Book of Lost Threads
Page 29
Moss is nervous, fearing that emotion will get the better of her. She catches Finn’s eye. Hamish and Ana smile their encouragement. All these people have faith in me, she thinks. I can do this. She steps forward and sings.
Vair me oro van o,
Vair me oro van ee
Vair me oro o ho
Sad am I without thee.
When I’m lonely, dear white heart,
Black the night, or wild the sea,
By love’s light my foot finds
The old pathway to thee.
Thou art the music of my heart,
Harp of joy, oh cruit mo chridh
Moon of guidance by night
Strength and light, thou art to me.
Vair me oro van o,
Vair me oro van ee
Vair me oro o ho
Sad am I without thee.
A shaft of sunlight pierces the clouds and strikes the stained-glass windows of the rotunda. Splinters of coloured light fragment the air as the clouds part. The garden is drowning in light; a light that pours comfort and grace over the patient lines of pilgrims waiting with their stones.
Helen and Sandy have invited Moss, Finn, Hamish and Ana back to the house for a private celebration. The wisteria is flowering early this year, and the long verandah is draped in a graceful blue curtain. Sandy and Helen smile a welcome at the door. The house has not forgotten the sadness it has witnessed. Houses never do. But it has woven this into its new story with such subtlety that it is transmuted into something softer, more bearable and, finally, hopeful. Moss, of course, knows this. She feels such things in her bones.
The rain is persistent now, and the sky has darkened, but the lamps are lit, revealing the good but slightly shabby furniture, the mellow beauty of the floorboards and the welcome of an open fire. A young kelpie has commandeered the armchair by the hearth. He wags his tail but stays curled up on the cushion. It’s Sandy’s chair and the dog doesn’t want to push his luck.
‘We’re glad you could all come,’ Sandy says. ‘It’s important to have everyone here.’
In the dining room, the heavy old table is set with a lace cloth, and Rosie’s silver gleams beside her fine china.
‘We’ll open the champagne later,’ says Sandy. ‘Right now, I have a better idea for a toast.’ Helen comes in and places a tray on the table. And quietly, respectfully, she fills each cup from an engraved silver teapot fitted with a hand-knitted tea cosy.
‘A toast,’ says Sandy. And they stand and raise their teacups to a world of possibilities.
Acknowledgements
MANY THANKS TO:
My agent Gaby Naher who believed in my book and who steered me, so deftly, through the unfamiliar world of publishing.
Allen & Unwin editors Annette Barlow, Catherine Milne and Clara Finlay from whom I have learnt so much in these last few months.
The Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Support Group (SANDS) for permission to use their name and the inscription from the communal burial site. Special thanks to Anne Bower who facilitated the process, and who with Joan Noonan offered valuable advice regarding the services SANDS offers to the community.
Sadber Sanders, who helped me with details for the story of Ana and her family.
Jonathon Ferguson, former Assistant Curator, Military History, National Museum of Scotland, for facilitating my application to use the quotation from the Scottish War Memorial.
Janet Bristow of the Prayer Shawl Ministry for the use of the lines from her beautiful poem ‘Ariadne’s Blessing’.
Kerry Scuffins, poet and author, who was the first person to call me a writer and who, with Lauren Williams and members of the SPAN Writer’s Group, has given me so much help and encouragement.
My teacher, novelist and poet Sallie Muirden, and classmates, especially Les Zigomanis, from Novel 2 at NMIT for their thoughtful advice and criticism.
My daughter, Carolyn Evans, who generously gave so much of her valuable time, reading and critiquing my manuscript with such honesty and insight.
My husband (and research assistant), Terry, for his patience, his encouragement and belief in me as a writer.
My sons, Timothy and Julian, my mother Alice Websdale, and all of my extended family and friends, for their encouragement and delight in the publication of this novel.
Caitlin and Michael, who are already writing wonderful stories, and Charlotte, whose own story is just beginning.