Book of Lost Threads (36 page)

‘I must stand to accept this honour,’ Lily Pargetter said. ‘Finn, help me up.’

Ana presented the old lady with the box, shaking her hand before kissing her on the cheek. ‘You’ve been an inspiration to more people than you can imagine, Mrs Pargetter, me included.’

Lily Pargetter’s hands shook as she sat down and attempted to prise away the seal. Moss knelt down to help her, as the others crowded round with their congratulations. The seal was broken, and the box opened to reveal straw packing. Cradled in the straw, shining softly in the lamplight, was a silver teapot.

‘There’s something engraved on the front,’ said Sandy. ‘What does it say?’

Overcome, Mrs Pargetter thrust the teapot into Moss’s hands. ‘Read it for me, will you please, dear? It’s very small—I can’t quite make it out.’

Moss stood up and read: ‘
To Lily Pargetter, friend of the
United Nations and mentor of a grateful Lusala Ngilu
.’ The little group looked at each other. ‘Wait. There’s more. There’s the emblem with the olive branches and more words
. Reaffirming
faith in the dignity and worth of the human person
.’

‘That’s from the Preamble to the Charter,’ said Ana, and they all fell silent.

Lily Pargetter’s eyes began to fill. ‘I’m not up to a speech,’ she murmured. ‘Just . . . thank you, dear. And thank the quartermaster from the bottom of my heart.’

‘A toast,’ said Sandy. ‘To Aunt Lily and the United Nations.’

Mrs Pargetter raised her glass. ‘And to Quartermaster Ngilu and all of you here.’

‘Could be in for some rain,’ observed Hamish as they sat down. The window looked out on indigo clouds, which had been massing on the horizon all day. Uneasy thunder slunk through the distant cloud-mountains, but overhead the sky was brushed with a lucent grey. There was an evanescent quality to the light that drained some colours, while others stood out in sharp relief.

‘It’ll be a while yet,’ said Sandy. ‘That’s if it comes at all. Drought clouds are a bit like mirages. They look like the real thing, but . . .’ He picked up his father’s old carving knife and, beaming in an avuncular way, began to carve the turkey while Helen, slightly flustered, passed around the vegetables.

‘There are two gravy boats,’ she fussed. ‘Bother! I left one in the kitchen.’ She bustled out to get it, tucking her hair behind her ears.

‘Whatever’s the matter with Helen?’ Mrs Pargetter asked. ‘She’s usually cool as a cucumber. Must be the heat,’ she murmured, dabbing at the perspiration on her upper lip. She was wearing a new white cotton blouse with a lace inset. She hoped it wouldn’t end up all stained under the arms. Not very ladylike.

The others nodded. The air was oppressive and the barometer on the wall in Sandy’s study signalled change to an empty room. There was a feeling of controlled anticipation among the diners, who did their best to engage in light conversation. A little inhibited by Ana’s presence, Sandy’s old friends were careful to keep the discussion to generalities, courteously including her as much as possible.

Finn looked quizzically at Hamish and Ana, but made no comment. He’d never been as convinced as Mrs Pargetter about the existence of a romance between Hamish and Moss, and he continued to eat in silence. His attention was drawn to Helen, who was talking to their host in a low voice. Finn had come to consider Sandy a confirmed bachelor like himself, and was put out by the sudden thought that Helen and Sandy might be a couple. He confided his suspicions to Moss in a whisper. ‘What do you think?’

‘Hard to tell,’ she replied. ‘From what I hear, they’ve certainly been spending a lot of time together lately.’

It wasn’t until tea and coffee were served that Sandy finally stood up and called for silence. Finn supplemented his host’s ineffectual voice by tapping on a glass.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ Sandy began. ‘And thank you once again to Ana for her presentation. I called you all together originally to make an announcement.’ He paused for effect. ‘I want you to know that I’ve purchased the site of the Opportunity footy ground.’

