Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

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Life is full of loose ends. Some are merely dusty cobwebs of regret that hang limp and forgotten in the shadowy corners of our past, others are the barbed rusty wires of unfinished business that bind and constrict even the most mundane aspects of our existence. In her debut novel Tess Evans delves into the tangled lives of her characters and explores the unresolved baggage that they must each unpack in order to move on with their lives.
The Book of Lost Threads opens on a wet winter’s night. Moss has just arrived at the doorstep of Finn Clancy, the man she believes to be her father and she is seeking answers. Finn, however, is not immediately inclined to provide them. Immersed in guilt and self pity he has forged a life for himself in the fictional Victorian town of Opportunity. Drawn to fellow lost souls Mrs Lily Pargetter and her nephew Sandy, he has eked out a life attempting to atone for his past sins, both real and imagined.
Moss’s appearance jars the fragile rhythm of his life and kick starts a series of events that affect not only the novel’s four main characters, but also the entire town. Moss, Finn, Mrs Pargetter and Sandy have all been touched by tragedy, and all have developed their own individual coping strategies. Moss denies her talents, Finn retreats into silence, Sandy makes plans for a town memorial, the ‘Great Galah’ and Mrs Pargetter knits – she has been steadily making tea cosies for the United Nations for thirty five years.
With a delicate but deft touch their individual and collective stories are carefully teased out and examined. Tess Evans recently wrote that the Book of Lost Threads begins with a question which, once answered, gives rise to a train of further questions and answers. Its strongest moments are in the stories of Finn, Mrs Pargetter and Sandy. Finn is crippled by the results of one drunken night’s thoughtless actions and Mrs Pargetter struggles with the consequences of horrendous personal loss. Sandy is weakened by a lifetime of failure to stand up to his bullying father. Even his voice is constricted, sounding ‘as though it were being forced out from somewhere high in the throat.’ He is initially a feeble, unattractive character who finally gains strength when he confronts his own demons, for it is only then that his innate kindness can shine through.
Moss’s struggle is perhaps the least convincing of the four, but this is largely because her loss and subsequent regret are only recent and have not warped her beyond recognition – I would have liked even more of her story. In contrast, Finn feels his tragedy is so all consuming that ‘the person he was… no longer existed’, Moss is the catalyst for the others to find resolution and for them to become whole and balanced individuals. It is through her that the lost threads of the title, all of the loose ends and unfinished tales, are woven into a rich tapestry of meaning – although all four characters contribute to each of the other’s healing and growth.
The Book of Lost Threads is Tess Evan’s first novel. She is a Melbourne author who has also written many short stories and poems. Her previous experience in the TAFE system, where she taught and counselled a wide range of people of all ages, professions and life experience, is clearly reflected in the depth of her work. The lyrical writing makes it deceptively accessible, but it is far more than a light easy read. The complexities of the themes and characters are attributes of a much deeper work, one that lingers in the imagination. I would recommend it to anyone seeking a thoughtful exploration of the gentle power of humanity.

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This expectation proved to be optimistic. Preparing to write his letter, he booted up his computer only to find his inbox full of outraged emails castigating him for the folly of the Great Galah. The majority were from residents of the Cradletown district, accusing him of everything from environmental vandalism to money laundering. He was bemused to see that one H.T. Fairbanks of Burton-on-Waters, Oxfordshire, thought him a ‘cloth-eared dolt’, and that the Secretary of the Friends of the Galah was outraged at his money-grubbing exploitation of defenceless wildlife. But the one from Helen Porter hurt the most. Sandy , it said, you can’t possibly go on with this galah thing. I did warn you. We’ll be a laughing stock.

A lesser man would not have read them all, but Sandy did. Or almost did. He only had a dozen or so to go when he heard noises in his drive and looked out the window to see a small, determined group of his neighbours, armed with placards, marching up to his door.

They stopped short of the verandah and began their chant. ‘ What do we want? Dump the Galah. When do we want it? Now.

’ Unperturbed, the resident galahs continued to tear at the wooden shed while Sandy peered out from behind his blinds. The decision to abandon his project was suddenly replaced by anger. Who were these people to tell him what to do? Scratching around in the dirt all day, knee-deep in animal shit; losers, the lot of them. He was a Sandilands and, as such, worthy of respect. Deference, even. He’d show those tree-hugging do-gooders a thing or two. Striding into the hall, he was stopped short by the sight of his father in the hall mirror-the same livid purple, the same arrogant features, the same small, rage-filled eyes. He found himself shaking, whether in anger or fear he wasn’t sure. Then his aunt’s voice echoed in his head: You are not your father , Sandy. Not your father . No, he wasn’t. He stood, breathing deeply, until the last of his anger was exorcised and the face in the mirror became his own benign full moon.

Meanwhile, two people detached themselves from the crowd outside and approached the door. They were obviously spokespersons for the group. Knocking loudly, they were startled at the sudden appearance of their quarry, who was, in fact, coming out to meet them.

