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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Meg was tired of it all and decided to tell the truth. She wasn’t on TV now. ‘Look, her mother was hopeless, from what I hear. My mum always said she wouldn’t stick. They were sisters, but I don’t think they were that close.’

‘And her father? You said he was dead?’

‘Yes. He died of some liver disease. He took to the drink after they left.’

‘What was he like?’

‘A good bloke, really. Always nice to me and my brother. He wasn’t a violent drunk or anything like that. He just got sad. Looked a lot older than his age. He sort of collapsed in on himself, if you know what I mean.’

‘When did he die?’

‘A few years ago now. Let’s see, my youngest had just started school… Yes, about four years ago.’

‘And he never saw Jilly again.’

‘No. He never did.’

Finn absentmindedly topped up their teacups. When he spoke, his voice was low. ‘I wanted to find out who she was. I always have. I know what the coroner said, but I have to tell you, I was responsible for her death.’ He leaned forward to emphasise his argument. ‘Who knows? She might have got home to see her father, somehow. I cut her off from that possibility.’ He looked at her, his features hard with misery. ‘You must hate me, now that you know.’

Meg shook her head. ‘Why should I hate you? My cousin ran out in front of your car. She died. That’s it.’

‘I expected you to be angry. To be grieving.’

‘Look, I was eight when she left. She was really nothing to me. I just came out because the TV people offered to pay. That’s why I came in with you just now. They wanted me to abuse you and cry but I can’t. I’m not a bloody actress.’

Finn was shattered. He’d been about to say how sorry he was, how he wanted to make up for the harm he’d done. It would have been better if she had abused him. He would still say sorry, but he knew in his heart that she couldn’t offer the absolution he craved. It could only come from someone who cared for Jilly Baker. With her father dead, there was no-one alive who could restore Finn to a state of grace. He knew her name, but redemption was still beyond his grasp.

‘I’m sorry, anyway.’

‘Yeah. Well, it was a long time ago…’

Meg left the house and faced the camera. ‘I’m too emotional to speak for long,’ she said. ‘I just want to say that Jilly will always be in my heart. Now that I’ve seen where she died, and spoken to the driver, I’m content.’ ( I’m getting better at this , she thought as she paused on the steps.) ‘And now,’ she dabbed her eyes, ‘if you don’t mind, I need some time to myself.’

Which she took at the Seahorse Hotel, Palm Beach, on the far north coast. The swimmers she’d brought from home made her look hippy so she bought new ones. The new ones looked much better.

When the film crew were finished and had adjourned to the pub, Sandy, encouraged by his aunt, called out at Finn’s back door.

‘Finn, it’s Sandy. Can I come in, mate?’ He pushed at the door, fully expecting it to be open as usual. The door stayed stubbornly shut. Of course! Sandy realised. He’d want to keep out the TV crew . He tried again. ‘It’s me, mate. The door’s locked.’

‘Go away.’

‘Just checking how you are. You are okay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure?’

‘Go away, Sandy.’

Sandy returned to his aunt’s house. ‘He won’t let me in, Aunt Lily. He sounded sort of down. I’m worried. Should we leave him alone?’ Disquieted, they looked at each other. They’d both experienced depression and knew the thoughts that arose in times of darkness.

‘I’ll go back,’ said Sandy in response to Mrs Pargetter’s unspoken command, and he headed up the path again, to the front door this time, feeling for the key hidden under the loose verandah board. This decisive action surprised him. The incident with Aunt Lily, his mother’s journals and the Great Galah protest had served to slough off the fears that had encased him, and from this unpromising chrysalis there emerged a man that even he was beginning to respect.

‘I’m coming in, Finn,’ he announced as he turned the key in the lock. ‘We need to talk.’

Finn was slumped in the armchair by the fire. He didn’t move or speak as Sandy came in, switched on the light and sat down in the chair opposite.

‘Talk to me, Finn,’ said Sandy, looking at him steadily. ‘Talk to me. I’m your mate.’

Finn stared at the wall and drew hard on his cigarette. All he’d ever asked was to be left alone, and now it seemed he’d acquired the obligations of a friendship he’d never sought from a man whose ambition it was to build a giant galah. He didn’t want to talk; he wasn’t even sure he could articulate his pain. He continued to stare resentfully at a point somewhere above Sandy’s head.

With new-found wisdom, the usually garrulous Sandy sat challenging Finn’s silence with his own. Finn was more practised, but with enormous self-control his visitor remained determinedly mute, waiting him out.

‘She didn’t care about her cousin, you know,’ Finn said finally. ‘It was all about the money. Even the police won’t absolutely confirm her identity.’

‘Are you convinced she was Jilly Baker?’

‘Of course. That’s obvious to any idiot.’

‘So what’s the problem? Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Finn shook his head in irritation. ‘Yes, of course I did. But I also wanted her to have a caring family. People to mourn her.’

‘That’s not going to happen, Finn.’ Sandy’s voice was firm. ‘You’ll just have to accept that and get on with your life.’

Finn fought to contain his anger. He stood up and looked down at the seated man. ‘You’re presuming on our friendship, Sandy. I want you to get out of my house. Now.’

‘I’ll go. But before I do, think about this. You have a daughter who cares for you and an old lady who relies on you.’ Sandy stood up and indicated his own broad chest. ‘You have someone who’s willing to risk losing his only friend to tell him the truth.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s time to move on, Finn. I know what it’s like to be stuck in the past. You have what you say you’ve always wanted. Be grateful. All the rest is just self-indulgence.’ With some dignity, Sandy turned and opened the door. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ Heading down the path, he heard the decisive click of the lock behind him.

‘I don’t think he’s in any immediate danger, Aunt Lily,’ Sandy reported. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll give Moss a call.’

Finn, meanwhile, had returned to his chair, shocked at Sandy’s outburst. Self-indulgent . That was so undeserved. Was it self-indulgent to care about the fate of another human being? Was it self-indulgent to accept blame where blame was due? Sandy may have had his own epiphany, but he, Finn, would always be bound by the past. No-one could say he hadn’t tried to lay Jilly Baker to rest.

He stopped himself there as an unpleasant truth presented itself. He had tried to do so for the first few weeks after the accident but then he’d just given up. It was Moss who’d tried to uncover the truth. Even the TV people had tried, whatever their motives were. He, Finn, had given up. Through this fog of self-loathing, the memory of an old man’s voice echoed in his head. Boniface had never given up on him.

Look into your heart, Finn. That’s all the help I can offer.

It’s not easy, Father Boniface. I’m not sure I know how.

Your Silence. How do you spend your Silence?

I fear I may have squandered my Silence, Father.

Squandered?

I used the time to relive my guilt.

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