Finn, Moss and Mrs Pargetter looked at each other in horror. They’d all thought the bizarre project had been put to rest, but once again the shadow of a gigantic galah was flapping across their landscape.

Mrs Pargetter was the first to gather her wits. ‘You promised, Sandy. You promised and . . .’

Sandy looked puzzled. ‘I promised what? Oh, you mean the Great Galah. No.’ He laughed, a full-bodied, confident laugh. ‘No. That’s not what it’s for. This idea is quite new, and with the help of Helen and Hamish here, we can make it a reality. It will be my gift to you, my special friends, and a gift to Opportunity. Come back into the lounge. Leave your coffee. I’ve got something to show you and I don’t want anything spilt on it.’ He strode away and the others followed, gathering around a card table he’d placed in the middle of the sitting room. One of Rosie’s hand-crocheted tablecloths lay over a rectangular object which glowed red through the patterns in the lace.

Once they were all assembled, Sandy looked around, ensuring that he had everyone’s full attention. Hands trembling, he removed the cloth as a father might remove a coverlet from a sleeping child, and stepped back, as if to savour the admiration of those encircling the cradle. On the table lay a book, bound in leather the colour of red wine. Fine gold lettering flowed across the soft kid cover.

‘It’s gold leaf,’ Sandy told them. ‘And the clasp is twenty-four-carat gold.’

Mrs Pargetter recognised the clasp. ‘It’s Rosie’s brooch,’ she said. ‘Our mother’s filigree brooch.’

‘I hope you approve of me using it, Aunt Lily,’ Sandy said. ‘I’m sure you will, when I tell you about it.’

‘
Book of Remembrance,
’ read Moss. ‘What does it mean, Sandy?’

Sandy opened the book, revealing pages of handmade silk paper. ‘If you’ll all sit down, I’ll explain.’ He waited for them all to be seated.

‘Aunt Lily, Finn, Moss—we’re all haunted, in one way or another, by spirits who need a resting place. This book is a place where we can honour the occupants of unmarked graves, name the nameless dead and acknowledge those to whom we owe reparation.’ The big man delivered this carefully prepared speech with a peculiar grace, then all at once collapsed into the diffident Sandy they all knew. ‘Well, um, if you agree, you write the name in the book. Basically, it’s where we can reclaim them, and ourselves, by letting them go.’ His hands hovered over the book. ‘I hope you understand . . .’

‘It’s wonderful, Sandy,’ said Moss, kissing his cheek, and 334 the others murmured assent.

Encouraged, Sandy continued: ‘After I thought of this, I realised we’d need a place of safekeeping for the book, and that’s where Helen and Hamish come in. Hamish has brought some preliminary plans. I’d like to open this to the whole community. That’s why I bought the footy ground.’ He turned to Hamish who had opened a laptop computer and was directing a Powerpoint presentation to the opposite wall. ‘Hamish? Can you take over now?’

Hamish clicked the mouse. ‘This,’ he began, ‘is the footy ground as it is now.’ They all looked at the familiar oval—the ramshackle club rooms covered in graffiti, the tired cyclone fence, the litter-strewn playing field with its patchwork of dried grass and flourishing weeds.

He clicked again. ‘And this is how it will be.’ Projected on the wall was a virtual garden, a shallow bowl shape, landscaped with acacias, banksias and ironbarks; tussock grasses, wallaby grasses and small-leafed clematis; river bottlebrush, speedwell and sweet bursaria. Helen named each one as Hamish clicked to close-ups.

‘All drought-resistant,’ said Sandy. ‘All native to the area. We have Helen to thank for that.’

Hamish clicked again. ‘As you can see in this close-up, there will be a central labyrinth leading to a rotunda. So people can sit out of the weather.’ He clicked again to show a small building with a balcony of finely wrought iron lace and lead-light windows.

‘I’ve managed to source the lace from a demolition site in Fitzroy,’ Hamish explained. ‘It’s the real deal—genuine Victorian craftsmanship. The windows are going to be made by Tom Ferguson’s nephew from Mystic. He’s quite a well-known artist in his field.’