‘We are here,’ said Tom Ferguson, regaining his composure with admirable speed, ‘we are here to demand that you give up your plans for the building of the Great Galah.’

Sandy opened his mouth, but was firmly silenced as Freda D’Amico waved a bundle of papers at him. ‘This is a petition to go to council. It has over five hundred signatures already and-’ she glared at him darkly-‘and I promise you, there-will-be-more!’

‘Well, okay,’ said Sandy.

‘Okay what?’ asked Tom.

‘Okay, I won’t build it.’

‘You won’t build it?’

‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

The two leaders looked confused, then aggrieved. ‘That’s it?’ said Tom.

‘Yes. If there’s nothing else…?’

‘Just a mo’.’

Tom and Freda returned to the waiting crowd, and the group conferred briefly. They all stood looking at each other, not sure what to do next. This was just Plan A. They had other, perfectly good plans ready to go-Plans B, C, D and, for some of the more radical among them, Plan E.

‘We’ll be off then, Sandy,’ Ned Humphries finally called out. It was nearly milking time. They headed back to their utes and four-wheel drives feeling a little cheated. Freda left her sign, NO GREAT GALAH, as a reminder in case Sandy reneged. The resident galahs soon took care of that, and a few days later it read O G. Still, as Freda maintained, it served its purpose.

Sandy chuckled as he wrote his letter to the council. ‘That took the wind out of their sails,’ he muttered. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.

He was printing out the letter the next morning when there was a knock at the door. It was Helen Porter, her hastily pinned-up hair falling as usual in untidy tendrils. Sandy wasn’t surprised to see Helen. They’d known each other since primary school, and her mother, Minnie, had been Rosie’s close friend. Until Sandy went to boarding school, they used to play together while their mothers took a break in their busy farm lives to enjoy tea and scones on Minnie’s verandah.

Helen’s instincts had always been to protect Sandy. Her mother had referred to him as that poor wee lad , and Helen knew more about his family than he ever imagined. By the time Sandy had returned to Opportunity from university, Helen was married; she had been widowed now for fifteen years. She remained Sandy’s friend despite the fact that he sometimes disappointed her, and she encouraged him in his better ideas, like the Memorial Park project. As he motioned her in the door, she looked at him with concern.

‘Freda told me you’ve given up the Great Galah,’ she said, taking off her anorak and peering into his face. ‘Are you okay? You know I advised against it right from the start, but I guess you’re feeling pretty disappointed.’ She patted his arm and was surprised to see something like glee in his eyes.

As they shared a cup of tea, Sandy told her the story of the aborted protest.

‘I can just imagine Tom huffing and puffing,’ she chortled. ‘And Freda-did she bring along that awful husband of hers?’

The conversation had moved on to more general matters when Sandy leaned forward. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘I need a replacement for the Great Galah. I still want to do something for Opportunity.’ He gave a small, deprecating gesture. ‘I want it to be something for my mother, too. Something beautiful-I want to give her something beautiful.’

Helen nodded sympathetically. She had strong memories of the red-faced man with bullying shoulders and, beside him, the pale, pretty woman with defeated eyes. ‘How can I help, Sandy?’

‘I need an idea-and someone to talk it over with.’ He grinned. ‘My last idea had a few rough edges. I need someone like you-no, I need you to keep me on track.’ His grin faded, replaced by an uncharacteristic humility. ‘I don’t have many friends here and you’ve always been so nice…’

Helen took his hand and wondered at his honesty . Sandy’s a strange mixture , she thought. But this could be worth doing . ‘We’ll plan something wonderful for your mother and for Opportunity,’ she said. ‘What about you make me a sandwich and we’ll begin right away.’ Helen Porter was a practical woman.

20Finn and Boniface

A D MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM . AFTER driving through the night with Sandy, Finn found himself standing once again at the wrought-iron gates of Our Lady of Sorrows monastery, this time seeking refuge from the press.

‘Do you want me to wait?’ Sandy had fussed and worried the whole way and was clearly reluctant to leave his charge standing at a locked gate.

Through his haze, Finn noted that technology had come to the monastery and there was now an intercom instead of a bell. ‘It’s okay, Sandy,’ said Finn as he pressed the button. ‘I have friends here.’

The porter’s eerily disembodied voice came through the speaker. ‘Brother Kevin here. How can I help you?’

‘Kevin. It’s Finn, mate. Please let me in. I need to come in.’

‘Finn? Finn Clancy? Just a tick, mate.’

The gates slid open. Finn was sure that they had swung open on his first visit. He hastily shook hands with Sandy and almost ran into their embrace. ‘I’ll contact you in a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Tell Moss and Mrs Pargetter not to worry: I’ll be safe here.’

Kevin came down the path to meet him and led him back to the porter’s room. It was as clean and sparsely furnished as Finn remembered, and Kevin had changed little in the ten years since they last met. He began to relax. This place had been a constant in his memory, and some part of him had always dwelt behind these worn stone walls. He felt like a child returning home.

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