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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‘You’ve got a new job,’ observed Finn. ‘Who’s looking after the garden?’

‘There aren’t as many of us now,’ Kevin replied. ‘We all have to be-I think they call it multi-skilled.’ He grinned and then looked at Finn soberly. ‘You understand that I’ll have to call Father Jerome.’

‘Of course.’

Kevin left, and Finn sat on the wooden bench waiting for Jerome, who entered some ten minutes later and extended both hands in greeting. The years had not been kind to either of them, and they were both slightly shocked to see how the other had aged.

‘Finn. It’s good to see you,’ the abbot said, raising his hand in blessing. ‘I’m glad to be able to thank you personally for your generosity over the years. You’re always in our prayers, you know.’ He looked at the other man expectantly. ‘So what brings you back to us?’

‘It’s a long story, Father, but the main reason I’m here is that the press found out my story and I can’t face them. Not yet. It was all too sudden.’

Jerome, composed, as always, nodded as Finn went on. ‘I know Moss-the person who tried to help-did what she thought was best, but I was dealing with things in my own way. I was happy-or at least contented-in Opportunity. Now I have the press scrabbling over my life. It’s too much. I’ll have to move on.’

‘What do you want from us?’

‘A few days. A few days to get my head together.’

‘I’ve asked Kevin to make up your old cottage. You know the way. We’ll talk this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, Father Jerome. I can’t tell you how grateful…’

Jerome raised his hand and shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘Remember the virtue of silence,’ he said. And ushered Finn out into the brightness of the new day.

Kevin had left sheets and towels on the bed and some teabags and milk on the bench. Finn smiled to think of the outrage the teabags would beget in Mrs Pargetter’s tea-loving heart. He’d come to like the ritual of making tea in a pot, and he hoped that the three cosies he had in his bag would find homes on a real teapot. He was sure that Boniface, at least, wouldn’t countenance teabags.

He showered and lay on top of the bed, willing sleep. Although he hadn’t slept much the night before, his eyes remained wide open and gritty. Sighing, he got up and decided to take a walk in the grounds.

Matins was finished, and the monastery’s workday had begun. He wandered over to the vegie patch, noticing the large water tanks that had been installed. He ran his hands over one smooth wall. Water was a problem all over the country.

There were a few weeds in the garden, and despite the fact that he was dressed in a good shirt and jeans, he knelt down and began to pull them out. He was so absorbed in the task that he didn’t hear Kevin’s approaching footsteps.

‘Nice to have you back, Finn,’ the monk said, and they worked in silence until the next bell called Kevin to prayer.

Finn sat back on his heels and looked at his hands. They were a good deal tougher than the first time he’d worked in this garden. He began to miss his own little vegie patch back in Opportunity, and the thought that he would have to start all over again somewhere else depressed him. He felt petulant and resentful. Hadn’t he given up enough? How long would it be before his dues would be considered paid? But he wasn’t thinking of leaving Opportunity because of the press. He knew that in a few days some new titillation would send them baying after another victim and all he needed to do was stick it out. What he couldn’t bear to think about was the contempt in the eyes of his friends and neighbours now that his culpability had been exposed. He shook himself and reached for a dandelion. He liked the satisfaction of pulling out the long taproots. But he stopped mid-motion, and his hand fell onto his knee. He was so weary; too weary to bother. Stretching his back, he stood up and returned to his cottage where he fell into a troubled sleep.

He awoke in time for lunch and ate in silence as the reader intoned the Acts of the Apostles. They certainly don’t try to entertain , Finn thought as he fought off the soporific effects of the droning voice. He looked around the table. All but two of the faces were familiar, but there were several missing. Where was Boniface? Not seeing him in his usual place, Finn looked around with increasing concern. Perhaps he was working in the kitchen today? Kevin said that they all needed to multi-task, but surely a man of that age wouldn’t be made to peel potatoes? Perhaps he was… Finn wouldn’t allow himself to finish this thought and tried to speak to Father Timothy, who frowned and shook his head. The Rule demands silence , his look said, and Finn lowered his eyes to his soup.

‘Where’s Boniface?’ he asked as he caught up with Kevin in the cloisters.

‘He’s not well, Finn. He’s nearly ninety, you know. You really need to speak to Father Jerome.’

So when Finn met with Jerome later that day, his first question was about Boniface.

‘He’s not himself, Finbar,’ Jerome replied, his eyes sombre.

‘Is he sick? Can I see him?’ Finn’s dread was manifested in the fast beating of his heart, the nausea that gripped his gut.

‘He’s not himself,’ Jerome repeated. ‘I can take you to him now, but be warned: he probably won’t know you.’

The abbot led Finn to the infirmary. Pallid sunlight filtered through the curtains to reveal an old man lying between snowy sheets. A nimbus of silver hair framed his face, where a scaffold of bones betrayed his mortality. He lay still, his milky blue eyes open but confused.

‘Is that John?’ he quavered. ‘I’ve lost John.’

Finn was puzzled. ‘Who’s John?’

He is,’ replied Jerome, stroking the frail old hand. ‘When he came here nearly seventy years ago, he was John. He’s been Boniface all these years, but now…’ The abbot shrugged helplessly. ‘He still prays. I pray with him when I can.’ Hiding his emotion in busyness, Jerome straightened the sheet around the old priest’s chin. ‘He was an eminent theologian, you know.’

Finn expressed surprise.

‘An eminent theologian,’ the priest reiterated. ‘His book On the Humanity of Christ is still used in theology courses. He was Abbot before me. I remember when I came here to take his place: he was so happy, Finbar-his face was truly alight with joy. He hated being Abbot, although he carried out his duties conscientiously, as you might imagine. He carried them humbly, as God’s burden. His burden is sweet and His yoke is light -that was what Boniface used to say.’

Jerome murmured a blessing and turned to go. ‘Finbar, Boniface was blessed with a fine intellect, but all he really wanted was a life of prayer. Less prestige, maybe, but a powerful example to us all.’

‘Do you mind if I stay with him for a while?’ Finn asked.

‘Of course. We can talk tonight.’

Finn looked down in pity as Boniface clawed at the sheets, calling again and again, ‘John? Is that you, John?’

‘It’s Finn, Father Boniface-Finbar Clancy. I guess you don’t remember me,’ he said wistfully. ‘You were my spiritual mentor many years ago. I worked with Kevin in the garden. Remember? I killed a girl with my car. You told me I’d find answers.’ Finn was floundering, trying to elicit some recognition of their former relationship. He sighed, and held the fragile old hand. It felt light and insubstantial, with fine, brittle bones bundled under tissue-paper skin. The hand was bruised, and he held it gently, fearing that further purple blooms would grow under the slightest pressure.

Boniface looked at Finn. ‘You’re not John. You’re too tall,’ he accused. ‘I have to find John before I go.’ He became confiding. ‘I think they’ve sent him to Rome. Can you check for me? They won’t tell me anything,’ he said, now aggrieved.

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