‘We’ll keep the book in a case in the rotunda,’ added Sandy. He turned to Helen. ‘Tell them about the labyrinth.’

Hamish clicked again and Helen stood up to explain the labyrinthine symbol of birth and death. ‘Some say our spirits enter and leave this world through the same door,’ she said. ‘There are many false paths, but only one leads to the centre. Our path will be made of pebbles and stones, and we will lay a special one for each of the dead whose name is inscribed in the book. The stone should be chosen by a loved one or a keeper of the memory.’ The image on the wall was now a model of the completed path. ‘As you can see, the path will not be uniform, as each stone represents someone unique.’ She paused. ‘This labyrinth won’t be a maze. The goal is always visible.’

Sandy’s face was strained and eager. ‘So—what do you think?’

Finn took his friend’s hand. ‘Sandy, I think I can speak for us all when I say that we’re privileged to be part of this.’ He gestured to the others, and one by one, they came forward to congratulate the modestly smiling Sandy.

The big man reddened and then became bustling and practical. ‘First, the book. I’ve got a special, soft-tipped pen. We’ll leave the book here so we can give the writer some privacy. Aunt Lily, would you like to start?’

The old woman’s face crumpled, and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I can write
Arthur
, but my baby has no name. What can I write in the book when my baby has no name?’

‘Sit here, Aunt Lily.’ Sandy’s voice was gentle as he pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Take your time. We can leave a space for your baby, until you’ve thought it through.’

As the sky outside darkened, the light hanging high from the ceiling failed to penetrate the shadows, and Mrs Pargetter peered myopically at the book. Sandy, always alert to his aunt’s needs, switched on the lamp, and left quietly with the others.

Lily’s page

Lily Pargetter sat looking at the creamy parchment as its silk webs reflected the glow of the lamp. She placed her palm on the page and looked in wonder at her hand. The slim white fingers of her youth were now swollen, the joints gnarled like old tree branches. Ugly brown spots speckled the back of this alien hand, competing with the purple bruises that now appeared so frequently. That hand, smooth and white, had once caressed Arthur’s hard, brown body, and the worn circle of gold that cut into her swollen finger had once been a broad wedding band that she’d vowed never to remove.

Arthur John Pargetter, she wrote in her best copperplate. 1921–1942. She used to write so well. She’d even won prizes at the local agricultural show. Now a light, spidery track faltered across the page.
An old woman’s writing
, she sighed to herself.
It’s the best I can do, Arthur.

She put down the pen and then picked it up again.
Baby
Pargetter
? Should she simply write
Baby Pargetter
? It didn’t seem right. If she was going to do this, it had to be right. She thought back to the plaques in the cemetery. Perhaps something from there . . . But both memory and imagination failed her.
Help me, Arthur
.

A smiling young man, handsome in his khaki uniform, was patting the tiny mound of her belly. He kissed her and suddenly she knew.

Tiger Pargetter, she wrote, born and died 23 November 1942. Loved child of Lily and Arthur. I’ve found you at last.

Both in God’s care.

She sat with the book for a long time, then slowly walked back to the dining room. ‘Thank you, Sandy,’ she murmured. ‘Rosie would be proud.’

Finn’s page

Finn had made his peace by the river but still felt he needed to use the book to formally redress the wrong he’d done. He took out the photo Graham Patterson had copied for him. Jilly’s eyes were full of mischief, and Finn could see that her father was attempting to hold her still for the photo. He was sure that as soon as her father had taken his hands from her shoulders, she would have been off along the pier, laughing and chasing the seagulls.
I’m so sorry, mate
, he said to the long-ago young man. He couldn’t bring her back, but his tightly twisted guilt had unravelled and he was left with something softer and more flexible. Sorrow was more forgiving than guilt. It allowed tears to flow.

Jillian Maree Baker, Finn wrote. 1981–1996. Daughter of Andrew Baker.

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.’