Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

As Moss set her case down on the bed, she felt a little exhalation, a sigh so small that it registered only on the periphery of her senses. At the same time, she became aware of an expectation, the waiting feeling she had experienced the first time she entered the room. It was all too subtle to grasp, and she simply stood for a moment before returning to her elderly friend, who was still counting her stitches.

‘I seem to keep losing count,’ she said crossly. ‘Moss, can you check for me, please?’

Moss counted and found that there were almost twice as many stitches as were needed. She quietly unpicked the excess and rechecked the number before handing the knitting back. Mrs Pargetter making a mistake with her knitting? It was unheard of. Now that Moss came to think of it, the old lady had been distracted all night. Perhaps she was just tired.

‘You look worn out, Mrs Pargetter. I certainly am.’ Moss began the nighttime ritual of ensuring the fire was safe and setting the table for breakfast. To her relief, her companion took the hint. Folding away her knitting in an embroidered pillow slip, she headed for the bathroom, wishing Moss goodnight.

Moss, never a good sleeper, always read for an hour or two before settling for the night. She had just placed the bookmark when a movement at the door startled her. It was Mrs Pargetter, in a flannelette nightgown, a long grey plait hanging over one shoulder. She looked at Moss with hungry eyes.

‘What is it, Mrs Pargetter?’ She spoke softly, fearing to disturb the listening air.

The old lady bowed her head. ‘They locked me away,’ she said. ‘They locked me away and I couldn’t save my baby.

I brought it home. To this very room. But it just went away.’ Her eyes searched Moss’s face. ‘It comes back when you’re here, though. I can feel it.’ She took a faltering step into the room. ‘I need my baby, Moss.’

The two women sat together on the bed, and Moss took the old lady’s hands and held them between her own. They were trembling, and cold to her touch.

‘We’ll just sit here for a bit, Mrs Pargetter. Until you’re ready. Then I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

The room was cold, and the yellow bulb, swinging high from the ceiling, cast more shadow than light. Moss glanced around uneasily, sensing a faint susurration, a delicate splintering of the gelid air. The teddies froze, their eyes straining to pierce the shadows.

The young woman looked at her companion and shivered. Did she feel it too? But Mrs Pargetter gave no sign.

After several minutes, the old lady patted Moss’s hands and stood up. ‘Take no notice of me, dear. I’m just a silly old woman.’ As Moss began to protest, she shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about the tea. I’m really very tired.’

The young woman put her arm around the frail shoulders and they walked together back to her room. Moss had to take small, slow steps to keep pace as Mrs Pargetter’s bare feet shuffled and whispered on the kitchen tiles.

She helped her into bed and pulled up the covers. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Pargetter.’

‘Goodnight, dear.’

In the light of day, Moss decided that the presence she had sensed in the room was the product of her overactive imagination. But she was worried about her elderly friend. She recounted the story to Finn as they took Errol for a walk. ‘Do you know what happened to her, Finn? I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing.’

Finn shook his head. ‘I’ve heard bits and pieces but Sandy 185 would be your best bet.’

Moss sought Sandy out that afternoon, finding him in the pub with two other men. They were all staring morosely into their beers, so Moss approached, confident that she wasn’t interrupting anything important. ‘Can you join me for a drink, Sandy? I need to ask you something.’

The other men leered at each other, and looked at Sandy with something like respect as Moss led him to a corner table.

‘I was only a kid at the time,’ he began in response to her question, ‘but I used to hear Mum and Dad talking about it. Apparently she lost her husband in New Guinea and then their baby was stillborn. Anyway, she went a bit barmy, by all accounts, and she was in a mental hospital for years. Had shock treatment and everything. I was away at school then, but Mum used to take me to visit her in the holidays. Mum and Dad helped to get her out when Grandpa died.’ He tossed down the last of his beer and wiped the froth from his upper lip. ‘She was always nice to me. Made welcome-home cakes and took a bit of an interest. Dad used to say she should have stayed in the mental home, but I think she was just eccentric, not mad.’ He paused. ‘Dad could be a bit hard, sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘I can almost understand why Aunt Lily didn’t like him.’

Moss sipped her drink. ‘What you tell me makes it even worse. It’s like she says: she’d locked things away, and now, for whatever reason, a door is opening. I wonder just how fragile her mental health is?’

Sandy’s face was grave. ‘I hadn’t realised things were so bad.’

‘Is there anything you can do, Sandy? You know her better than anyone.’

‘Leave me to have a think,’ he replied. ‘Meanwhile we’ll all keep an eye on her. And thanks for telling me, Moss.’

Once again, Moss felt humbled. This man had more depth than she had originally given him credit for.

THE NEXT MORNING, SANDY SAT at his computer, swearing softly. He was sure he’d read the article in the last couple of years. He googled ‘stillbirths’. He refined his search: ‘stillbirths Melbourne’. There was a lot of medical information but no historical references. He tried again. ‘Stillbirths, Melbourne, 1940-44.’ This search turned up a little historical information, but not what he was seeking. He searched ‘Melbourne Hospital for Women’. Plenty here, but no link to stillbirths. He tried ‘Melbourne General Cemetery’. No information at all, beyond a map that marked out the multitude of reference points for gravesites. Bugger! He knew he’d read somewhere of a memorial service at the Melbourne General Cemetery for parents whose stillborn babies had been buried in unmarked graves.

He got up to find the chocolate biscuits he always kept as a bulwark against frustration, and stood looking out his window. He finished the first biscuit and reached for a second. The early spring sky, blue and cloudless, mocked the parched paddocks. He watched a flock of galahs crowding on the telephone wire, their sheet-metal screeches shredding the air. Of course. Old technology! He’d ring the cemetery. That was his best bet. He hurried to the phone.

‘Yes,’ a woman’s voice responded. ‘There are several neonatal sites scattered throughout the cemetery. They’re looked after by the SANDS group.’

‘SANDS?’

‘Stillborn and Neonatal Death Support. I have their phone number.’ She read it out to him and he wrote it on a post-it note. ‘Now, do you have any information at all about this baby?’

‘As far as I know, the baby was taken and buried without a name. Probably some time in 1941 or maybe ’42. My mother tried to find out once, and the hospital told her that the babies were buried in common graves-no plaques or headstones or anything.’

‘That’s right. You might try the hospital again,’ the woman said doubtfully, ‘although I believe their record-keeping wasn’t too brilliant at the time. There was a war on, remember.’

Sandy thanked her and hung up. He decided that his best course of action was to visit the cemetery. That might give him some information he could work on. He told Moss his plan and asked if she’d like to come. Bored and restless, she agreed.