Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

Jilly sat on the edge of the worn sofa, cupping her hands around the plastic mug. The room was shabby, and the three workers behind the desks all wore worried frowns. Ilse was talking earnestly into the phone, firing frequent glances in her direction. Panic rose in the girl’s throat. Was the woman talking about her? Who was she talking to? What if they sent her to a foster home? When Ilse looked up again, Jilly had gone.

In the early days, Jilly had curled up under her thin blanket in Brenda’s flat and made plans. She would do this work only until she had enough money for her fare home to England, a place that she had endowed with an almost mythical significance. She longed for her family, but she wouldn’t go back until she was on her feet. She saw herself knocking on her grandparents’ door, wearing long leather boots and a smart coat with a silk scarf. She felt the hugs and saw the smiles and tears. She sat once again in the kitchen, eating her grandmother’s cake, the lost child returned. She even dared to wonder if her father was still alive. She had no illusions about her mother by now and suspected that she’d been lied to. She couldn’t picture an ageing Andy. She still saw him as a young man who held her soft little paw in his big, rough carpenter’s hands and ran with her, laughing, down the hill to the shops.

As the months went by, however, she saved very little. By the time she’d bought food and clothes, paid Brenda her share of the rent and given Vince the pimp his cut of the takings, there was very little left.

Amber-Lee worked the streets for eight months, and during this time, Jilly’s voice and Jilly’s tears became fainter. Her judgement was dulled as her sense of self continued to retreat. She had resisted for months, but her first experience of heroin provided the escape she craved. She worked harder but became more and more indebted to Vince, who was also her supplier. She’d earlier used a little of Brian’s money for living expenses, but some delicacy of feeling at first forbad her from using it to buy drugs, even though she could no longer maintain the fiction that this little bundle of notes was the beginnings of her escape money.

Sitting on her bed one evening before work, she realised that delicacy of feeling was a luxury she could no longer afford. Regretfully, she took the money from her coat lining and put it in her little treasure box, ready to give to Vince for her supply. It was early in her addiction, and she still had some sense of decency. She understood that Brian’s gift had been a sacrifice; he had little money left for himself after moving in with Patty. Sorry, Brian . She ran her hands through her hair, clutching fistfuls, tugging at the roots. Sorry, Brian . Fingers still knotted in her hair, she slumped and rested her elbows on her knees. Fuck it, Brian. I’ve run out of choices .

The photograph caught her eye, and she ran her fingers over its surface. What were they all doing now, her parents, her aunt and uncle, her cousins? Mr Pie would probably be dead. Lucky Mr Pie. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, snivelling a little in self-pity.

At that moment, Brenda came in. ‘Wanna get a hamburger before we start?’ She looked at the photo. ‘What’s that?’

‘My family.’

‘Who’s the good-looking chick in the shorts?’

‘My mother.’

‘Funny-looking dog.’

‘My cousin’s dog, Mr Pie. Stupid name.’ Jilly put the photo back in its box. ‘What about that hamburger?’

They’d only walked a few paces along the footpath when Jilly (in that moment she was no longer Amber-Lee) caught a glimpse of a man on the other side of the road. He was about twenty-five, tall and dark. There was something about the way he held his shoulders. The way he walked. Where had she seen him before? It came to her all at once. It was the young man in the photo on the pier. It was her father . Filled with sudden, irrational hope, she ran towards him, right into the path of Finn’s car.

MOSS HAD BEEN STAYING WITH Mrs Pargetter for nearly two weeks now. Something of the town’s lethargy had affected her too, and although she knew that one day soon she’d have to return to her life in Melbourne, she was reluctant to formulate any plans.

Her days took on a pattern. She would breakfast early with her elderly host and then call to Errol, who waited by the door for his walk. After a few laps of the oval, they’d head down to the creek, where the dog sniffed importantly every few steps, before looking back gravely for approval. Sometimes on these walks they’d see Finn, but Errol sensed that this was his quiet time and only wagged his tail briefly before moving on.

After her shower, Moss would set off for the shops. There was usually something to buy. Mrs Pargetter-and Finn, too, for that matter-had a ‘just in time’ approach to shopping. Moss made an effort to explore the town, but as she’d seen on her first day, the scope for exploration was limited. She knew a few residents by sight and nodded shyly if she passed them in the street. The old man who called her ‘girlie’ introduced himself as Cocky. He was usually sitting on the seat outside the pub, waiting for it to open.

She lunched with her father. Unused to company at meals, Finn often seemed at a loss for conversation. He didn’t allude to Amber-Lee again, and as he had little small talk, Moss had to coax him to talk about himself.

She learned that he was an only child, that his mother was still alive and that he had enjoyed his years at university. He’d travelled around Europe while he was at Oxford; when she could draw them out of him, Moss found his travel stories entertaining. They were all light-hearted and impersonal: when he matriculated into Oxford, he told her, all the speeches were in Latin, except the exhortation not to light fires in the library.

‘It went back to the days when students used to smuggle in candles so they could study after the sun went down. Electricity stopped all that, but the rule stayed. Things move a bit slowly at Oxford. Did I ever tell you about the time I passed the port the wrong way, just to see the reaction? You’d have thought I’d murdered the queen.’ And he’d laugh quietly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. These were precious moments for Moss, but they were rare. She reconciled herself to the fact that Finn was naturally reserved, and as often as not, much of the meal was eaten in silence.

In the afternoons, Finn worked on his computer and Moss returned to Mrs Pargetter’s. Here she’d read for a while, but sooner or later, her attention was drawn to the piano. Serene and regal, it stood in the corner of the front room, its polished beauty protected by a green felt cover. Moss would occasionally lift the lid and idly play a scale. It was a good instrument and had been kept in tune. Closing the lid, she would hum softly to herself for some time afterwards. Music had been the centre of her life, and the brutal incision she had made in anger had left a wound that refused to heal.

At these times, Mrs Pargetter would continue to knit without comment, but one evening she put down her needles and offered to play. ‘I’m a bit rusty, but the knitting keeps my fingers supple and I still play at St Saviour’s once a month.’

‘I’d love to hear you, Mrs Pargetter. I’ll turn the pages if you like.’

The old lady fussed with her sheet music. ‘Let me see… I used to play dance music when I was young, but I always preferred hymns or the classics… Here, how about Chopin?’ Mrs Pargetter played a few phrases pianissimo and then straightened her back. ‘This is one of my favourites.’

She’s a fine pianist even now , thought Moss as music filled the house. I wonder what she was like when she was young? Her performance ended, the elderly pianist inclined her head graciously.