Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  He clicked again. ‘And this is how it will be.’ Projected on the wall was a virtual garden, a shallow bowl shape, landscaped with acacias, banksias and ironbarks; tussock grasses, wallaby grasses and small-leafed clematis; river bottlebrush, speedwell and sweet bursaria. Helen named each one as Hamish clicked to close-ups.

  ‘All drought-resistant,’ said Sandy. ‘All native to the area. We have Helen to thank for that.’

  Hamish clicked again. ‘As you can see in this close-up, there will be a central labyrinth leading to a rotunda. So people can sit out of the weather.’ He clicked again to show a small building with a balcony of finely wrought iron lace and lead-light windows.

  ‘I’ve managed to source the lace from a demolition site in Fitzroy,’ Hamish explained. ‘It’s the real deal—genuine Victorian craftsmanship. The windows are going to be made by Tom Ferguson’s nephew from Mystic. He’s quite a well-known artist in his field.’

  ‘We’ll keep the book in a case in the rotunda,’ added Sandy. He turned to Helen. ‘Tell them about the labyrinth.’

  Hamish clicked again and Helen stood up to explain the labyrinthine symbol of birth and death. ‘Some say our spirits enter and leave this world through the same door,’ she said. ‘There are many false paths, but only one leads to the centre. Our path will be made of pebbles and stones, and we will lay a special one for each of the dead whose name is inscribed in the book. The stone should be chosen by a loved one or a keeper of the memory.’ The image on the wall was now a model of the completed path. ‘As you can see, the path will not be uniform, as each stone represents someone unique.’ She paused. ‘This labyrinth won’t be a maze. The goal is always visible.’

  Sandy’s face was strained and eager. ‘So—what do you think?’

  Finn took his friend’s hand. ‘Sandy, I think I can speak for us all when I say that we’re privileged to be part of this.’ He gestured to the others, and one by one, they came forward to congratulate the modestly smiling Sandy.

  The big man reddened and then became bustling and practical. ‘First, the book. I’ve got a special, soft-tipped pen. We’ll leave the book here so we can give the writer some privacy. Aunt Lily, would you like to start?’

  The old woman’s face crumpled, and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I can write Arthur, but my baby has no name. What can I write in the book when my baby has no name?’

  ‘Sit here, Aunt Lily.’ Sandy’s voice was gentle as he pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Take your time. We can leave a space for your baby, until you’ve thought it through.’

  As the sky outside darkened, the light hanging high from the ceiling failed to penetrate the shadows, and Mrs Pargetter peered myopically at the book. Sandy, always alert to his aunt’s needs, switched on the lamp, and left quietly with the others.

  Lily’s page

  Lily Pargetter sat looking at the creamy parchment as its silk webs reflected the glow of the lamp. She placed her palm on the page and looked in wonder at her hand. The slim white fingers of her youth were now swollen, the joints gnarled like old tree branches. Ugly brown spots speckled the back of this alien hand, competing with the purple bruises that now appeared so frequently. That hand, smooth and white, had once caressed Arthur’s hard, brown body, and the worn circle of gold that cut into her swollen finger had once been a broad wedding band that she’d vowed never to remove.

  Arthur John Pargetter, she wrote in her best copperplate. 1921–1942. She used to write so well. She’d even won prizes at the local agricultural show. Now a light, spidery track faltered across the page. An old woman’s writing, she sighed to herself. It’s the best I can do, Arthur.

  She put down the pen and then picked it up again. Baby Pargetter? Should she simply write Baby Pargetter? It didn’t seem right. If she was going to do this, it had to be right. She thought back to the plaques in the cemetery. Perhaps something from there . . . But both memory and imagination failed her. Help me, Arthur.

  A smiling young man, handsome in his khaki uniform, was patting the tiny mound of her belly. He kissed her and suddenly she knew.

  Tiger Pargetter, she wrote, born and died 23 November 1942. Loved child of Lily and Arthur. I’ve found you at last.

  Both in God’s care.

  She sat with the book for a long time, then slowly walked back to the dining room. ‘Thank you, Sandy,’ she murmured. ‘Rosie would be proud.’

