Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

‘All I know is that she needs some sort of help,’ said Moss. ‘She’s in pain, Sandy. She hides it well enough, but I’ve seen her with her defences down.’

Sandy sipped his beer thoughtfully, and they sat in silence while the pub noise rose and fell around them.

Finn finally spoke. ‘So you don’t know whether to tell Mrs Pargetter that the gravesites have been found, or whether to let it go.’ Sandy nodded. ‘Moss tells me that your aunt feels the baby’s still in the house. She never said anything like that to me.’

‘It only started happening again since Moss came back. Aunt Lily seems to think that Moss can bring the baby out of hiding.’

‘It’s become a bit distressing,’ Moss admitted. ‘Sometimes I find her standing in the doorway of the room. Other times I come back and find her sitting on the bed. When she sees me, she just says, I’m looking for my baby . Then she goes about her business as though nothing has happened.’ She paused. ‘The room does have a strange feeling…’

Sandy nodded. ‘From what I overheard as a child, she brought an imaginary baby home with her from the hospital. Used to take it for walks, buy it clothes and everything. That’s why they put her in Chalmers House. That was the mental institution just out of Cradletown. It was closed down in the seventies after a fire. Good thing too, from what you hear.’

Finn didn’t feel qualified to comment on Mrs Pargetter’s emotional state. ‘You know your aunt best, Sandy,’ he said. ‘What’s your gut feeling?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe if she can visit a gravesite, it will give her some peace of mind.’

Moss agreed. ‘I read the plaques. It seemed to me that at least some of the pain the parents feel comes from not knowing. It’s not time that brings relief in these cases-it’s finally knowing where their babies lie.’

Finn stood up. This conversation was too close to home. ‘It’s not for us to decide,’ he said abruptly. ‘Everyone has a right to know… things. Sorry. Have to go and-and check some stats.’ And before they could reply, he bolted.

Sandy wanted Moss to be present when he spoke to his aunt, but she declined. Firstly, she felt this was a family matter, and secondly, she was rattled by Mrs Pargetter’s insistence on her own connection to the baby.

‘I’ll just complicate matters,’ she said. ‘This is something between you and your aunt.’

The next day, Moss returned to Melbourne and Sandy invited himself to his aunt’s for lunch.

‘Don’t go to any trouble, Aunt Lily. I’ll bring some ham and fresh rolls.’

The old lady sniffed. ‘ I can still feed my guests, George. I have some nice vegetable soup that I made with Moss. You can bring some rolls,’ she conceded. ‘We’ll have them with the soup.’

Sandy, knowing his aunt’s regular habits, turned up promptly at twelve thirty. ‘I hate it when Moss goes,’ she said petulantly after absentmindedly offering her cheek for a kiss. ‘Errol doesn’t like it either, do you, Errol?’

Errol woofed his wholehearted agreement.

They sat down to the soup, and Sandy, who had rehearsed the conversation in his mind, deployed his opening gambit. ‘I took Moss to the cemetery the other day. She wanted to visit her mother Linsey.’

‘Very strange arrangement, that one,’ his aunt replied, juggling her teeth with the soup spoon. ‘You didn’t see that sort of thing in my day.’

Sandy was checked. She was supposed to say something about the comfort such a visit might bring. He’d have to prompt her. ‘She said it helped-you know, in her grieving.’

But Mrs Pargetter was off on her own train of thought. ‘I suppose they existed in my day. But we didn’t know. Rosie hinted something about Abby Lawson and Stella McGuire once. I didn’t know what she was talking about. Perhaps that was what she meant.’ She shook her head in wonder at her own youthful innocence.

‘We wandered around the cemetery a bit. It’s an interesting place,’ offered her persistent nephew, with a growing sense of desperation.

‘I wonder if they call Moss’s other mother a widow . Is there a special word for it, do you think?’

Sandy tried again. ‘Listen, Aunt Lily. While we were walking around, we found a spot where they buried stillborn babies.’

His aunt looked at him steadily, her soup spoon frozen in midair. ‘And why should that interest me?’

He looked at his aunt in disbelief. This wasn’t at all the conversation he’d rehearsed. ‘Well, I thought that, you know, you might like to-to visit your… baby.’

‘My baby lives here, with me. I’ve just misplaced it.’

Sandy felt a throbbing in his temples and his hands began to sweat. The colour rose to the surface of his face, a fine network of capillaries revealing an ugly mottle.

He would remain forever ashamed of what he did next. He’d been tense leading up to the visit, and his planned conversation had gone awry as Mrs Pargetter prattled on about Linsey and Amy and Stella and God knows who else. Then she sat there, bold as brass, asking what it all had to do with her. He struggled for self-control and teetered on the edge until she calmly told him she had misplaced her child. It was then that he felt himself rushing headlong into the darkness that had fascinated and repelled him all his life. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed her shoulders and shouted into her face: ‘What’s the matter with you, woman? Are you completely batty? What do you mean, misplaced ?’

Appalled, he let his hands fall as she cowered away from him. Cowered . From him . He saw, in a moment, history repeating itself, and sank back into the chair as harsh sobs lacerated his throat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Aunt Lily, I’m so sorry. I’m not like him. Mum, I promise I’m not like him.’

His aunt twisted her hands in distress. ‘George-I can’t- oh dear, please stop crying… Rosie, Rosie, I don’t know what to do…’

Errol had interposed himself between the two, snarling a warning to Sandy. ‘Come here, Errol,’ Mrs Pargetter murmured. ‘It’s alright now, old boy.’ The dog put his paws in her lap, but continued to growl softly, keeping an eye on Sandy, still slumped in his chair.

As she stroked the old dog’s head, her agitated heart gradually slowed and returned to its usual measured beat. Time dripped away in relentless drops that fell far back into the waters of her past and then swept her forward into a lonely future. Sandy. What would happen to him now? What would happen to her? Her vision blurred and her hands shook but she steeled herself. I can do it, Rosie . She cleared her throat.

‘George… Sandy ,’ she said. ‘Never, ever do that again. Rosie kept making excuses for your father, but the truth is he was a cruel and violent man. Cruel his whole life till the day he died. I-I don’t know what to do. I can’t… I’m too old. Oh, Sandy… what can we do?’

Sandy began to excuse himself, his usual reaction to feelings of guilt. ‘I wanted to make you happy. To set your mind at rest. I wanted to do it for Mum’s sake too. She worried about you all the time, you know.’ Even as he spoke, he knew that there was no excuse. He had to accept that he was George Sandilands’ son. A son who had inherited his father’s brutality along with the family farm.

Mrs Pargetter’s voice broke and her eyes pleaded with his. ‘I’m speaking to you now-to Rosie’s son. There’s a lot of good in you, Sandy. I’ll never call you George again. It’s your father’s name, not yours.’ She articulated her next words distinctly, with pauses to emphasise her meaning. ‘And you are not your father. You don’t have to be. Do you hear me? You don’t have to be.’ She turned away. ‘Dear Rosie,’ she said. ‘Such a gentle, loving soul.’ Even after all these years, she missed Rosie more than she could say. Here was a chance to repay some of her sister’s kindness. She would save Sandy. ‘I’ll come with you to the cemetery. It was kind of you to take the trouble.’