Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

Finn thought gratefully of Moss. He would never have defaced this book with the name Amber-Lee.

Moss’s page

Moss took her place at the table and picked up the pen. What would Linsey have thought of all this? For all her sharp edges and volatility, Linsey’s centre was delicate and subtle, and this was something very few understood. When she sang for her mothers, Moss remembered, it was Linsey who felt the music most deeply.

Linsey Anne Brookes, Moss wrote. 1952-2006. Mother of Miranda Ophelia Sinclair.

‘It’s a bit late, Mother Linsey,’ Moss said. ‘But I’m claiming you here-and there’s nothing Aunt Felicity can do about it.’

Ana’s page

When Moss returned to the others, Ana stood up. ‘Sandy has kindly allowed me to write in the book. I lost my father and brother in Kosova,’ she explained. ‘Their bodies were dishonoured and buried in a mass grave. It will give me and my family great joy to honour them here, in a place so close to us.

‘Baba,’ she said, as she prepared to write. ‘And Edvin. You lie in our beloved Kosova, but you are here, too, in our hearts.’

Jetmir Sejka, she wrote. 1954-2000.

Edvin Sejka, 1983-2000.

Sandy’s page

Sandy slipped away upon Ana’s return. He had originally planned this book for his mother, but his new understanding enabled him to think beyond his own needs.

‘I think I got it right this time, Mum,’ he said. ‘It’s way too late to make your life easier, like I should have, but if you’re looking down on us, I hope you approve. The way I supported Dad was shameful, and I wish you weren’t lying together now.’

Rosie Maud Baxter, Sandy wrote. 1922-1974. Mother of Sandy, sister of Lily.

Rest in Peace.

‘You’re safe now, Mum.’

And with the stroke of a pen, he repudiated his mother’s unhappy marriage.

Ana’s uncle was picking her up at seven o’clock, so she and Hamish had to leave Sandy’s place by five thirty. Mrs Pargetter was looking weary, and they offered her a lift. The others stayed to help Sandy tidy up, and Helen agreed to drop Moss and Finn off on her way home.

Sandy stepped outside and cocked his head. The birds were twittering their agitation. He looked up at the sky and came back inside. ‘You’d better get going,’ he urged his guests. ‘It looks as though that storm is finally on its way.’

‘We’ll stay, Sandy,’ said Moss. ‘It won’t take very long to clean up, and it’s only a twenty-minute drive.’

The pearly grey sky had been gradually darkening, and it was now uncompromising basalt; a hard blue-black vault that sucked in the light. The thunder no longer growled in the distance, but tumbled and crashed through the cloud wall in the wake of vivid white lightning.

No rain yet. Mrs Pargetter looked out of the car window, hoping it would rain, but not until she was safe inside. She clutched the box holding her teapot. She’d display it on the piano. She couldn’t possibly use it. It was a sign that her years hadn’t been wasted. She jumped as a new crash of thunder shattered the sky. The air was unbearably oppressive.

‘Here it comes,’ said Hamish as heavy drops starred the windscreen. ‘Thank goodness we’re nearly there.’

Sandy had given them an umbrella, so Hamish was able to usher the old lady inside with some protection, although both their shoes were squelching as they stepped into the hall.

‘Are you sure you’ll be okay, Mrs Pargetter?’ Hamish asked as he turned to leave.

‘Of course, dear. I’ve seen rain before.’ Mrs Pargetter wanted him gone. He was a nice enough lad, but she had things to do.

Hamish ran back to the car, and the old lady took off her wet shoes. Errol padded up the passage to greet her, his old head nuzzling her hand. She ruffled his ears.

‘We’re both getting on, Errol,’ she reflected ruefully as the dog, whimpering a little, returned to his basket. She should mop up the puddle in the hall but she was just too tired. She took off her jacket and switched on the lamp. The pink shade spread a cosy mantle of light, but suddenly she felt a chill and turned on the electric heater. What next? She had something else to do. The teapot. She took it out of the box and put on her reading glasses. To Lily Pargetter, friend of the United Nations … It was nice to have her work recognised. She put the teapot carefully on the table and went over to the piano, removing and folding the green cover. What now? She opened her linen press and took out a box. As she opened it, the faint fragrance of lavender rose from the tissue-paper lining. How long ago had she filled this box with scraps of embroidery and crochet-handiwork of her mother and grandmother, of Rosie and her own young self? She hadn’t used these items for years now, but each year she replaced the dried lavender with the new crop from her garden. She sifted through the contents. There it was-the doily she’d crocheted for her hope chest. So much hope, turning thread into lace. She smoothed the filigreed fragment onto the piano and placed the teapot in the middle. All those tea cosies… and she was behind schedule with next year’s quota.

She crossed the room, picking her way around furniture that suddenly seemed like obstacles. She was patient. Another few minutes wouldn’t matter. Each step was an effort. Such a day. And she was going on eighty-four. No wonder she was tired. She thought longingly of her warm bed and hot water bottle. But there was one more thing to do before the day’s business was over. She had left this most important thing till last.

Lily Pargetter opened the door to the nursery. Errol climbed from his basket and stood sentinel behind her. The teddy bears huddled together on the wallpaper as she slipped into the room. They looked at her with anxious, boot-button eyes.

‘I’m here, Tiger,’ she whispered, holding out her hand. ‘I’m here, little Tiger.’

She felt the touch of a soft palm as tiny fingers curled around hers.

Rain lashed the window and drummed a frenetic beat on the tin roof. The whole world was awash. But it was alright. She could sleep now.

OVER TWO YEARS HAVE PASSED since the Christmas gathering at Sandy’s house. Grey cloudfields stretch to the horizon, washing the rooftops and gardens of Opportunity with intermittent rain. There is an ice-cream van, a hot-doughnut vendor, balloon sellers and coffee tents. The Country Women’s Association is serving Devonshire teas, and the district scouts have organised a sausage sizzle. Coloured umbrellas mushroom among the burgeoning throng who, despite the showers, are all cheerfully determined to enjoy the carnival atmosphere. After all, it’s their day.

Sandy, tree-solid, looks around. He’s at ease with himself. His roots grow deep and wide in the soil of Opportunity. He is standing by the rotunda where he had planted Arthropodium strictum , a fine-stalked purple lily, and Boronia serrulata , the native rose. He sees with satisfaction that they appear to be flourishing.

Helen is talking to Rozafa, who belongs to a shawl-knitting group in Shepparton. It was she who had given Helen the idea.

‘We had eleven people at the initial meeting,’ Helen tells her. ‘We have about twenty now. We’ve sort of adopted Afghanistan and most of them go there.’

‘The old lady-she would be happy, I think?’

‘I’m sure she would.’

Ana comes to fetch her mother, and Helen moves on. Sandy looks up and smiles as she approaches with a young family in tow.

‘You remember Paul, Tom and Nessie’s son? And this is his wife Cate and their children, Charlotte and Julian.’