Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  At high school, though, the girls were the predators, in particular the pretty queen bee, Jessica, who tormented her with such refined subtlety that Moss longed for the predictable cruelty of the boy gangs. The other girls milled around behind Jessica and her three cronies. It was better than being out front in the firing line. Moss met the taunts stoically but wept secretly in her room at home. By this stage she had no friends and spent lunchtimes in the library.

  In childish desperation, Moss decided to buy Jessica a present, hoping to win a reprieve from the bullying. She saved up her pocket money until there was enough to buy what all the girls in her class coveted—a Magnetique Supa Gloss lipstick. She agonised over the colour and told the salesgirl it was for her big sister who was blonde and blue-eyed. She had it giftwrapped, and the next day she waited until home time, edging up to Jessica as they rounded the corner from the school.

  ‘I’ve got something for you. A present.’

  Jessica raised her eyebrows as she took the parcel. ‘A present? Let’s see. Come over here, everyone. Miranda’s given me a present.’

  When her audience was large enough, she struck. ‘Yeech! A lipstick! She’s a lezzo like her mothers. Yeech! She wants a big red kiss.’ And amid screams of laughter and exclamations of revulsion from the other girls she grabbed Moss’s tiny breasts and kissed her full on the lips. ‘Where else do you want to be kissed, Lezzo?’ she asked with a sly smile at her audience. ‘Come on, girls, who’s next?’

  Moss turned to run, but her arms were pinioned. The crowd began to slink away, but not before two more girls had kissed her and another squeezed her breasts painfully. Then Jessica opened the lipstick and wrote something on her victim’s forehead, before stepping back to admire her handiwork.

  ‘Quick! Miss Webb’s coming.’ The remaining girls melted away as the teacher turned the corner. She stopped and put her arm around the weeping girl who was rubbing a red smear on her forehead.

  ‘Miranda, what on earth’s the matter?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Was it Jessica?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Miss Webb,’ Moss gasped between sobs. ‘I just don’t feel well.’

  For several days, Moss was granted a reprieve. With Miss Webb hovering protectively in the background, Jessica lay low. Pale and peaky, Moss crept into class and scurried to the library in her breaks. The other girls kept their distance, and Moss felt sick and hollow and somehow dirty. She was ashamed of her mothers and ashamed of herself for feeling that way.

  These thoughts were too painful to leave lying around unattended. She might come upon them at just the wrong moment and they would trip her up, sending her sprawling helplessly as the contents of her head poured out into the unforgiving sunshine. Her face became watchful and grim, the effort to control her feelings begetting a stubborn will for survival. Moss was only thirteen and felt an aching need to protect her mothers. Nevertheless, action was required.

  ‘I have to change schools,’ she announced abruptly one night at dinner. ‘The teachers are picking on me.’

  Her mothers looked at her with concern. ‘Picking on you? The teachers? Which teachers?’

  ‘All of them. They hate me.’ And she burst into tears. The two women looked at each other as she jumped to her feet, knocking over her water glass.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Amy, and went off to her daughter’s room, where she tapped on the door. Ignoring Moss’s ‘Go away,’ she entered and sat on the bed beside the sobbing girl, who finally blurted out the whole story. Amy sat stroking her daughter’s hair until her sobs subsided and her breathing became deep and even. She pulled up the covers and went back down to the dining room, unaware that Moss, who had been feigning sleep, had padded down after her and was listening at the door.

  ‘She’s being picked on because of us,’ Amy told Linsey.

  ‘Those little bitches. I could kill them! With my bare hands.’

  ‘She wants to start afresh at Bradfield and . . .’

  Linsey’s voice was dry. ‘I think I can see where this is going.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Linny. She doesn’t want the new school to know she has two mothers.’

  ‘Well then. I’ll have to become her aunty,’ Linsey said bleakly.

  ‘We can discuss that later.’ Moss heard the pity in Amy’s voice. ‘It could be me—the aunt, I mean.’

  Linsey’s words were brisk but her voice was husky. ‘Don’t be absurd, Amy. Of course it will be me.’

