Book of Lost Threads

6
Finn, Moss and Mrs Pargetter

ON THE SECOND MORNING OF Moss’s stay, she and Finn were sitting down to breakfast. Relating the story of Amber-Lee’s death had clearly been painful for him, and she wanted to return their conversation to something more general.
‘How did you come to live here?’ Moss asked.
Finn, happy enough to be diverted, responded with a much-abridged version of his life in the monastery. ‘After the accident, I had a bit of a breakdown and some Benedictine monks took me in. Taught me a few things. That was ten years ago now. I still practise the Silence twice a day from six to eight, morning and evening. I try to avoid unnecessary conversation at other times. People used to be one of my strong points, but now . . . You know, it was lucky the bus was late the night you came. It usually gets in at seven fifteen.’
‘What would you have done if I’d arrived on time?’
‘I never make exceptions to the Silence. I wouldn’t have answered the door. I was in that night because it was too wet to go outside, where I prefer to be.’
They both pondered this fortunate confluence of events.
‘What do you do when you’re not . . . being silent?’ Moss 93 asked.
‘I work, and I try to do a little good here and there. I still haven’t quite got the hang of that.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘Bits and pieces. I do some hack work for the Bureau of Statistics and some interesting number-crunching for the Commission for the Future. Most of our communication is online. I have to go to Melbourne a couple of times a year for meetings, but I get back here as quickly as I can. It’s a living, as they say. And there’s my vegie patch, although the drought has pretty much buggered that up.’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your research?’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your singing?’
‘Touché.’
Finn said he had to go out, and Moss decided to walk along the river.
‘There’s a path that goes about five kilometres,’ he told her. ‘Starts near the bridge.’
That night at dinner, Finn seemed distracted and not inclined to talk. Finally, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
‘How long do you plan to stay? Not that I want to get rid of you,’ he assured her, remembering his panic when Jerome had asked a similar question.
‘Not sure, really. I need some time to think things out. And—and I’d also like to get to know you better?’ The upward inflection betrayed her uncertainty.
‘I’d like you to stay a while.’ Finn’s tone also betrayed doubt.
‘But we can’t have you sleeping on the floor and I don’t have a spare room so I . . . sort of took the, you know, liberty of speaking to old Mrs Pargetter. She lives next door, in the house with the blue verandah. She said you can stay with her.’
When he took the house, Finn was pleased that his elderly neighbour was a recluse. After a brief introduction, they had merely nodded politely whenever they happened to pass. One evening, a few weeks after he moved in, he answered a knock at the door to find her standing on his verandah, twisting her apron apologetically.
‘Mr Clancy,’ she began, ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, but my door is stuck and I can’t close it properly. I won’t sleep unless I can lock it, you see. Normally my nephew would . . .’
‘Of course I’ll help, Mrs Pargetter. Just let me get my tools.’ Noting for the first time how frail she was, he took her arm as they went down his path and up to her house. ‘Now, let’s see what I can do.’ He planed a little off the door and, disarmed by her old-fashioned courtesy, accepted the proffered cup of tea. As he left, he was surprised to hear himself promising to dig over her vegetable garden.
After that, Finn found it pleasant to do little jobs for her— taking her dog for a walk, pruning her roses, replacing a tap washer, changing a light bulb. In turn, she would call him in when she’d made scones or biscuits or a teacake. Once she presented him with a tea cosy. But she never asked personal questions, nor did she tell him anything of herself. They suited each other very nicely.
So for want of another solution, he turned to Mrs Pargetter for help with the problem of Moss’s incursion into his life.
As he saw it, he had no choice. He didn’t want to send her to the pub, so where else could she go? Besides, he often worried about his neighbour living alone. She was so frail. What if she had a fall or became ill? Here was a perfect solution—at least in the short term.
The old lady stared in dismay when Finn proposed that she take his daughter in for a few days. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter, Finn. Not that it’s any of my business,’ she added hastily. ‘I mean, a young girl! What would she want staying with an old woman like me?’
Despite his rationalisations, Finn already felt guilty for trying to pass his problem on to his elderly friend. He stepped back a pace. ‘That’s alright, Mrs Pargetter. I’m sorry I asked. I had no right to expect . . .’
