandmother lived there. She used to talk about the Yanks pouring into Sydney during the war.

  You appear to know the city.

  I bought a street directory.

  ‘I lived in Sydney during the war,’ Lila said. ‘It was the best time I ever had in my life, then my first husband got out of the army and got me pregnant that same night. I didn’t hang around after it was born to give him another chance at me.’

  The one in beige was on the screen still yapping about plagiarism. The watchers were silent, attempting to work out what the word meant.

  Did Daphne du Maurier plagiarise Charlotte Brontë? I’ve always seen a similarity between Rebecca and Jane Eyre. Juliana’s Sally has three children. My Jessica has four. Sally marries an abusive American. Jessica ends up with the love of her life. Where is the similarity?

  The host turned to the one in pink, who shrugged, and when the camera didn’t move away, she sighed and spoke her longest sentence.

  There are only X number of words in a dictionary and X number of stories to tell. There might be one book in a hundred I read these days that doesn’t remind me a bit of one I’ve read before. And to kill this subject, which I’ve had enough of, a fool of a girl I once knew was my inspiration for Sally. She grew up and moved on with her life, which is what I’d like to do right now.

  The host wanted more. He didn’t get it, not from the one in pink, so turned his attention to the other one.

  The fictitious country towns may well be the same town, Ms Langhall.

  Our ancestors chose sites for their towns beside rivers. They built similar bridges, similar hotels and general stores. From one end of Australia to the other, small towns look much the same.

  Have you read Angel at My Door, Ms Conti?

  Since the plagiarism accusation I have. I borrowed it from the library. It’s a good read.

  You write very convincingly of rape—

  I thought this was a morning show.

  —and of the loss of a child. Have you known the loss of a child?

  To tell you the truth, I’ve never been fond of gut-spillers – and less fond of those who lap up what’s been spilt.

  You’ve been something of a mystery woman. I’m sure our viewers would be interested to hear a little about your life.

  I thought that I was here to talk about The Winter Boomerang.

  ‘It’s Jenny!’ Lila screamed.

  ‘You’re going senile as well as bald,’ Sissy said.

  ‘It’s Jenny, and I know where she got that book’s title – from bloody old Joe Flanagan.’

  You are pro-abortion, Ms Conti?

  One of my characters is. I write fiction. It’s in the front of the book. ‘The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental’, the one in pink said.

  The channel cut to a commercial and the flatmates rose and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich before Days of Our Lives came on.

  THE HANDSHAKE

  Away from the cameras and lights and finally convinced that C.J. Langhall was Cara and that Cara had recognised her, Jenny wanted to run. But at least it was over. She’d got through it. Wasn’t sure how. Couldn’t remember a word she’d said. Had forgotten most of what she’d rehearsed with Jim and Georgie, gone blank as soon as the lights were on her. And their heat had made her head itch. Mortein fly spray or not, that wig was crawling with lice, which during the show had migrated down her neck to her shoulders and were now hopping around in her stomach. But it was over, and thank God.

  Georgie was waiting where she’d left her. Waiting with a bloke, and smiling, which pretty much told her that they hadn’t watched that fiasco. She walked to her side, still playing Juliana Conti of the fixed smile.

  ‘You did good,’ Georgie greeted her.

  ‘You saw it?’ Jenny asked and turned with a smile to the male. ‘I’ll get the truth out of her in the car.’

  ‘You were a breath of fresh air, Miss Conti,’ he said.

  ‘Morris Langhall,’ Georgie introduced Ms Langhall’s husband, and he offered her his hand. She took it.

  And she knew. As soon as she gripped it, she knew, and her heart, pounding hard for hours, stopped dead. The whole world stopped dead while she gripped his hand. Always, always, she’d known she’d recognise him by his hands, that it wouldn’t matter if he was six or sixty, she’d know him.

  And time ticked and she didn’t know how much time had ticked. Dropped his hand as if it burned and stepped back, her sight, already blurred by Georgie’s glasses, blurring more. Turned, looking for the exit, wanting to run. Didn’t know where to run so turned back to look one more time at his face.

  He was still there, her own beautiful six year old Jimmy, hiding beneath the years. Knew his eyes, the shape of his mouth, knew his ears. The ugliest little scrap of humanity God had ever seen fit to put on this earth at birth, his head misshapen, face scratched, eye bruised, and lucky to get out of her alive. She’d loved him at first sight. She loved him now and wanted to tell him that he was her own beautiful boy, wanted to hold him to her heart, but she looked again for the way out, her fingers covering trembling lips, pressing their trembling in and unsure for how much longer she could hold her how
l inside. Strong fingers. They’d always been strong enough.