  Finn’s page

  Finn had made his peace by the river but still felt he needed to use the book to formally redress the wrong he’d done. He took out the photo Graham Patterson had copied for him. Jilly’s eyes were full of mischief, and Finn could see that her father was attempting to hold her still for the photo. He was sure that as soon as her father had taken his hands from her shoulders, she would have been off along the pier, laughing and chasing the seagulls. I’m so sorry, mate, he said to the long-ago young man. He couldn’t bring her back, but his tightly twisted guilt had unravelled and he was left with something softer and more flexible. Sorrow was more forgiving than guilt. It allowed tears to flow.

  Jillian Maree Baker, Finn wrote. 1981–1996. Daughter of Andrew Baker.

  Finn thought gratefully of Moss. He would never have defaced this book with the name Amber-Lee.

  Moss’s page

  Moss took her place at the table and picked up the pen. What would Linsey have thought of all this? For all her sharp edges and volatility, Linsey’s centre was delicate and subtle, and this was something very few understood. When she sang for her mothers, Moss remembered, it was Linsey who felt the music most deeply.

  Linsey Anne Brookes, Moss wrote. 1952–2006. Mother of Miranda Ophelia Sinclair.

  ‘It’s a bit late, Mother Linsey,’ Moss said. ‘But I’m claiming you here—and there’s nothing Aunt Felicity can do about it.’

  Ana’s page

  When Moss returned to the others, Ana stood up. ‘Sandy has kindly allowed me to write in the book. I lost my father and brother in Kosova,’ she explained. ‘Their bodies were dishonoured and buried in a mass grave. It will give me and my family great joy to honour them here, in a place so close to us.

  ‘Baba,’ she said, as she prepared to write. ‘And Edvin. You lie in our beloved Kosova, but you are here, too, in our hearts.’

  Jetmir Sejka, she wrote. 1954–2000.

  Edvin Sejka, 1983–2000.

  Sandy’s page

  Sandy slipped away upon Ana’s return. He had originally planned this book for his mother, but his new understanding enabled him to think beyond his own needs.

  ‘I think I got it right this time, Mum,’ he said. ‘It’s way too late to make your life easier, like I should have, but if you’re looking down on us, I hope you approve. The way I supported Dad was shameful, and I wish you weren’t lying together now.’

  Rosie Maud Baxter, Sandy wrote. 1922–1974. Mother of Sandy, sister of Lily.

  Rest in Peace.

  ‘You’re safe now, Mum.’

  And with the stroke of a pen, he repudiated his mother’s unhappy marriage.

  Ana’s uncle was picking her up at seven o’clock, so she and Hamish had to leave Sandy’s place by five thirty. Mrs Pargetter was looking weary, and they offered her a lift. The others stayed to help Sandy tidy up, and Helen agreed to drop Moss and Finn off on her way home.

  Sandy stepped outside and cocked his head. The birds were twittering their agitation. He looked up at the sky and came back inside. ‘You’d better get going,’ he urged his guests. ‘It looks as though that storm is finally on its way.’

  ‘We’ll stay, Sandy,’ said Moss. ‘It won’t take very long to clean up, and it’s only a twenty-minute drive.’

  The pearly grey sky had been gradually darkening, and it was now uncompromising basalt; a hard blue-black vault that sucked in the light. The thunder no longer growled in the distance, but tumbled and crashed through the cloud wall in the wake of vivid white lightning.

  No rain yet. Mrs Pargetter looked out of the car window, hopi
ng it would rain, but not until she was safe inside. She clutched the box holding her teapot. She’d display it on the piano. She couldn’t possibly use it. It was a sign that her years hadn’t been wasted. She jumped as a new crash of thunder shattered the sky. The air was unbearably oppressive.

  ‘Here it comes,’ said Hamish as heavy drops starred the windscreen. ‘Thank goodness we’re nearly there.’

  Sandy had given them an umbrella, so Hamish was able to usher the old lady inside with some protection, although both their shoes were squelching as they stepped into the hall.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay, Mrs Pargetter?’ Hamish asked as he turned to leave.

  ‘Of course, dear. I’ve seen rain before.’ Mrs Pargetter wanted him gone. He was a nice enough lad, but she had things to do.

  Hamish ran back to the car, and the old lady took off her wet shoes. Errol padded up the passage to greet her, his old head nuzzling her hand. She ruffled his ears.