Mrs Pargetter saw in Finn’s face a montage of embarrassment, confusion and . . . something else. Something familiar. She swallowed hard. ‘You’ve been good to me, Finn. I’d like to help. Just for a few days, you say? Bring her round tomorrow afternoon.’ She said this rapidly, as though she had to get the words out before she regretted them. She even allowed Finn to leave without offering him a cup of tea. They were both aware that they had crossed some unspoken boundary.
‘So,’ Finn continued now, in the face of Moss’s frown, ‘you can move your things in tomorrow afternoon—if it’s alright with you, of course. She’s a nice old thing,’ he added weakly. ‘Knits tea cosies for the United Nations.’ He indicated his own colourfully encased teapot. ‘That’s one of hers. She gives them as Christmas presents too.’
‘Did you say United Nations?’
‘Yup.’
‘And it was tea cosies?’
‘Yup again. There was some story involved, but I can’t remember. She’ll tell you. She could do with some company. Sometimes I wonder if she’s a bit batty.’
Moss had been wondering the same thing, but sleeping on the floor had little appeal so when Finn said they would still have meals together, she agreed to move next door on a trial basis.
When Finn had gone, Lily Pargetter went up the stairs and stood looking at the closed door of her spare bedroom with something like fear in her eyes. She opened the room once a week to air and dust it, but this was different. If the girl came, then the room would be disturbed, unsettled. Things would be displaced. What would happen then to the sorrow she had folded and stored away there? Looking at Finn, standing irresolute on her doorstep, she had seen a sadness that echoed her own, and had let down her guard. She had been foolish to agree, but could always go next door and tell him she’d changed her mind. It was her house, after all. Her private domain. But what could she tell him? The truth was too painful, and a lie would drive him away. She didn’t want that. She’d come to rely on his presence, his quiet companionship over scones and tea.
The door creaked a little as she opened it and switched on the light. Her fingers trailed over the wallpaper. She had decorated this room so long ago. A musty smell sent her hurrying to the window to let in some fresh air. She shook out the curtains. Perhaps the musty smell came from them. ‘I have to do this,’ she muttered. ‘Merciful God, help me do this.’
Determined to concentrate on the task at hand, she applied herself in a housewifely manner, polishing the dressing-table, smoothing fresh linen on the bed, checking there were coathangers in the wardrobe. She switched on the little bedside lamp and was pleased to see its soft glow. The room remained curiously aloof, so she went out to the garden and cut some camellias. ‘Thank goodness the drought hasn’t got these yet,’ she murmured to herself. She arranged the pale pink blooms in a blue-patterned vase and stepped back to admire them. This cleaning had taken on the elements of ritual, as though sweeping away the dust and polishing the surfaces would drive her sadness into the darkest corner. It still lingered in her heart—a small, hard knot of misery—but she called on her reserves of strength and refused to let it overwhelm her.
She was startled to hear the clock chime six and realised that she had achieved a victory of sorts: she could never have imagined spending so much time in that room. More than that, she was actually excited by the prospect of playing hostess for a few days. It was nice to feel needed.
The following day, Moss and Finn arrived just before three o’clock, Finn carrying a backpack and Moss a handbag and a basket of fruit. The old lady greeted them at the door, her hands in a flurry of flour.
‘Come in. I’ve just put some scones in the oven. We can have a cuppa. Or would you rather see your room first? What am I thinking?’ She smiled a welcome through unwieldy teeth. ‘You must be Fern.’
‘Moss, Mrs Pargetter. And thank you, I’d love a cup of tea.’
Mrs Pargetter pottered around the kitchen, insisting that she wait on her guests. She was of medium height, her body melted into the shapelessness of old age. She carried the beginnings of a dowager’s hump, a feature that was accentuated by her habit of holding her head down to one side whenever she spoke. Her grey hair was drawn back in an untidy bun, and what was once a wide and generous smile was marred by ill-fitting false teeth which she occasionally needed to slurp back into place. She found this manoeuvre quite embarrassing but managed to perform it with some delicacy, simultaneously sucking and patting at her mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief.
As Mrs Pargetter poured the tea, Moss commented on the Fair-Isle tea cosy.
‘How pretty,’ she said disingenuously. ‘Dad has one just like it.’
The old lady smiled so broadly that her teeth wobbled dangerously and the handkerchief was hastily deployed. ‘Thank you, dear. I’ve knitted three thousand and twelve over the past thirty-odd years. Jam? I’m afraid it’s shop-bought. I used to make my own, but I’m getting on. Eighty-four next birthday.’