  At thirteen, Moss had little notion of what this offer might have cost Linsey. At the time, her predominant emotion was relief. Only in later years had she come to realise that, in all her relationships, Linsey had always been the lover. For Linsey, the beloved always came first.

  Six years after Linsey’s departure, when Moss turned twenty-one, Amy had finally told her about the odd circumstances of her conception. She was startled by the truth; while understanding her mothers’ relationship, she had assumed that Amy had conceived in the usual way. She had had no inkling that they’d taken so much trouble to find the right father.

  ‘All you need to know is that he was a good man, but the agreement was that he play no further part in our lives. We must respect that, Miranda.’ Amy still called her Miranda when she needed to impress her with the seriousness of the matter at hand.

  ‘I didn’t make any agreement,’ Moss retorted. ‘What if I want to meet him?’ She had a sudden moment of comprehension. ‘I suppose this was all Linsey’s bright idea.’

  ‘Well, it was Linsey’s . . .’ Amy began.

  ‘I knew it. I knew she never thought I was good enough. She tried to make me something I’m not, and I wasn’t and somehow I’m to blame. She experimented with me.’ She stopped and glared at Amy, who was processing this convoluted speech. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Amy opened her mouth to protest, but gave up and shrugged inwardly instead. She didn’t want to get involved in a dispute between these two passionate souls. It was true Linsey expected a very different child from the one Moss had been. Besides, while their separation was reasonably amicable, old wounds still festered in Amy’s breast. No-one could ever measure up to Linsey’s absurd standards, she thought petulantly. And that’s a fact.

  But Moss brooded. If Linsey had a particular child in mind—a child who was beautiful like Amy and clever like her father—she, Moss, was obviously a disappointment. She glared at her reflection in the mirror. She was clearly not the tall, clever, blue-eyed blonde of Linsey’s imagining. Small of stature, she had the wiry brown hair and gamine features of her Grandmother Sinclair. Her saving grace was her blue eyes, darker than Amy’s but with the same long lashes. Aside from this, she saw herself as a failed experiment. Not to Amy, of course. Moss had always been sure of Amy’s love and approval but perversely valued her praise less than the exacting Linsey’s. Now, mortified to discover that she was a designer baby gone wrong, she realised she could never live up to Linsey’s standards so there was no point in continuing to try. She felt a terrible hollow in her sense of herself. She needed to lash out. Place the blame squarely where it belonged. She would confront Linsey and then cut herself off from her entirely. After that, she’d find another parent—her father—to take her place.

  That’ll put paid to all her schemes, she reflected with spiteful satisfaction.

  Privy to only some of her daughter’s thoughts, Amy, while not encouraging her, did nothing to intervene. She did point out wryly that Moss was sounding just like Linsey, but her daughter failed to see the irony. She had carried out her plan and now, two years later, here she was, drinking tea with the man Linsey had chosen to be her father.

  And he seemed totally unaware of the magnitude, the abiding significance, of this moment.

  4

  Finn and a girl called Amber-Lee

  THOUGH FINN CONTINUED TO STARE at Moss in silence, he was far from indifferent. Words assembled in his head and, just as they began to make sense, rearranged themselves in a new configuration. It was like some sort of folk dance where the da
ncers’ positions kept changing in a flurry of colour and ribbons, leaving the onlooker puzzled and a little queasy. He continued to lift the mug to his lips, unaware it was empty. Moss looked back at him, expectation in the dark blue eyes that were so like his own. So like his mother’s. And his grandfather’s too, he recalled.

  Moss was not used to silence. ‘I’d like to stay for a few days,’ she said tentatively. ‘We could maybe . . . get to know each other a bit?’

  Finn felt a sort of panic and tried to slow his breathing. ‘Your mothers and I had an agreement. My name was to be kept out of—of things.’ He saw her flinch and looked down, shame burning two red patches across his cheekbones. ‘I’m sorry, Moss,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just that I’m used to being alone and this has come out of the blue. I . . .’

