Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

What more did he want of life? Why was he so reluctant to let go of the corrosive remorse he’d nurtured over the years? It had seen him retreat from the world and from all his former attachments, living a monkish existence in a forgotten country town. But life has a way of continuing. He’d formed new attachments. Not because he sought them, but because he lived in a real place with real people, all of whom demanded time and respect. He could live a hermit’s life like Jim, a contemplative life like the Benedictines, or he could live, an imperfect man in an imperfect world.

Back at his camp now he squatted on his heels in front of the fire. He pushed a twig into the coals and touched the spark to his cigarette. This is who I am , he thought. This is who I can be.

Finn had sloughed off his old skin, but the new skin was still raw and tender. He didn’t feel ready to return to Opportunity. This reborn Finn was not a return to the old Michael. Michael Clancy was a person Finn looked back on as he might a naive younger brother or a feckless but charming friend: with affection and a little regret.

The old Finn, trapped in his self-imposed penance, was still too recent, too ingrained to be discarded lightly, and remained as a shadow of the possible future. The new Finn needed time to grow into his skin.

He decided then to linger a while by the Two Speck, walking the five kilometres to Tungally pub each day for a meal. There he could mix a bit with the locals or the passing truckies who stopped for lunch on their way to or from Melbourne. Strangers wouldn’t ask difficult questions; even if they did, he owed them no answer.

For two weeks he was a familiar sight at the bar, eating his counter lunch or drinking his Coke. Once or twice, a truckie stopped to give him a lift, but mostly he was content to walk. The locals were curious, but the first conversations he had were the general conversations of strangers passing the time.

G’day, mate. Where you from, then?

Camping on the Two Speck, eh?

What about the Magpies? Can they win without Johnson?

No bloody rain in sight, eh?

Fuckin’ politicians haven’t got a clue, mate.

You don’t have a beer, then?

Later, the conversations became more specific and personal.

Me daughter’s gone to Melbourne for work. Nothin’ for her here, mate. You got kids?

So what do you do for a crust? Maths, eh? Wasn’t much good at maths meself. Me son’s an accountant, but. Since he moved to town we don’t see the grandkiddies much.

I can last one more season, I reckon. Poor old Dad’ll turn in his grave if we’re forced to sell.

I applied for a country school. I love it here, but we’re running out of kids. It’ll close in two years if we don’t get more families.

You don’t fancy pulling on the boots, do you? No, we’ve got older blokes than you in the team, I reckon.

Finn listened to them all; all the concerns of ordinary lives, all the same, yet all unique. He offered something of himself in return.

I moved from Melbourne to Opportunity about ten years ago.

Yeah, I like the country life.

No, never played for the Knockers.

A daughter. She comes and stays with me sometimes.

No. No grandkids.

He wasn’t so different. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would return.

One morning he woke up and knew it was time. Methodically, he began to gather his things, taking care to collect his rubbish in a plastic bag, which he stowed in his backpack. Finally, he doused the fire with river water and smothered it with earth. With one last look at Jim’s disintegrating shack, he swung the pack lightly over his shoulder and set off downriver, back to Opportunity. He suddenly wanted, more than anything, to be home for Christmas.

WHILE FINN CAMPED OUT ON the Two Speck, Sandy had been very busy. He spent nearly three weeks in Melbourne, visiting printers and art suppliers, poring over manuscripts, testing the quality of the softest leather. He learned about gold leaf, and explored the mysteries of the labyrinth. The Great Galah faded to nothing. Sandy Sandilands had a new plan, and this time it was shared. He and Helen had talked long into the night about a suitable new project to replace the Great Galah.

‘What we need is something that not only honours Mum’s memory, but which Opportunity can be proud of.’ These were the simple specifications they had discussed over pasta and a bottle of cab sav in Sandy’s kitchen. The discussion was animated. Helen had even risked teasing Sandy a little about the Great Galah and was pleased to see that he was able to laugh along with her. Something has happened to Sandy , she thought, looking at his affable grin. Even his body seemed more solid; the soft, sprawling flesh gathered in and disciplined as he sat with his shoulders back and his chin high.

So Sandy went to Melbourne and Helen stayed in Opportunity. There was a lot of work to be done. Before he left Melbourne, Sandy collected an order from the workshop of a master craftsman.

‘It’s first rate,’ Sandy said simply. ‘I hadn’t imagined anything so… fine.’

‘Thank you for the opportunity, Mr Sandilands,’ the man replied. ‘I have to say, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.’ He touched the leather in a final tribute and reluctantly began to wrap it. ‘I really hate to let it go.’ Sandy looked alarmed, but the other man shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, mate. I can’t afford to keep it.’

As he drove home, Sandy also felt the need to touch the parcel several times. Having no artistic talent himself, he was in awe of the beauty that flowered under other, more skilful hands.

Meanwhile, Hamish booked into the Opportunity Hotel again and began his work on the project. He had been slumped in front of his computer when Sandy rang, and had listened with increasing interest to the big man’s proposal.

‘So, if you’d like to go and work with Helen, I’ll catch up with you in a couple of weeks. Could you have something ready for me to look at by, say, the second week of December? And a ball-park quote?’

Hamish was only too happy to comply. Here was the major project he’d been seeking-and he was going to be paid! He began to pack, gleefully throwing an assortment of clothes and textbooks into his backpack. Then he stopped. Sandy was gambling a large amount of money, not to mention his reputation, on the skills of an inexperienced student. Hamish prided himself on his integrity. He couldn’t let Sandy run away with another idea that might come to grief, so he picked up the phone. ‘Sandy,’ he said. ‘I know how important this is to you, but you have to remember, I’m still just a student. You need someone with qualifications. Someone who’s done this kind of thing before.’

Sandy was firm. ‘No, Hamish. What I need is someone with passion and a fresh vision. Someone who knows Opportunity. I think you fit the bill nicely.’

There was much discussion at the bar and the supermarket about what Helen Porter and that young Hamish were doing as they wandered around town, heads bent over notebooks, taking photographs and measuring all manner of things (they even had a theodolite). They spent a lot of time at Helen’s too, it was noted.

Tom Ferguson didn’t trust Sandy one bit. ‘If it’s that galah thing again, by the living Harry I’ll…’ He stopped. He couldn’t think of a punishment horrible enough.

Cocky chuckled into his beer. ‘You tell ’im, Tom.’

‘Marl reckons Helen’s sweet on him,’ Merv offered.

‘Helen sweet on that young bloke? Give us a break, Merv. She’s twice his age and not exactly an oil painting.’ Milo D’Amico, sensing he’d gone too far, back-pedalled as fast as he could. ‘Don’t get me wrong. Helen’s a lovely woman. Salt of the earth-it’s just the age difference…’