The Tying of Threads (62 page)

Jenny looked towards Norman’s sad old abandoned station. The occasional goods train still passed through Woody Creek on its way to somewhere else. Never stopped. A busy place once, passengers buying tickets out of this town, stacks of bleeding timber waiting to be loaded. No more mills in town. The bush mill now cut firewood. No more concerts. No more Saturday night picture shows. No balls, no dances. Woody Creek’s social life revolved around the community centre, the hotel and the bowling club’s pokies.

The changes I’ve seen, Jenny thought as she walked up to the twin metal lines, stepping carefully over the first of them. The sleepers were old and the dirt and stones filling the spaces between them were never meant to be walked on in high-heeled shoes. Look on the bright side, Jen. You could have been wearing those pink platform sandals.

No bright side to look on tonight. She turned to the west, towards Charlie’s crossing, then to the east towards Blunt’s. Flat as a tack, this town, and those railway lines looked as they ever had, like grey pencilled lines ruled through the middle of Woody Creek by a monster’s hand.

She’d travelled with Jimmy down those lines when he was ten months old. Travelled back with him when he’d been three. Walked him down that long road home to Granny, his sweaty little hand clinging to her own, his tinkling little voice chanting,
Woody Creek stinks
. Had she held his hand too long today? Had she dropped it too fast? She didn’t know what she’d done. Could still feel its touch.

He’d been four years old when she’d taken him and the girls down to Armadale, almost six when she’d brought him back. Then the Hoopers had stolen him away.

There was a bright side. She’d seen his face. She’d held his hand . . .

Always she’d looked for him. When she’d caught city trams, she searched the faces of passengers. When she’d been in crowds, in city theatres, she’d looked for him. When he’d been sixteen, she’d looked at schoolboys. When he’d been eighteen she’d looked at young businessmen. Always, she’d looked at their hands, knowing she might not recognise his face but she would know his hands. And she had. She had.

And couldn’t even tell Jim. He didn’t know about Cara. She’d removed her and the Sydney rape from
The Stray
because Jim didn’t know about her.

What have I done?

Couldn’t go back and undo any of it. Had to forget Jimmy now. She’d shaken the hand of Morris Langhall, of James Morrison Langdon . . .

He’d looked well. He was married to a big name writer. They lived on a twenty-acre property in an English manor house. My flesh, my blood, lives in a five hundred year old manor house. Jenny shook rain from her hair then walked on.

Had Cara recognised Juliana Conti’s hand?

She’d spoken about their three children. Elise, still at school, Tracy, a ballet dancer, and Robin. Jenny’s own flesh and blood grandson was a surgeon. Itchy-foot had come from a family of doctors and surgeons.
Was a seed of healing passed on to him through my blood?
Itchy-foot had wanted to sing – maybe he’d wanted to write; he’d filled thirteen small leather-covered diaries with his life, and if not for his diaries, Jenny wouldn’t have written
Before Her Time.
Had he passed on his seed of writing to Jenny, and she in turn to Cara?

She sought the shelter of a large peppercorn tree, growing forever in the western corner of the railway yard, and looked again at the hotel veranda. It would give her shelter most of the way home and there was no sign of life on that corner. But the western side of Three Pines Road was darker and that pink suit lost its colour in the dark, so she crossed over to the west side and walked on, soaked to the skin now, rain trickling down the back of her neck before she reached a melaleuca that she’d seen planted as a spindly seedling and watched grow into a giant. It kept the rain off.

The dogs were barking. Did they sense she was near? She’d kept two pups from Lorna’s last litter. Cara had spoken about her dogs, a pair of border collies, and Jenny had damn near forgotten who she was supposed to be and mentioned her pair of red . . . bitten that sentence short but, the camera on her, she’d had to continue, and the only dog breed that had come to mind had been Pekinese. Loathed those ugly little mutts. Juliana Conti now owned a pair – reddish. Were Pekinese ever reddish?

She’d watched her tongue. Had said nothing that might give away her identity. Her hands could have given her away to Cara, though maybe not. Maybe she’d thought relative, thought the writing seed and hands had come down Juliana’s line.

A car went by, spraying water, its stereo shattering the silence of the ghost town. Those pounded rhythms were considered music to the youth of the nineties. There were car stereos in town larger than the cars they were in. She watched it pass, watched its lights painting the wet peppercorn tree into a glistening green fairy land as the car turned right, then the thump-thump rhythm faded and the night was again dark.

