Book of Lost Threads

25
Sandy and Rosie; Moss and Linsey

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 . . .’
Those who opted for sexual intrigue were disappointed to see that Hamish spent each night at the pub, and it wasn’t until Ana reappeared a few days before Christmas that Marlene felt she had a legitimate romance to announce.
Ana had come back for Sandy’s Christmas lunch as that seemed to be the best time to make the presentation to Mrs Pargetter. Public transport would have been difficult from Shepparton, so she came back on her uncle’s last run before Christmas.
Though he was busy drawing up plans, Hamish made time for Ana. They had breakfast and dinner together, and one day took a picnic lunch to the old rail bridge that spanned the nearby gorge known as Harriet’s Leap.
That day Hamish’s mood was buoyant. He’d become something of an expert in the town’s history and was pleased to share it with Ana. ‘Apparently Harriet was the wife of the town’s founder, Opportunity Weekes,’ he told his attentive companion. ‘But there’s no record of her ever having leapt or even threatened to leap into the gorge. From all accounts she was a practical woman.’
‘Maybe she encouraged others to leap,’ Ana suggested, unwrapping the sandwiches that Marlene had grudgingly slapped together.
‘Or maybe her neighbours hoped that she’d leap.’
‘Yes, they hoped she’d take the hint.’ Hamish waved his cheese and pickle sandwich for emphasis.
Ana giggled, a little ashamed. ‘Poor woman. She was probably loved by all who knew her. The name may not refer to her at all.’
Once they’d finished eating, they packed up their picnic and walked down the steep path into the shallow gorge, Hamish holding Ana’s hand as she slid on the loose scree.
‘Hardly worth the effort,’ he puffed as they reached the bottom and took in the spindly shrubs and scattered refuse. He looked up at the rail bridge. The angle was interesting and he took a few photographs before turning again to his companion.
She had nice eyes, he thought, and her slender body looked good in her neat jeans and red top. She wore little makeup, and her warm olive skin was smooth over her cheekbones. He took her hands and kissed her gently, then more passionately as she responded.
As he became more urgent, she pulled away. ‘Enough for now,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘Let’s take it slowly.’
‘Of course.’ Hamish took her hand again. ‘I hope you’ll let me get to know you better, Ana.’
‘Me too, Hamish,’ she said shyly, and he felt a sudden lurch of joy at the sound of his name on her lips.
After Finn left to go bush, Moss had returned to Amy’s house. Arriving in the late afternoon, she threw her backpack on her bed and opened a bottle of wine. Holding bottle and glass in one hand and a bowl of nuts in the other, she went out and sat on the long verandah that faced the rose garden. The low rays of the summer sun cast a benign glow over the roses, which were in an early second bloom. They were particularly fine that year, and Moss grinned as she remembered Linsey’s stories about Flash Jack and the unfortunate Aunt Shirley. If it weren’t for those Marrakech oysters, she might not be looking over this beautiful garden. It had always been a place where she could sit and think things through.
While the TV fiasco had been painful and chastening, the revelation Moss had experienced in the Bradman Museum had revitalised her. She knew what to do now. She was resolute. Not pig-headed (a term that Amy often used to describe her) but resolute. Since Linsey’s death (in truth, since the ugly incident at Linsey’s apartment), Moss had been restless. Dropping out of her course left her with little to do, and her search for her father filled a number of functions, one of which was to give herself focus. But instead of stopping once she had found Finn, she couldn’t leave well enough alone. She had to try to organise his life. I mightn’t have your genes, Mother Linsey, she thought ruefully. But I picked up something along the way.
What would Linsey tell her to do? Want her to do now? That was too easy. It was what she, Moss, wanted to do; that is, continue with her singing. She hummed a little scale in a minor key. It tasted smooth, like chocolate. She ran through some more scales—la, la, la, la la, la, la, laaaa. She stood up and sang to the roses, sensing the music vibrate along their treacherous stems to the waiting ear of the petals.
Moss giggled self-consciously. 325 I’ve only had one glass of wine. I can’t be drunk. But she was intoxicated—by the precarious light that bridged day and night; by the sound of her own voice and the taste of her music; by the knowledge that she was now ready to move on with her life. If her time in Opportunity had taught her anything, it was that regret is too great a burden.
‘One more project,’ she promised the roses. ‘One more project for my mother, then it’s back to the Con.’
Over the next few days, Moss met with the family solicitor and the bursar of the Melba Conservatorium. They were confident Moss’s plan could be put in place for the end of the next academic year.
When she arrived in Opportunity a week before Christmas, she was disappointed to find that neither Finn nor Sandy had returned. She had to tell someone her plans, so she confided in Mrs Pargetter.
‘It will be called the Linsey Brookes Memorial Scholarship and will go to advancing the career of a young Melba graduate.’
The old lady seized Moss’s hands. ‘What a lovely thought,’ she said. ‘It’s the very thing.’
Moss went to bed feeling better than she had for longer than she could remember. If she could be sure that Finn had forgiven her, she would be truly content. She looked with affection at the teddies on the wall and settled her pillow with a little sigh. A soft, moth-wing whisper echoed from the shadows.
‘Goodnight, little one,’ Moss said, and fell into a dreamless sleep.