Moss helped herself to a scone and took a small spoonful of jam. She hesitated over the cream.
‘Eat up. Young girls are all too thin nowadays. Men like something to hold on to.’ Moss’s eyes widened. ‘Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Your father’s skinny, so it must be in the genes.’
Having encouraged Moss to tuck away a surprising number of scones, Mrs Pargetter then showed her to her room. It was large and airy, with a casement window and peeling wallpaper where little yellow teddy bears played on a blue background. A mahogany chest of drawers stood in one corner, and a battered wardrobe lurked in the other. The high, narrow bed wore a quilted silk bedspread the same colour as the teddy bears.
This room has been waiting, Moss thought suddenly. And for a moment she felt a heaviness of spirit. Mrs Pargetter seemed to sense it too and took Moss’s hand.
‘This room hasn’t been used since . . . for some time. I’m entrusting it to you.’
Before Moss had time to think about the oddness of the last remark, the old lady began to bustle about, opening drawers and patting the bedspread.
‘I picked you some camellias,’ she said, touching the mass of soft pink blooms. ‘As a sort of welcome. I’m afraid there’s not much else in the garden at the moment.’
Moss smiled her thanks as Mrs Pargetter left her to her unpacking, which took very little time. Even when she had laid her things out, the room continued to brood. She sat on the bed and tried to analyse the feeling. There was no sense of threat or foreboding; rather it was something like—but not quite—nostalgia. Longing, maybe? Closer. Moss shook off the weight of her thoughts, chiding herself for being fanciful.
‘All done,’ she announced, coming back into the kitchen. ‘It’s a lovely room. Thank you, Mrs Pargetter.’
‘It’s Thursday. Let’s have the Thursday pub roast,’ said Finn as he left. ‘My treat. I’ll pick you up at eight.’
Moss watched at the door as her father fled down Mrs Pargetter’s path and up his own, returning to the sanctuary of his house. She noted his haste and felt a wave of self-pity. Another parent who doesn’t want me. Then: He needs time, she reminded herself sharply and, straightening her shoulders, she turned back to sit by the fire with Mrs Pargetter. The old lady was busy knitting a large purple square.
‘That looks a bit big for a tea cosy.’ Moss smiled.
‘It’s another jumper for your father,’ she replied. ‘That green one is getting very shabby. I’m glad you’re here, dear. He doesn’t look after himself very well, you know.’
Moss acknowledged this statement with a nod, and changed the subject. ‘You’ve knitted over three thousand tea cosies, Mrs Pargetter? That’s a lot of teapots.’
The old lady frowned. ‘There are a lot of poor people in the world,’ she admonished. ‘I usually try for at least two a week. I have four weeks’ holiday at Christmas, of course. All work and no play, as they say.’
‘So how do they get to the . . . poor people?’
Mrs Pargetter sniffed. ‘Well, first of all I sent some samples to World Volunteers and got a very terse reply, I can tell you. Apparently they could see no need for tea cosies. As though the poor had no right to a decent cup of tea.’ Her breast, lumpy like an old pillow, heaved with indignation, and Moss shook her head at the World Volunteers’ callous disregard for the poor. But Mrs Pargetter was a woman on a mission. ‘I tried the African Aid Society. Their letter was nicer, but apparently they had enough tea cosies.’ She stopped to count her stitches. ‘It was then that I had a brilliant idea. Well, Errol has to take some credit.’ She patted the dog, who woofed his agreement. ‘It was so simple I could have cried. I sent a parcel of one dozen cosies to the quartermaster of the United Nations, New York City.’ She spaced each word to emphasise her triumph. ‘And I got a letter back from a Mr Lusala Ngilu, thanking me personally for my extreme kindness. That’s what he said. I can show you the first letter. Extreme kindness.’
‘That’s wonderful, Mrs Pargetter. The UN has a quartermaster? 101 In New York City?’
‘Oh, yes. I get a lovely thank you each time. I can show you the letters. I have a box full of them. They’re on official letterhead signed by Mr Lusala Ngilu, Quartermaster, United Nations. I get a card every Christmas as well.’ She looked over her glasses. ‘I know you young people like to make initials of everything. Your father thought he could get away with calling me “Mrs P.”, but I soon put a stop to that. It’s just laziness, I said. My name is Lily Pargetter and you may call me Mrs Pargetter. So you see, dear, I must insist you show proper respect to the United Nations. If anyone asks what I do, tell them I work for the United Nations.’
