Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

Her nephew looked up, his large face blurred and crumpled like wet cardboard.

‘Go now,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired. I think I’ll have a little nap.’

Sandy came over to give her his customary peck on the cheek but stopped, still deeply ashamed. He half raised his hand in farewell and went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Lily Pargetter sat on in her chair. Sadness overwhelmed her. It was too deep for tears, so she continued to sit, stroking Errol’s head until she was suddenly aware that night had fallen.

As he drove away from his aunt’s house, Sandy looked with puzzled gravity at his soft white hands on the steering wheel. It was as though they had acted of their own volition. He recoiled again as the steering wheel became his aunt’s stooped shoulders. It was lucky that he met no other drivers on the road home. He found himself unlocking his door without any further recollection of the journey.

He had to steel himself, but there he was the next day standing sheepishly on his aunt’s doorstep, a lemon pie balanced in his hand. He knew that if he left it any longer, he would never have the courage to return to his aunt’s house. The Major wouldn’t have recognised this as courageous-there are no Distinguished Service Orders for acts of moral courage- but Mrs Pargetter realised what it must have cost him. She patted his arm.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s have a cup of tea and you can tell me your plans for the visit to Melbourne.’

Gratefully, Sandy slipped into planning mode and suggested they stay in Melbourne overnight. ‘That way it won’t be too tiring. How would you like it if we went to a show as well?’

Mrs Pargetter smiled. ‘That would be lovely. How about 226 the opera?’

Sandy groaned inwardly. He was a country and western man.

‘You don’t get away scot-free, young man,’ said his aunt, and never mentioned the ugly incident again.

Sandy took the car as far into the cemetery as he could, and then he and his aunt walked slowly down the narrow paths between the graves. She walked reluctantly, her head bowed, a straw hat shielding her papery skin from the sun. Sandy was pleased that the day was fine. He wanted everything to look as serene as possible, remembering the sullen sky and biting winds that assailed them when he and Moss had made their pilgrimage. Today the sky was benign, and despite the cool breeze there was a hint of warmth in the air. Nevertheless, the grey sentinels that stood over the graves were as bleak as ever. Sandy shuddered and was momentarily grateful for the family plots that awaited them both in St Saviour’s little churchyard.

Mrs Pargetter stopped in front of one elaborate stone. ‘ In loving memory of Hannah Wilson, wife of John, mother of Matthew and Dora. 1895-1930. Rest in peace ,’ she read. ‘I wonder where John is? He wasn’t buried beside her by the looks of things. Perhaps he married again and was buried with his second wife.’ As though she’d heard Sandy’s thoughts, she added: ‘At least in Opportunity we all rest together.’ She sat on the marble bed and patted it. ‘Forgive me, Hannah Wilson. I need to sit a while. I can’t get about as I used to.’

Happy to take a break himself, Sandy waited until she was rested, and they resumed their walk towards the straggling peppercorn trees.

‘It’s here,’ Sandy said, indicating the seat. His aunt was out of breath again and was pleased to be able to sit down. She sat with her eyes closed for a few minutes, touching her forehead and cheeks with a lace-edged handkerchief. Then she looked around her. The small clearing was surrounded by tombstones which stretched in ordered ranks as far as her eyes could see. In the middle distance, the two peppercorns strove unsuccessfully to provide a canopy over the memorial seat.

They’re poor specimens , Mrs Pargetter thought, as she remembered the huge, gnarled trees of her childhood. She and Rosie had loved the peppercorn trees that grew beside the railway line. They used to collect the cocoons spun by the fat blue-green caterpillars that lived on the leaves, and then waited, usually in vain, for the emergence of the moth. They were wonderful trees to climb, too. The girls would sit dangling their legs over the branches and making veils with the trailing leaves, taking turns at being the bride.

By the time Lily was indeed a bride, the war had started and it became difficult to obtain suitable fabrics. So she wore a long veil of Limerick lace that her aunt, who had married a Catholic, was able to borrow from the nuns in Cradletown. She wore Rosie’s wedding dress and her mother’s pearl pendant. Her shoes were the only new thing she’d worn that day, but it didn’t matter. She felt beautiful; she was beautiful because her Arthur never tired of telling her so. So many years ago now . Arthur had looked nervous and handsome in his striped suit and the paisley silk tie she’d given him as a wedding present. ‘Gee,’ he said when he opened the parcel. ‘It’s a ripper of a tie. I reckon I’ll look like Errol Flynn in this.’ He kissed her soundly and then produced his present for her, watching her open it with a look of sly anticipation. It was a pink satin dressing-gown with high-shouldered quilted sleeves and a wide sash. ‘You’ve got such a tiny little waist,’ he said. ‘With your lovely red hair you’ll look like Rita Hayworth.’

Mrs Pargetter could still remember her blushes. It was quite daring, shocking even, for a young man to buy what was tantamount to underwear for his sweetheart. She and Rosie giggled as they folded it into her case, still wrapped in the soft white tissue paper. After Arthur died, she had clutched the gown around her, rocking back and forth in her grief. It was a comfort of sorts, but no substitute for his arms.

She took it with her to the hospital when she went into premature labour. She wanted to wrap their child in something that was connected to its father.

‘What a lovely gown,’ the young nurse had said enviously as she helped Lily unpack. ‘By the look of things, you’ll be in the labour ward soon. I’ll have this ready for you when you come back here.’ And she hung it over the chair. That was the last Lily saw of the gown. When she came out of the anaesthetic, it was gone.

‘I need it,’ she told the duty sister. ‘I need it to wrap my baby in.’

The sister looked down with pity as she injected her with morphine. ‘Go to sleep now, Mrs Pargetter. You’ll need your strength. Doctor will be in soon.’

‘My baby. You haven’t even told me if it’s a boy or a girl. Please bring me my baby.’ She clutched at the nurse’s starched uniform.

‘Sleep, now, dear. You aren’t quite strong enough yet.’

She awoke a second time to find a short, balding man standing with her father and Rosie.

‘I’m Dr Macgregor. How are we now, young lady? A bit sore, I imagine.’

‘My baby. Where’s my baby?’

‘Your baby was very tiny. I’m afraid it didn’t survive the birth.’

She looked at her father, and Rosie, who was crying. ‘What does that mean? Didn’t survive the birth . What does that mean?’

She came to know what it meant. It meant empty arms, milk overflowing from painful breasts, a sense of abandonment and feelings of shame and guilt. She’d not been strong enough to protect their child. Look after little Tiger for me. Those had been Arthur’s last words to her and she’d failed him; failed their child.

She stirred in her seat and returned to the present, looking around her, bewildered. Then the memorial rocks swam into view, with their brass plaques and sad little messages. She felt very tired. ‘Can you read them to me, please, Sandy?’

Sandy squatted uncomfortably, his large body obscuring the rocks from her sight. ‘Let’s see… There are some that only have names and dates. I’ll just read the ones with inscriptions.’