Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

Book of
Lost Threads

Book of
Lost Threads

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2010

Copyright Tess Evans 2010

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in
writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows
a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater,
to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes
provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given
a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
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Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74237 233 4

Text design by Emily ONeill
Set in 11.5/15 pt Adobe Caslon by Post Pre-press Group, Australia
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated to my father, Colin Websdale,
a great dad and a great lover of books.

Rebirth us with Wisdom, as
we are knitted once again
back into wholeness.

From Ariadnes Blessing, Janet Bristow, 1998

Others also there are who perished unknown; their sacrifice is not
forgotten, and their names, though lost to us, are written in the
Books of God.

Inscription from the Shrine in the Scottish War Memorial.
Reproduced with the permission of the Trustees of the Scottish War Memorial, Edinburgh.

Contents

H ELLO. D OES M ICHAEL CLANCY LIVE here?

Silence. The door between them remained shut.

Michael Clancy. Michael Finbar Clancy?

Whos asking?

MossMiranda. Miranda Sinclair.

Moss wasnt a spiteful person in general, but in later moments of honest self-appraisal, she had to admit that spite was one of the less savoury elements in her decision to seek out Michael Clancy. She had nurtured this ignoble spite for months. It had walked with her up the path to his house, stuck like some disgusting mess to her shoe. And it was directed at Linsey. Linsey, who loved her. Amys softness offered no resistance and Moss needed hard edges on which to hone this uncharacteristic desire for revenge.

She had checked the timetable when she bought her ticket. The journey from Melbourne usually took just over two hours, but that day the train was delayed at Fosters Creek for nearly an hour, which meant that Moss missed the connecting bus. It was close to eight by the time she arrived, tired, cold and hungry, wishing shed never come. Never come and never heard of Michael Finbar Clancy. Amy had warned her: He wont want to know. But shed come anyway.

The chill rain numbed her face as she half-sprinted in the direction indicated by the driver. She stopped in front of a shabby weatherboard house, alive to the tension that crawled over her scalp; alive to the tingling root of every hair.

There was no knocker and she felt around in vain for a bell, finally rapping, louder than necessary, on the glass panel.

Hello. Does Michael Clancy live here?

Silence.

Michael Clancy. Michael Finbar Clancy?

There was a reluctant scraping sound as the door opened a niggardly few centimetres and a soft, uncertain voice squeezed its way through. Whos asking?

MossMiranda. Miranda Sinclair.

The sliver of light from inside revealed four surprisingly neat fingers.

I dont know any Mirandas. The fingers withdrew and the door began to close but not before Moss managed to wedge her foot in the gap.

Please. Ive come all the way from Melbourne. Its freezing out herenot to mention the rain.

On the other side of the door, Finn was at a loss. Visitors were rare. Especially after dark. He considered his options. He could close the door and that would be that. He could continue to talk through the crack. Or he could simply let her in. The second option seemed safest. The first was rude and the third was risky. It meant asserting some authority, though. Not really his forte. His mind searched for something to say and caught at the tail of her plea.

Its been raining since lunchtime, he said.

And its still raining and Im soaked. Please. Just let me in so I can talk to you.

A pause. What do you want? he asked warily. Ill let you in if you tell me. Regretting these words even as he spoke.

I just need to talk to you. I cant shout it through the door. You knew my mother once. She told me all about you. Moss was overstating the case, certain that Finn couldnt possibly know anything about what her mother might have told her.

All about me? Who is she thenGod Almighty herself ? Finns uneasy chuckle erupted into an embarrassing snort.

Please. Just let me in. There were tears in her voice.

He applied his eye to the crack. A small figure was huddled under the inadequate shelter of the narrow verandah. Alright. You can come in for a bit. A grudging invitation at best.

The door scraped open to reveal a petite young woman in her early twenties, maybe; a sodden waif with dark hair plastered in tendrils around her urchin face. Her japara was soaked, and he was dismayed to see that she was shivering. He knew then that he had no choice. Noting with a sinking heart her ominously large backpack, he stepped aside to let her in.

Youre wet through. Take off your coat and come and sit here by the stove. He led her down a dimly lit corridor to a large kitchen where he indicated an armchair clumsily draped with a purple chenille bedspread. Ill put on the kettle. Are you hungry?

She nodded and Finn busied himself around the kitchen, making a pot of strong black tea and cutting two thick slices of bread which he tried to ram into the toaster. Muttering curses at the recalcitrant bread, he shaved off the excess crusts. It was still a snug fit. There, he said, pleased. It wont take a minute now.

His guest sat obediently by the large wood-fired stove, warming her hands and looking curiously at Finn and then hungrily at the toaster. Finn had the hunched shoulders of a man uncomfortable with his height; with his long thin legs and narrow face he looked for all the world like an apologetic stork. Excuse me , she could hear him murmur at stork meetings and stork functions, do you mind if I sit here, in this seat at the back? And there he would sit looking morosely at the more successful storks, the better dressed storks, the richer storks, the whole network of storks as they mingled and discussed storkly issues with a confidence, a conviction that he could only wonder at.

The toaster, struggling to expel its burden, gave a kind of whummph that was the signal for Finn to perform an extraction and proceed to the generous application of butter.

Jam? Honey? Im out of Vegemite, Im afraid. He looked at Miranda with eyes so blue, so kind, that she burst into tears. If Id known you were coming I would have got some Vegemite, he said, bewildered at her extreme reaction to its absence. He hovered over her, flapping his hands, making little soothing noises.