  ‘We’re both getting on, Errol,’ she reflected ruefully as the dog, whimpering a little, returned to his basket. She should mop up the puddle in the hall but she was just too tired. She took off her jacket and switched on the lamp. The pink shade spread a cosy mantle of light, but suddenly she felt a chill and turned on the electric heater. What next? She had something else to do. The teapot. She took it out of the box and put on her reading glasses. To Lily Pargetter, friend of the United Nations . . . It was nice to have her work recognised. She put the teapot carefully on the table and went over to the piano, removing and folding the green cover. What now? She opened her linen press and took out a box. As she opened it, the faint fragrance of lavender rose from the tissue-paper lining. How long ago had she filled this box with scraps of embroidery and crochet—handiwork of her mother and grandmother, of Rosie and her own young self ? She hadn’t used these items for years now, but each year she replaced the dried lavender with the new crop from her garden. She sifted through the contents. There it was—the doily she’d crocheted for her hope chest. So much hope, turning thread into lace. She smoothed the filigreed fragment onto the piano and placed the teapot in the middle. All those tea cosies . . . and she was behind schedule with next year’s quota.

  She crossed the room, picking her way around furniture that suddenly seemed like obstacles. She was patient. Another few minutes wouldn’t matter. Each step was an effort. Such a day. And she was going on eighty-four. No wonder she was tired. She thought longingly of her warm bed and hot water bottle. But there was one more thing to do before the day’s business was over. She had left this most important thing till last.

  Lily Pargetter opened the door to the nursery. Errol climbed from his basket and stood sentinel behind her. The teddy bears huddled together on the wallpaper as she slipped into the room. They looked at her with anxious, boot-button eyes.

  ‘I’m here, Tiger,’ she whispered, holding out her hand. ‘I’m here, little Tiger.’

  She felt the touch of a soft palm as tiny fingers curled around hers.

  Rain lashed the window and drummed a frenetic beat on the tin roof. The whole world was awash. But it was alright. She could sleep now.

  Epilogue

  OVER TWO YEARS HAVE PASSED since the Christmas gathering at Sandy’s house. Grey cloudfields stretch to the horizon, washing the rooftops and gardens of Opportunity with intermittent rain. There is an ice-cream van, a hot-doughnut vendor, balloon sellers and coffee tents. The Country Women’s Association is serving Devonshire teas, and the district scouts have organised a sausage sizzle. Coloured umbrellas mushroom among the burgeoning throng who, despite the showers, are all cheerfully determined to enjoy the carnival atmosphere. After all, it’s their day.

  Sandy, tree-solid, looks around. He’s at ease with himself. His roots grow deep and wide in the soil of Opportunity. He is standing by the rotunda where he had planted Arthropodium strictum, a fine-stalked purple lily, and Boronia serrulata, the native rose. He sees with satisfaction that they appear to be flourishing.

  Helen is talking to Rozafa, who belongs to a shawl-knitting group in Shepparton. It was she who had given Helen the idea.

  ‘We had eleven people at the initial meeting,’ Helen tells her. ‘We have about twenty now. We’ve sort of adopted Afghanistan and most of them go there.’

  ‘The old lady—she would be happy, I think?’

  ‘I’m sure she would.’

  Ana comes to fetch her mother, and Helen moves on. Sandy looks up and smiles as she approaches with a young family in tow.

  ‘You remember Paul, Tom and Nessie’s son? And this is his wife Cate and their children, Charlotte and Julian.’

  Paul offers his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Sandilands—Sandy. Dad’s kept us posted on the working bees. I believe even old Cocky pitched in to help.’

  Sandy grins. ‘Might have been the free beer Merv put on— but seriously, everyone did their bit and I have to admit that Cocky earned that beer.’

  Freda D’Amico joins them and gestures towards the gardens. ‘Beats a great galah, eh, Sandy?’ She gives him a playful nudge.

  ‘New plan, Freda. I’m building one just opposite your home paddock.’

  ‘Beware the protestors, my friend.’ She waves to an elderly woman who is flustering about in a floral apron. ‘Okay, Liz. Coming.’ She turns back to Sandy and Helen. ‘Got to go. Have to deliver these scones to the tea girls.’

  Tom Ferguson and Ned Humphries want to discuss business. ‘Hey, Sandy. When do you reckon the council will approve the river walk?’ This was a plan to extend the garden along the river to join up with the Memorial Gardens.

  ‘Not yet,’ Sandy replies. ‘But I’d say it’s in the bag.’

  Book of Lost Threads Sandy walks hand in hand with Helen, accepting backslaps and handshakes from friends and neighbours. They stop by a corner garden bed, planted with fine-leaf tussock-grass, bluebells, everlasting daisies and a shrub that Sandy can’t identify. Sharon Simpson is there with a group of children.

