Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

‘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.’

‘You’re as bull-headed as each other.’ Amy sighed. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this just to spite Linsey.’

‘It has nothing to do with spite,’ Moss retorted. ‘Haven’t you heard of integrity ?’

‘Yes,’ said Amy. ‘But pragmatism makes the world go round. Be reasonable, Moss. Linsey has plenty of money. She’s made a fortune since she started working for that bank of hers.’

Amy’s objections still ringing in her ears, Moss looked at Finn defiantly. ‘I was studying singing at the Melba Con. I dropped out a few months ago.’

‘Didn’t you like it?’

‘I loved it. But I’d stopped talking to Linsey and she was supporting me, so you see, I couldn’t go on. I’ve deferred. We’ll see what happens.’ Oh God , she thought, I hope he doesn’t think I’m here after money . ‘Grandma Kathy left me some money,’ she added quickly. ‘I’ve got enough to keep me going.’

It hadn’t occurred to Finn that she might be after money. He generally believed the best of people; more often than not, he was right. But he was interested in Moss’s refusal of Linsey’s money.

‘You must’ve felt quite strongly to stop speaking to her. I can see why you couldn’t go on taking her money, though.’

‘Can you? Everyone else says I’m crazy.’

‘Perhaps. But your craziness might come from the not-speaking in the first place. I don’t know anything about that, of course.’ Finn spoke cautiously, wary of involvement. His agreement with her mothers had already been breached, and he didn’t want the sort of entanglement that his intervention could provoke. He felt he was on shaky ground morally, perhaps even legally.

Anyone else would have asked why we weren’t speaking , Moss thought. Asked why I had to drop out of my course. She could have continued without Linsey’s money, working her way through university as so many students did. But in her anger and confusion over the circumstances of her conception, Moss punished herself as well as Linsey, excising from her life not only a loved mother but the music that brought them both so much pleasure.

Each slightly embarrassed by their revelations, Moss and Finn fussed over who would wash the mugs and empty the teapot.

‘Can you go on with your story, Finn?’ his daughter asked, almost plaintively, hoping to take her mind off her own painful thoughts. ‘It must have been a very hard time for you.’

Finn wiped the sink with exaggerated care. ‘I have to work this afternoon and I’ll be out between six and eight. Perhaps we can talk over dinner? I don’t know what you’d like to eat…’

Moss had a healthy young appetite and had eaten nothing but bread and tea in the last twenty-four hours. Although she was not an enthusiastic cook, to avoid the prospect of more Vegemite on toast, she offered to prepare the evening meal. ‘My treat,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll hunt about in the cupboard and buy what else I need. I think I saw some shops last night.’

‘Yeah. Just around the corner from the bus stop where you got off. Or you could take the short-cut across the footy ground.’ He gestured in the direction of the backyard. ‘There should be some onions and spinach in the vegie garden if you need them.’

After a quick lunch, Finn disappeared down the hall to his room. Ever resourceful, Moss found some pasta and a bottle of bolognaise sauce in the cupboard and fetched some onions from the garden. This seemed to be a good basis for an easy meal. She put on her japara and took a shopping bag from behind the door. Instead of retracing last night’s route, she set out across the footy ground. The ragged grass around the perimeter wet the hem of her jeans, but the day was sunny and she enjoyed the feeling of purpose. There were two small shelters just inside the fence and a low brick building with cyclone wire over the windows, above which a sign enigmatically proclaimed HOME OF THE OPPORTUNITY KNOCKERS. Bizarre name for a football team , she thought. She crossed a bridge over the creek, which flowed sluggishly after the night’s rain. She could just make out the original sign, HALFWAY BRIDGE, smothered as it was under layers of graffiti.

Turning onto the main road, she looked down its length across the open landscape. A city girl, she could see no redeeming feature in its flat, unremitting yellowness. Apart from a few apologetic eucalypts, there was no green to define and control this amorphous space. Most of the houses bordering the road had sparse gardens that the rain had brought momentarily to life, but there was a mirage-like quality to the water that lay in puddles on fatally compacted soil. Only the geraniums seemed to do well in these conditions. Her Grandma Kathy had grown prim geraniums in pots, but these shrubs sprawled, wanton and leggy, like careless old whores grown tired of life.

In contrast, the little public gardens at the end of town (the OPPORTUNITY WAR MEMORIAL GARDENS, she read on the wrought-iron entrance gate) were pleasantly fresh and green. Moss looked in surprise at the well-tended lawn and garden beds. They occupy enchanted space , she thought. It was as though all the life and energy of the town were vested in this small oasis.