  Finn paused. What did he want? He looked at the girl’s face. His daughter. He turned the word over in his mouth. Absorbed its unfamiliar taste and texture. What did he owe her? Did he owe her anything at all? She was his in only the most technical sense. He tested himself for some emotional connection and found only bewilderment. Bewilderment—overlaid with his natural reticence. It suited him to be alone. He liked it—relished it, in fact. Was that all? Was that all there was to him? He probed deeper and found curiosity. Just a little, but it was there. Who was she? How had she turned out?

  He cleared his throat. ‘I—it’s like this.’ He stopped again. If he was curious about her, she must be curious about him. What sort of man did she think she was dealing with? What sort of father did she deserve? Not one like me, he thought miserably. I’m sure she’s done nothing to deserve a father like me. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to find him, though. His thoughts completed the circle. If he owed her anything, it was the truth. He started again.

  ‘It’s like this. I’ll tell you a few things about myself. If you still want to stay, you can. Just for a few days.’ He blew out his cheeks unhappily. ‘You won’t find me great company, and after you know my story . . .’

  They moved closer to the fire and Moss tucked her feet up, hugging her knees. She remembered this was exactly how she used to sit when she was waiting for Amy or Linsey to read her a bedtime story.

  ‘I guess you know how Amy became pregnant,’ he began and looked relieved when she nodded. ‘Well, after the phone call to say we were successful, I felt a bit sad that I’d never see the baby, but to be honest—and we have to be honest with each other, Moss—the feeling passed and I more or less forgot. No, I didn’t forget, it was just a—a fragment of my life with no special significance.’ His smile was tentative, placating.

  Moss was hurt, but her face remained impassive. She had often wondered about her father, but only lately dared to ask. For one thing, she didn’t want to hurt her mothers, but on a deeper level, she feared rejection. When Finn referred to her as a fragment of his life, she began to taste that fear and clenched her teeth in misery.

  Disconcerted by her rigid expression, Finn played for time. ‘They seemed like good women. They treated you well?’

  ‘Very well,’ she snapped. ‘They were my parents, remember.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course they were,’ he mused. ‘I was just a—a tool. No pun intended.’ He interrupted himself hastily as he saw her faint grin. He grinned back. ‘It was a strange situation, Moss . . . I hope I haven’t . . .’

  ‘No. It’s okay. Go on.’

  As he continued, his hesitancy gradually dissipated. This was, after all, a story he had told himself and Father Jerome many, many times.

  ‘I left uni with a PhD in maths and then went on to do some research on probability.’ She nodded impatiently. ‘Not exactly riveting for your average punter, but I found it fascinating. After a few years, I was offered a research fellowship at Oxford. I was there for five years and then came back to Melbourne.’

  Moss nodded again. She’d gleaned this much from the 55 publications.

  ‘I came back because of a woman I was seeing. She was one of my post-grad students, another Australian. Her student visa expired and she decided to move back home. I sounded out a few Aussie universities and landed a job at Melbourne—my old stamping ground. Different from Oxford, you know. Not as well funded, but it’s got some top academics.

  ‘To cut a long story short, this woman met someone else. I was furious. Well, you can imagine . . . I’d given up my post at Oxford because I thought we had some sort of future together, and within six months she was off to South Africa with a structural engineer.’ For the first time since Moss had met him, he raised his voice. ‘Have you ever met a structural engineer? No? You don’t know how lucky you are. They’re the most boring people. And think they’re God’s gift. What would they do without maths? That’s what I’d like to know. The mathematicians do all the groundwork and the engineers take all the credit with their flashy bridges and—and stuff.’

  Moss was a bit taken aback. It had never occurred to her that structural engineers could be so venal. There was a whole world out there where such declarations might be considered odd, but here, in Finn’s kitchen, she found herself cheering for the mathematicians.

  ‘Go on,’ she encouraged. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Well, life became a bit complicated. For some reason, I never had much trouble finding a woman. You’d be surprised how many women are interested in maths,’ he added quite guilelessly.