  ‘It’s a sweet bursaria,’ Sharon tells him, pleased and officious. ‘Has these white flowers in summer and then red seed pods.’

  Her mum had bullied her into coming to one of the Sunday working bees. Sharon had been standing around, feeling awkward, and fearful for her new acrylic nails, when Moss, in overalls and gloves, had grabbed her.

  ‘You want to help? Look after the kids. They’re driving us crazy.’ In this way, the Children’s Corner was born, and Sharon lost three expensive nails. It wasn’t part of the original plan, but Hamish was pleased. As he said, it was Opportunity’s garden, not his.

  The night before, there had been a candlelight gathering of the first people of the book. Each of them had walked the labyrinth and placed their stone on the curving pathway.

  Finn had found Jilly’s stone on Blackpool Beach when he returned to England for a maths conference. He laid it on the path with care. He wasn’t doing it for himself; he did it for her father, Andy Baker. ‘He’d want this for you, Jilly,’ Finn said as he patted the pebble into place.

  Moss is to sing at the opening, but she came a day early and stooped to lay a sharp piece of glittering quartz with a vein of gold at its centre. ‘Just like you, Mother Linsey.’ She smiled.

  Hamish drove Ana up with her mother and sister, Uncle Visar following to take Rozafa and Miri home. They brought two stones from their garden in Shepparton. That way, their beloved Jetmir and Edvin could share in their new home in this land so far from their common grave in Kosova.

  Sandy placed five stones. Foreseeing this day, he’d gone down to the river even before the plans were approved, and spent hours sifting among the pebbles on the riverbed. He wanted each one to embody the person it represented, and he chose with care. For Rosie, he selected a smooth flat pebble, its creamy white surface shot with a roseate vein. He laid his mother to rest with gentle hands.

  He thought sadly of his Aunt Lily, wishing that she could have been here for this final act of homage on behalf of her o
wn dead.

  ‘One for you, little Tiger,’ he said, laying a small white stone, perfectly round, with a soft luminescence. For Arthur, he had found an odd-shaped stone the colour of military khaki. ‘I never knew you, mate, but I know Aunt Lily loved you, so here you go.’

  In the end, Sandy couldn’t bear to exclude Lily from this family of stones. Technically, she didn’t fit the criteria for a place in the labyrinth. She lay in peace, under a headstone bearing her name, in the family plot at St Saviour’s.

  ‘I can break the rules for you, Aunt Lily. You and Arthur and little Tiger. You were apart for too long. You can all lie together now.’ Lily Pargetter’s stone was curiously banded in yellows, browns and greys. ‘Just like a tea cosy.’ Sandy grinned affectionately as he placed it next to the others.

  He reached into his pocket and took out a rough blue-grey stone. He was breaking another rule. ‘I think you belong here too, Errol.’

  The gardens are finished, but only time will reveal their full beauty. News of the book had spread by word of mouth, and other names were added to its pages, so that Sandy had to commission a second volume. Many of those who had written in one of the books are here today to complete the ritual with the laying of a stone.

  The opening is to be simple. Sandy has staunchly fended off publicity-seeking politicians and numerous clergy who wanted to make a speech or say a prayer. He was adamant. ‘All we need is some music and a simple dedication.’

  Moss waits nervously. Remembering her panic before Linsey’s funeral, Finn hovers nearby in case she needs support. He’s dying for a smoke but will wait now until the formalities are over.

  Helen pushes Sandy gently, and he moves to the front of the makeshift platform and takes the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen—and children, too, of course. Today we are opening the Opportunity Gardens, the gardens where we have all worked so hard for the past two years. What an effort! Congratulations, Opportunity.’ Cheers and whistles from the crowd as Sandy pauses. ‘For many of you, the gardens are simply a place of beauty and pleasure, a place to enjoy with family and friends. But for some, this is the day when you will complete the act of remembrance you began when you signed one of the books that we are keeping in our beautiful rotunda. Today is the day that you will lay your stones in the labyrinth.’ His expansive gesture embraces the spiral path with the exquisite little structure at its centre. ‘But before that . . .’ He smiles fondly as Moss climbs the steps to the platform. ‘Before that, I’m pleased and proud to introduce Opportunity’s adopted daughter, and our dear friend, to sing for the loved ones we remember here today. Miranda Sinclair, with “An Eriskay Love Lilt”.’