The kelpie that had followed her home turned out to belong to Mrs Pargetter, and Moss offered to take him for a walk. He was named after Errol Flynn, and surprisingly, he bore no grudge. He loved Mrs Pargetter with all his doggy heart and they enjoyed many a good conversation about the old days. So far he tolerated Moss’s presence in the house. She spoke softly and scratched his ears just the way he liked.
Thursday was obviously a busier day in town, and there were quite a few cars and utes angle-parked into the deep bluestone gutter. A hum of voices came from the pub, and women stood talking under shop awnings. Most looked at Moss and Errol curiously, and a few nodded pleasantly. An old man in a faded flannel shirt lifted his hat. ‘G’day, girlie,’ he said, and gave her a gappy grin. She smiled back, wondering why she didn’t mind being called ‘girlie’. Her mothers had made it very clear that this was a demeaning form of address.
Moss and Errol returned home around five to find Mrs Pargetter already dressed for the pub meal, which she clearly looked on as quite an event. She had changed into a cable-knit jumper and a long cotton skirt. She wore pearl clip-on earrings and her bun was tidied into a black lace snood. The effect was spoilt by the shaky application of pink lipstick and pale blue eye shadow, but when Finn arrived an hour later, he gallantly kissed her hand and said she looked lovely. Moss, who had brought very little clothing with her, was going to wear jeans but in deference to the old lady’s sense of what was proper changed into black trousers and a clean white shirt. Her taste in clothes mirrored Linsey’s rather than Amy’s. Neat, practical, classic—that had been Linsey’s advice.
The pub’s small dining room was crowded, and most of the patrons seemed to know Finn and Mrs Pargetter. Moss felt quite shy as she was introduced, and sensed Finn’s similar discomfort in crowds. She was glad to be seated at a corner table with a glass of wine. Mrs Pargetter sipped a shandy, and Finn had a Coke. They were not left in peace for long. A large red face imposed itself and wheezed a greeting in a voice that sounded as though it were being forced out from somewhere high in the throat. The barrel chest, a perfect resonator, had no part to play.
‘Heard you were here, Finn.’ His diction was unexpectedly cultured. ‘Needed to catch up with you about the project.’ The speaker suddenly noticed that there were other people present.
‘G’day, Aunt Lily.’ Mrs Pargetter offered him a frosty Good evening, George, and returned to her shandy.
Finn introduced him to Moss, who felt her hand sinking unpleasantly into his soft, sweaty palm. She hastily withdrew her own. He was a strange-looking man, his small, quite handsome features all tightly corralled in the centre of his very large face, while tiny red capillaries traced complicated map lines on his cheeks. He was dressed in neat moleskins and an expensive-looking linen shirt.
Moss smiled politely. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sandilands.’
‘Sandy, please. Everyone calls me Sandy.’ Mrs Pargetter looked up sharply. ‘Well, almost everyone.’
There was no room for Sandy to join them, so after making a time to meet with Finn the next day, he wandered off into the bar.
‘What’s this project?’ Moss asked.
‘You won’t believe it,’ Finn responded. He hardly believed it himself. ‘You’ve heard of the Big Banana and the Big Pineapple?’ She nodded. ‘Well, Sandy is planning something similar for Opportunity.’
‘What is it?’
‘Actually, it’s a Great Galah.’
‘A Great Galah? What on earth gave him that idea?’
‘His father was always calling him a great galah, apparently. Sandy seems to think it was a term of affection. He says it will not only honour his relationship with his father, Major Sandilands, DSO and Bar—I’m not joking, that’s how he refers to his father: Major Sandilands, DSO and Bar—but he reckons that this galah thing’ll bring in the crowds. You wouldn’t know it, but he’s the richest man in town. Worth squillions. He’s willing to pay for the lot himself. He’s very passionate about it.’
‘He’s barking mad,’ pronounced Mrs Pargetter. ‘And his father was a nasty bully of a man.’ She drained her glass for emphasis.
‘Drawing up the plans keeps him happy,’ said Finn mildly. ‘It keeps the demons at bay.’