26
Gifts and givers

CHRISTMAS EVE WAS HOT AND oppressive. The citizens of Opportunity were becalmed on a sea of heat. Little rivulets of sweat ran down their foreheads and prickled their underarms, and their eyes were dazzled by the specks of mica that danced crazily on the ground.
‘It must be over a hundred in the old.’ Merv set a cold beer down in front of Cocky and flapped his shirt.
‘Won’t touch the sides, mate,’ said the old man, swigging the beer in two gulps before rubbing the glass on his sweaty singlet. ‘I’m still comin’ for Chrissie dinner, aren’t I? Marl’s still cookin’ in the heat?’
‘She’s out there stuffing the turkey right now. A bloody marvel, Marl.’
Cocky grunted his agreement as he gestured for another beer. ‘An’ one for me mate,’ he said as Tom came in, wiping his forehead.
‘Nah. My shout,’ said Tom, as Cocky well knew he would. ‘Merry Christmas, mate.’
‘Anyone seen Finn?’ Helen poked her head around the bar door. At the chorus of nos she disappeared again. ‘Enjoy your Christmas,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘I have to go,’ she told Hamish, who was waiting outside. ‘I’m giving Sandy a hand. See you tomorrow.’
Hamish had offered to drive the others out to Sandy’s property the next day. Finn had still failed to return from the Two Speck, and Moss and Mrs Pargetter were becoming uneasy.
‘It’s nearly three weeks since we’ve seen him,’ Moss worried.
‘Sandy was confident that he’d be alright,’ the old lady said with more conviction than she felt. ‘He must be enjoying his camping.’
As Finn hadn’t returned by the time they were leaving, they left a note on his door. Moss was disappointed that he would miss the presentation, but Mrs Pargetter was oblivious to her place of honour.
She and Moss were surprised to see Helen’s car parked in Sandy’s drive. ‘She’s helping with the cooking,’ Sandy explained.
They were settling into their chairs in the living room when Moss saw Bill Green’s cab crunching up the gravel drive to disgorge a dishevelled Finn.
‘Am I too late?’ Finn puffed as he rushed in the door. ‘When I saw the note, I didn’t even stop to shower.’
Moss hugged him, wrinkling her nose. ‘I can tell. No, you’re not too late. We’ve only just arrived.’ She gave him an extra squeeze. ‘I’m glad you could make it. It’s our first Christmas.’
Finn kissed the top of her head. ‘But not the last,’ he promised. At Sandy’s invitation, Finn went off to the shower, and returned wearing his own grubby jeans and a large white shirt that flapped around his lean body.
Moss indicated the Christmas tree, draped with lights and tinsel. An angel wobbled precariously at its tip. ‘Beautiful tree, Sandy.’
‘Yeah.’ He looked pleased. ‘Helen helped me. Dad and I didn’t bother much after Mum died.’
‘I’ll do the drinks,’ Hamish offered.
‘Leave the wine,’ Sandy said. ‘This calls for champagne.’ The champagne had been on ice to toast Sandy’s announcement, but changing his mind, he popped the cork with a flourish and Hamish filled the glasses.
While Sandy took round the drinks tray, Hamish went over to Ana. ‘As soon as everyone has a drink, you can start.’
Sandy gestured for her to come forward. ‘As you all know, young Ana here worked in New York for the United Nations.’
Finn didn’t know, and looked at her curiously. For one so young, she carried herself with a certain dignity.
‘Ana, you have something to say, I believe,’ Sandy said.
Ana stepped forward, a bright spot of embarrassment on each cheek. She’d prepared a speech that she hoped was worthy of both donor and recipient. ‘Many years ago,’ she began, ‘a parcel of tea cosies arrived at the UN headquarters . . .’ (Mrs Pargetter sniffed and muttered, ‘United Nations, girl. United Nations.’) ‘The parcel was opened by a Mr Lusala Ngilu, from Kenya,’ she continued, ‘and it was the beginning of a wonderful tradition that has lasted to this day. Mrs Pargetter has served the United Nations for thirty-five years, as has Mr Ngilu, and before he leaves his current position, he wishes to honour the work done by Mrs Pargetter for so many years.’
She paused, and Hamish handed her a box, patting her arm affectionately. Mrs Pargetter looked bemused, blinking rapidly behind her glasses and sucking in her teeth nervously.
‘It’s my great pleasure,’ Ana said, ‘to present this award to Mrs Lily Pargetter, on behalf of Ambassador Ngilu and the United Nations.’ She walked over to where the old lady was sitting and offered her the box.
‘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.’
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.