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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‘What made you decide on the harp?’ Linsey was enjoying a vision of Amy, in a deep-blue silk gown, playing her harp, looking for all the world like one of God’s own angels. She was already planning to offer her spare room as a practice studio.

‘Well, there was this old lady next door. I used to do bits and pieces for her, you know, shopping and such. Mum wouldn’t let me take any money from her, so she offered to teach me the harp instead. When she moved into a nursing home, she gave the harp to me. Mrs Hirschfield, her name was. A nice old lady. She always wore a black velvet band around her hair, like a little girl.’

Linsey lived in a fine old house left to her by her Aunt Shirley, the widow of ‘Flash Jack’ Mitchell, the extruded-plastic-pipe magnate. Of course Aunt Shirley never called him ‘Flash Jack’. She always referred to him as ‘dear-John-God-rest-his-soul’. And well she might. He left her over two million dollars and no children to share it with. After a short period of mourning, Aunt Shirley blonded her greying hair and dedicated herself to spending the lot. I’m sure it’s what dear-John-God-rest-his-soul would have wanted , she explained prettily as she watched the roulette wheel spin. Fortunately for Linsey, however, Aunt Shirley died of food poisoning after eating some dodgy oysters in Marrakech, leaving her niece with a very nice house, a red MGB and a comfortable number of blue-chip shares.

Two weeks after their dinner, it was to this house that Linsey welcomed Amy as they extracted the harp from Amy’s battered Corolla. If she winced a little at the drink bottles, fast-food cartons, magazines, tissues and indeterminate articles of clothing strewn carelessly around the small car, Linsey was hardly aware of it, so pleased was she to play benefactor.

‘You can use this,’ she said, opening the door to a small well-lit room, sparsely furnished with two ladder-backed chairs, a small table and a music stand. She was particularly pleased with the music stand, which she’d found at a local antiques market. She smiled at Amy and her wide-armed gesture seemed to take in the whole house. ‘I hope this is suitable. You’re welcome to come at any time.’

Amy was delighted, of course, and took Linsey at her word. Linsey often came into the small music room and stood quietly by the door as Amy played. She looked so graceful and serious as she stroked and plucked the strings, and Linsey gratefully drank in the serenity that seemed to enfold both music and musician. Often, though, she would find Amy just sitting, hands folded in her lap, looking dreamily out onto the garden.

‘Play some more,’ Linsey would say, and receive a smile of surpassing sweetness as Amy obediently returned to her music.

It wasn’t long before Amy began to stay the night, and gradually evidence of her claim on the house appeared in scattered items of clothing, sheet music, makeup, and long blonde hairs in the bathroom. Grumbling a little, Linsey would restore the house to its normal order, but each time Amy returned, chaos followed. It was only in comparison to Linsey’s pathological neatness that such a strong word as ‘chaos’ could be used to describe Amy’s cheerful mess. But one day, when a stressed Linsey flung this word (and a good many others) at the untidy Amy, it provided not only the cause of their first quarrel but, oddly enough, the catalyst for Amy to move in permanently. Following her impatient outburst, Linsey watched in horror as her lover’s blue eyes filled with tears and her sensuous mouth trembled.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Amy with an air of dignified grievance. ‘I’ll just get my harp and music. I won’t bother you again.’

Appalled at the thought of losing her, Linsey petted and cajoled, wept and apologised, until Amy allowed her to kiss away the tears and lead her to the bedroom.

Lying in the quiet embrace that follows passion, Linsey turned and looked at her lover. ‘Don’t go tomorrow,’ she said simply. ‘Stay with me. I love you.’

Amy kissed the tense mouth and delicately traced its perimeter with her finger. ‘I love you too, Linny. I have to go tomorrow, but if you really want me, I’ll be back. As soon as I can, I promise. I just need to organise my things.’

It took nearly two weeks, but Linsey finally found herself being introduced to the Sinclair family as Amy’s housemate.

‘Linsey’s a bit scared, living alone in such a big house,’ Amy explained. ‘The rent’s very cheap and I can practise my harp as often as I want.’ She hugged her doubtful father. Her mother, usually undemonstrative, squeezed Amy’s shoulder as she helped her load the last box into the car.

‘You can always come home if it doesn’t work out,’ she said. ‘Although she seems like a nice young woman. Here, I made you some almond biscuits. You always say they’re your favourite.’

Amy hugged her mother as she took the biscuit tin. She noticed it was the one with Edinburgh Castle on the lid. She and her brothers used to make up stories about that castle. Her mother had already given her some towels and sheets (single-bed), but the tin and the biscuits came laden with obligation and love. She ate all the biscuits herself; it would have felt like a betrayal to share them with Linsey.

Before meeting Linsey, Amy had drifted in and out of relationships without ever becoming emotionally engaged. Her tendency to prattle masked an essential inertness that allowed her life to ebb and flow at the will of others. Good-natured but mentally and emotionally lazy, she relied on beauty and charm to smooth the creases from her life, and when thwarted, her natural response was a passive aggression that drove its target to tears of frustration. Curiously, at this stage she often simply gave in, as though even witnessing such passion was more than she could be bothered with.

In Linsey, Amy found stability and a generous wholeheartedness lacking in her other relationships. She liked being admired not just for her beauty but for her talent. It wasn’t inertia that made her stay. In a world where sexual norms would brook no divergence, Amy was uncertain of who she was. And it was with Linsey she felt valued.

They settled into a life of pleasant domesticity until one deceptively bland evening when Linsey came home from visiting her sister, Felicity, who had recently given birth to her second child.

‘You should have seen her, Amy. She has this little round face with a funny pointy chin. I swear she smiled at me. Felicity says it’s just wind, but she was looking straight at me. And Toby calls her Pippa. He can’t say Phillipa.’ Linsey sat down and continued: ‘I really didn’t want to hand her back. Look, I stopped at Baby World on the way home and bought her this.’ She scrabbled in her bag and produced a tiny navy-blue voile dress.

At the sight of the dress, Amy became interested. ‘Gorgeous, Linny. I might get her a little hat to match. What do you think?’ And they spent a pleasant half-hour discussing baby clothes and their favourite childhood books and toys.

In the days that followed, Linsey’s amorphous need for love took shape. A tiny phantom hand gripped her finger and drew her on to seek information, which she diligently garnered before making her approach. Was she insane to risk this relationship to further a dream that she wasn’t sure Amy would share? She wasn’t blind to her partner’s faults and knew that a child would encroach upon Amy’s fundamental lassitude. On the other hand, she hoped-no, knew- that a child would bring them closer together, would provide the key to the store of love Amy surely possessed.

One evening, Amy sat languidly on the verandah, sipping a glass of wine. She was in one of her pensive moods, staring out at the summer rain that plashed softly on the warm earth and spangled the velvety petals of Aunt Shirley’s roses. Linsey poured herself a glass of wine and hesitated before sitting down beside her.

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