Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

Staring out across the paddocks, he ignored the phone the first time it rang. I’ll tell you one thing, Dad: there’ll be no Great Galah now. When I die, you’ll be forgotten, you fucking bastard. Anger energised him and when the phone rang again ten minutes later, he got up to answer it. It was Moss.

‘Sandy,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’d like to help Finn the way you’re trying to help your Aunt Lily.’

Sandy was puzzled for a moment. He’d actually forgotten the reason he’d looked at the journals in the first place. That’d be right. Too busy with my own problems.

‘Sandy? Are you there? I want to find out who Amber-Lee really is… Sandy?’

‘Amber-Lee? Who’s she?’

So Finn hadn’t confided in anyone else. ‘Just someone Finn knew once. She was buried at the City General,’ she said vaguely. ‘How are you going with Mrs Pargetter’s baby?’

‘Nothing yet,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get back to you if I have any news.’

‘The least I can do for Mum is to finish the job,’ he muttered to himself as he hung up. ‘I owe it to Aunt Lily too. I think she was the only person who really loved Mum.’

He returned to the sewing room and rummaged through the diaries to find the year he estimated the events took place. There it was: 1954. He opened it at random and then closed it again, taking it out to the kitchen where he made himself another coffee. After yesterday’s revelations, he felt like a guilty child and didn’t want to read it in his mother’s room.

It was the beginning of the second term, he recalled, skimming the pages. They were packing football gear and his winter blazer. His eye caught an initial and he was unable to resist reading on.

9 May. I have entrusted the correspondence to S. He’ll do the right thing, I know. He has a good heart, despite his father’s influence. I must be patient and wait. I do miss my boy when he’s at school, but it’s safer there. G is becoming surlier by the day and this is such an unhappy house. I’m glad the bruises were gone by the time S got home for the holidays. He’s so fond of his father. Perhaps in time he will see things more clearly. I was right to trust him. I’m sure I was right…

Such a little thing to ask… Sandy felt shame seep out through his pores where it lay, a clammy film on his skin. He read on.

10 June. S came home today for the long weekend. He has grown even taller in the last couple of months. Bought some linctus for his nasty cough. I’d like to know if they give him enough blankets at night but I daren’t ask him. Sandy winced. No letter from the hospital. Poor Lily…

He moved on to the September break.

22 September. S home tomorrow. Have made cream sponge and some chocolate slices. G seems a bit mellower at the moment. I hope he stays that way while S is home.

23 September. S home. Taller than ever. He’s put on even more weight. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it. Neither his father nor I carry any weight. His school report was good. Nearly all As. He doesn’t take after me, thank goodness. I never was a scholar. Not sure if S has a letter from the hospital. Will wait until G goes into town tomorrow.

24 September. The hospital has been no use at all. They say that the baby would have been buried in the Melbourne General Cemetery, but have no records of the birth. I was hoping we would at least know if it was a boy or a girl. Poor little mite may as well have never existed. I don’t know what else I can do. Surely there are records somewhere? If only George were more sympathetic. He has a way of getting things done. But I daren’t ask.

Sandy sighed and closed the diary. He felt immeasurably older. The temptation was to succumb to weariness and sleep for days, weeks, forever… it didn’t matter. But having read her journal, Sandy knew that he owed it to his mother to carry through with his plan. Soft and flaccid on the outside, he had a small, hard core of courage, and he called upon it again now as he had when, as a frightened schoolboy, he agreed to post the letter.

If there were no records in 1954, it was unlikely that there’d be any now. Nevertheless, he fished in his wallet for the crumpled note on which he’d jotted down the phone number, and dialled the Stillborn and Neonatal Death Support group.

The volunteer introduced herself as Eva. ‘Record-keeping was very poor in those days,’ she affirmed. ‘You say your mother tried to trace the baby through the hospital records?’

‘Yes, but with no luck. You’d think there’d be something.’

‘You have to remember that stillborn babies were not really regarded as children by the medical and legal authorities. They had no understanding of how a parent might grieve. We try to support these parents as best we can, but to be honest, it’s very hard to locate babies born in the forties. You can usually only do it through the mother’s medical records, but if you’ve already tried that…’

‘What do you suggest, then?’

‘You could take your aunt to one of the communal burial sites at the cemetery. They’re scattered through the various denominations. Did she attend church at the time?’

‘Church of England. She still plays the organ.’

‘Well, perhaps if you took her to the Church of England area… She may find some comfort there. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help. I can send you some information about our support groups, if you like.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Much appreciated.’

Sandy replaced the receiver and wrote a generous cheque to the support group on behalf of his mother and aunt. He addressed the envelope, began to rise, then sank back into the chair, irresolute. Perhaps he was stirring up things that should be left to lie? There was very little to tell. Lily’s baby boy, or girl, may or may not have been buried in the Melbourne General Cemetery, possibly in the Church of England site. Should he take this meagre offering to his aunt or just let her be? She was eighty-three and becoming frail. He felt unequal to the responsibility and decided to talk to Moss and Finn. They’d know what to do.

MOSS’S DECISION TO SEEK AMBER-LEE’S identity was not wholly altruistic. Sandy’s quest for his aunt’s baby had been the catalyst, and the visit to the cemetery had moved her profoundly. She was truly saddened to think of the baby and the young woman, both buried without a name. She had also come to care for Finn and was disturbed to think of him growing old with his guilt and grief. But she had her own guilt and grief, and until she could return to the Conservatorium or some sort of employment, she knew that unfettered time would corrode her resolve. She was absurdly afraid of becoming an old lady who talked to her dog and knitted tea cosies for the United Nations. Or a person who spent hours a day in silence. She needed activity; she needed a challenge; and Amber-Lee’s identity could provide both while Moss sought to help the parent who still needed her. It was too late to reconcile with Linsey, but Moss still longed for redemption.

She debated within herself whether she should tell Finn what she had planned. There was still a remoteness about him, and she often felt that he would have retreated from the world altogether had it not been for his friendship with Mrs Pargetter and her nephew. And now her own arrival too, of course. There was something suspect in his apparent solidity. She had moments of insight when she felt that his component particles were only held together by an effort of will. That one day he would simply give up and allow himself to disintegrate. She would have liked him to know she was planning to help him, but feared what would happen if she were unsuccessful.