Book of Lost Threads (35 page)

25
Sandy and Rosie; Moss and Linsey

W
HILE
F
INN 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

C
HRISTMAS 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.