  Saw Cara twelve feet away, surrounded by a group, and thank God he’d seen her too. ‘Nice meeting you,’ he said, offering his hand to Georgie, then with a smile that had never altered, he walked to Cara’s side. Jenny followed him with eyes that could barely see, followed the blurred image of his back until it merged with the group.

  Turned to Georgie then. ‘Get me out of here, love.’

  Georgie knew the way. ‘You did good,’ she said. ‘If you’d bombed out, I mightn’t tell you so, but I wouldn’t tell you that you did good.’

  Out to the sun then, and thank God for Georgie’s darkening glasses. One or two tears got away but she caught them, wiped them determinedly with strong fingers.

  ‘You recognised Cara?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘As soon as I saw her.’

  ‘Did she recognise you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. How far are we away from the bus depot, Georgie?’

  ‘Nothing is far away in Melbourne, which is why everyone and their dog wants to live here, which makes getting to where you want to go damn near impossible,’ Georgie said.

  They were in the car before she spoke again. ‘I recognised her when they rushed her in. There were two of them waiting for her. I spoke to her. She looked stunned, then smiled and introduced me to her bloke and asked what I was doing there.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That I was Juliana Conti’s literary agent. Her husband is a lovely bloke. When they hurried her away, he stuck to my side like glue. “Georgie of the copper hair,” he said. She must have mentioned me to him before.’

  And Jenny sobbed, a dry triple intake of air sob, as she returned Georgie’s glasses and replaced them with her own sunglasses. Began searching then for the pins holding her wig in place.

  She’d planned to stay tonight. She’d told Katie she’d see her after school. Couldn’t. Not now. She had to get away from Georgie, or she’d end up spilling what she knew. Couldn’t. Could never tell her she’d been talking to her own brother. Couldn’t.

  ‘I need to go home, love.’

  ‘Close your eyes and relax. I’ll take you back to Greensborough, make you a strong coffee and you can watch it on video. You looked nervous when you came on, but you settled down and mostly looked in control. Stop worrying. It’s over, Jen.’

  Too many pins to remove and, jammed in traffic, Jenny gave up the search, ripped the wig from her head and pitched it over to the back seat. She scratched then, scratched and lifted her flattened hair high.

  ‘Are we heading towards the bus depot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I need to go home, love.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t question me today, Georgie.’

  ‘No one had a hope of recognising you. I had to keep telling myself you were you.’

  ‘Drop me off anywhere. I’ll catch a tram.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ Georgie said, and she stopped talking and drove. There was nowhere to park when they got near the depot.

  ‘The walk will do me good.’ Jenny’s hand was on the door release.

  ‘The bus doesn’t leave until three, and I’m not leaving you until you tell me what happened.’

  ‘I’m going to bawl in a minute, that’s what’s going to happen. I know myself too well and, right now, I know I’m better off by myself. Tell Katie I’m sorry and I’ll send her an email.’

  Georgie slid the car into a no standing zone. Jenny had the door open and was out before the handbrake was on.

  ‘I hate leaving you like this.’

  ‘I thank God for you. You remember that always, darlin’. Every day of my life, I bless the day that you were born,’ she said, then, taking Georgie’s outstretched hand, she kissed it, closed the door and walked away fast.

  Walked fast around the corner where she got her back to a wall and fought cigarettes from her handbag. Got one out of the packet. Got one between shaking lips, got it lit, then walked on, blowing smoke.

  She’d be all right. She was a survivor. She’d get over this. She had to get a seat on the bus. Had to concentrate on that. There should be plenty of empty seats today. She’d be all right once she got home to Jim and closed the doors against the world. Just had to get there, that’s all.

  The bus was late leaving, and not until she boarded did she consider what she was wearing. There was no one from Woody Creek on it, or no one who looked familiar. She took a seat at the rear, a window seat, then closed her eyes against Melbourne, safe now to think of Jimmy, to embed his adult face into her every brain cell, to entrench the feel of his hand into her every nerve ending. Could still feel his touch. Could still feel his blood pulsing into her.

  Tears dripping, she removed her sunglasses, aware that mascara and eyeliner must have been leaking with her tears. Wiped her eyes with her fingers, then with a used tissue. Left black smears on it and told herself to stop crying, that she’d seen him, that she’d touched him, that he was still beautiful.

  And married to his sister.

  Dear God, what have I done?

  That’s what she’d have to live with for the rest of her life. And how could she live with it? Couldn’t. And they couldn’t know what they’d done. They had children. Georgie couldn’t know. That was the worst part, not being able to tell her.