  Not so very surprised, Moss thought as she looked at his dark blue eyes and hollow, high-boned cheeks. Despite his bad haircut and daggy green jumper, her father had a sort of wistful charm and vestiges of a physical beauty long since disregarded.

  Finn continued. ‘Annetta—that was this woman’s name— she was special, I really thought she was the one. Should’ve known better. Anyway, I’d always been a drinker. Especially during my student days.’ He grinned despite himself. ‘I remember Linsey insisting I give up the booze while I was ah . . . employed by her. Kept my word, too. Even though she’d never have known.’ Finn looked at Moss expectantly.

  She was beginning to read him. ‘I’m glad, Finn,’ she responded. ‘I’d hate to have been born an alcoholic.’ She wasn’t sure that this was an issue, but was eager to please.

  ‘Yeah. I smoked a bit of pot, too. Just a joint with friends every now and then.’ He patted his pockets. ‘I need a bit of Dutch courage for this next bit. Do you mind if I smoke? Tobacco, I mean. I’ve given up pot. And alcohol too, for that matter. Another one of Linsey’s prohibitions,’ he added, indicating the cigarette that he rolled with practised fingers.

  ‘One night, I’d smoked a couple of joints with some friends and was feeling, you know, pretty happy. Then, just after they left, I get this phone call from Annetta. She couldn’t even tell me face to face. I’m leaving, she says. I’m sorry, she says. I’m going to South Africa with Pieter Langeveldt. I’ll get my things tomorrow when you’re at work.

  ‘I just put down the phone and poured a whisky. It was like I was watching myself from the ceiling or somewhere. I remember thinking, I’ll feel this tomorrow. Then I had another whisky and decided I’d go over to Pieter’s place. If she was there, I’d talk her out of going with him. If she wasn’t there, I’d punch Pieter in the nose. It seemed like such a brilliant plan at the time. Win-win, I think they call it.

  ‘So I jumped in the car and headed off for Langeveldt’s. He was only a few blocks away. I could have walked. Should have walked. But I didn’t. And that’s how my life changed.’ Finn drew hard on his cigarette. The ash was perilously long and Moss began to understand how his jumper had come to be punctuated with all those little black holes. She stared at the cigarette because she couldn’t bear to look at his face.

  His voice was flat now. ‘Just around the corner from Pieter’s, a girl ran out in front of the car. I didn’t see her until it was too late.’ He inhaled slowly—a long, painful breath. ‘I can still hear the thud. It’s an awful sound, Moss—the sound of a body hitting a car.’ The ash fell but they both ignored it. ‘She landed in the path of a truck.
People came running. I got out of my car, but they pulled me back. Then I saw a shoe. It was lying there as though she’d just kicked it off. The sole was all worn down. I remember thinking, I’d better get the shoe. She’ll wonder what happened to it. But a policeman put it in a plastic bag. Did I tell you? The sole was worn right through.’

  Finn blew out his cheeks again. ‘Do you mind if I stop for a bit? We’ll do the dishes.’ When he didn’t move, Moss got up and refilled the teapot before running some water into the sink and washing their plates. She moved delicately, fearing to disturb her father who was sitting, knees apart, hands dangling between them. His head was turned to the fire and he was shaking it slightly, as if trying to dislodge something.

  ‘Finn? I’ve made us a nice strong cup of tea. Don’t let it get cold now.’ She was his daughter but she sounded like his mother.

  Finn came and sat at the table. ‘I’ll finish the story tomorrow,’ he said, suddenly aware that this would mean she was staying another night. ‘Tell me some more about yourself. What do you do?’

  This was the very question she’d dreaded since dropping 59 out of her course.

  ‘Why, Moss?’ an exasperated Amy had asked, over and over. ‘You know Linsey put aside the money so you could continue with your singing lessons. We were all so happy when you were accepted into the Conservatorium. You were doing so well.’ Such persistence was unusual for Amy.

  ‘If I’m not speaking to Linsey, I’ve got no right to take her money. She was the one who wanted me to go to the Con.’