  The trip was always long but today Jenny didn’t notice it, didn’t know the bus was approaching Kilmore until it was there. Buses had always stopped, opposite the Kilmore public toilets. She didn’t want to get out but the driver did, and he wanted to lock the door. Last down those steps, she tailed the few passengers to the toilets where she queued for a cubicle, wanting its paper, not its bowl, and when the crowd cleared, she washed her face and used their toilet paper. Scratchy, hard on the face paper – city councils didn’t encourage travellers to help themselves to wads of it.

  The bus was still locked when she returned. She lit a cigarette and stood sheltering from the wind behind it until the driver came back. They wasted twenty minutes there, took on one passenger. They dropped off two at the next stop and picked up no replacement. Wasted twenty minutes in Willama where three passengers were offloaded and one boarded, a young chap carrying a backpack, and he looked like a Dobson. Jenny kept her head low.

  He wasn’t a Dobson. She was the only passenger to disembark in Woody Creek, a pink-clad passenger, and she wished the night darker, wished the fabric of the opportunity shop suit warmer. The cool change had followed her home, and last night’s forecast for showers had been right. Light rain was falling.

  Georgie would have phoned Jim. Jenny looked for the white Toyota, a Jap car but made in Australia and a good model, Teddy Hall said. No Toyota, nor any other car in the street, and too much light left in the day, enough to see the pink of that suit. Not a soul about to see it, though, thank God. Tonight Woody Creek looked like a ghost town where the lights had been left burning. The bank had closed its doors ten years ago. The doctor who set up shop there on Wednesdays did a roaring trade. A retirees’ town, Woody Creek, and old age demanded pills and potions. Thank God he didn’t work nights.

  She looked at her watch then walked to the old post office’s recessed doorway, unchanged in the seventy years she’d known it. The building was now the community centre. No quilt making, bingo or internet lessons scheduled on Wednesday nights. She backed deep into a corner, remembering a younger back cowering there because she’d failed to make a mad woman love her.

  She’d failed as a mother, failed to become a singer, failed to give up smoking too, and in the dark of the recessed doorway, she lit a cigarette and stood blowing smoke to the east, the west, uncertain from which direction the Toyota would come – if it came. Rain angled down in the glow of the streetlight, light reflected on wet bitumen. Not much light at the house which would ever be Maisy’s house.

  Ten year old Jenny had stood in this doorway staring at Maisy’s lights, willing Norman to lose his allocated small ch
ange fast to George Macdonald and his poker-playing friends so he’d finish early and she could go home. Should have run across the road and told him she was afraid to stay alone with mad Amber. He might have listened then. Hadn’t the night of the ball when she’d tried to tell him his wife was a liar. All gone now.

  For ten minutes Jenny hid, waiting for Jim, waiting for the rain to stop falling, and it was heavier now than it had been when she’d got off the bus. Jim would know it was raining. What if he’d fallen in the yard, tripped over by the dogs? It had happened three weeks ago. Georgie would have let him know she’d be on the bus, and there was nothing wrong with his hearing. He’d hear that rain on the roof.

  Was he lying out in it? What if he’d fallen last night? She’d spoken to him at seven last night. He’d have no reason to go outside after seven. He would have this morning, though.

  She argued with herself for a moment while looking out at the light rain, then she started walking. She’d walked in worse. She’d walked this town long enough to have seen it all – wind, rain, hail and dust storm.

  Didn’t look at the railway house she’d once called home – had once loved – until Amber came home. Walked by it fast and around the corner into the railway yard. It was darker there, and its darkness made the hotel’s lights seem brighter, but she’d have to walk beneath them if she wanted the shelter of that long veranda. She slowed her footsteps, accepting instead the shelter of the paling fence and the overgrown trees behind it. No meals were served at the hotel on Wednesday nights and the drinkers would be drinking, not standing outside watching the rain. A wetting rain, and her padded bra more showerproof than the suit.

  Laughing Katie last night, laughing with her mother’s mouth, her mother’s teeth. Georgie laughing last night. Concerned today. Jenny had no secrets from her, but it would do her no good to find out she’d been speaking to her brother for an hour and hadn’t recognised him. He’d recognised her. There was no doubt in Jenny’s mind about that. Georgie of the copper hair. She was fifty-nine, but never allowed a telltale grey root to mar that copper mane. Still beautiful, regal, and raising Katie the way a girl should be raised, in a beautiful home with a mummy and a daddy and a cat to chase the birds away from her fruit trees.