At fourteen, she’d been too afraid to walk at night, afraid of the bogymen who hid behind the trees and came out to murder girls. She’d sat on the sports oval fence, swinging her feet to the band music. It’s never the bogyman you fear who gets you. It’s the ones you don’t fear.

She’d feared that morning show, its host, its cameras, then she’d walked on the set and recognised Cara. It had almost undone her. For the first ten minutes the lights had been on her, she’d sat, scared stiff Cara would expose her on national TV.

She crossed the road and Olejoe and Lila were waiting for her at the small gate, yipping and wriggling their pleasure at the sight of her. She patted wet coats, scratched behind wet ears and received a doggy kiss or two.

‘Where’s Jim?’ she said. They ran ahead of her to the back door, and as she opened it, she asked herself how many mothers who had lost their sons ever got to see them again. She had to think how lucky she’d been, then let him go.

Warmth greeted her. The kitchen was always warm. She took her wet shoes off and walked on wet stockinged feet through to the entrance hall to peer into the sitting room.

And there he was, sound asleep on the couch, his head propped on a pillow, one leg propped over the padded arm rest. He wasn’t as good looking as his son. Jim Hooper had never been the best looking boy in Woody Creek, but she’d loved him when he’d been a gangling, big-eared goblin of a boy, and she loved him still, on his back, his long jaw dropped in sleep. Just did, didn’t know why.

Should have told him years ago about Cara. But she’d done what she’d done, what she’d deemed right and necessary at the time, and there’s not one day, not one second of the past you can alter with should-have-beens and shouldn’t-have-dones. You play the cards life deals out to you, play them the best way you can, and win, lose or draw, that game has to be played out to the end.

A Hand of Cards.
A damn good title. What a story it would have made.
Mother and daughter united on national television.
Shaking her head, she crept down to the bathroom, wanting Jim to sleep until she’d showered, washed her hair and her soul clean.

Half an hour more Jim slept. She was dressing-gown-clad, in the kitchen, making a mug of strong coffee when the lid of the jar fell and rattled on the floor.

‘Who’s there?’ Jim called.

‘A burglar, and I’ve just stolen your every worldly possession.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘After nine,’ she said.

‘I took two pills so I could drive over and meet the bus,’ he said. ‘They knocked me for six.’

‘Get your hip fixed and you won’t need to swallow drugs before you drive,’ she said, then added coffee to a second mug.

He was seated on the couch when she entered to place the coffee on the small table between their chairs. He didn’t reach for his mug, but for the remote control.

‘There’s nothing on, on Wednesday nights,’ she said.

‘I taped a show,’ he said, and he hit play.

‘You didn’t, Jim. You wouldn’t do that to me.’ Then she heard the music and knew he had. ‘Turn it off!’

‘Sit still and watch,’ he said.

She wanted the remote to kill that tape, but his arms were long and he held it high and at a distance.

‘Please turn it off. Today was hell on earth.’

‘I plan to blackmail you with it for the rest of my life.’

‘Which won’t be long if you don’t turn that thing off.’

*

And thus we leave them, arguing over the remote control, Jim killing himself laughing as the pink-clad woman fills the screen, her head high, her smile fixed. He hasn’t laughed often these past months.

We leave Jenny refusing to look at the screen, sitting head down, drinking hot coffee and crunching a biscuit while an audience applauds. But television screens will draw most eyes. Her eyes are drawn up to peek. She sees pink, sees a stranger with too much dark hair hiding her face. Sees a small woman perched uncomfortably on the edge of a too large chair showing her bare knees and she watches her attempt to cover her knees with her hands – then sees her remember her hands and snatch them away to her sides.

The host asks if she’s comfortable. The lady in pink tells him she’d be more comfortable seated with the audience, thank you, and the audience laughs.

Jenny lifts her chin. She’s watching the screen now, listening to her voice, and to Cara’s. He’s by her side. She’s safe to watch it.

The lady in pink has found a dangling thread at her knee. She attempts to tuck it out of view and Jenny moans, knowing what comes later, but the station cuts to a commercial.

‘Everyone will recognise me,’ she says as Jim hits the fast-forward button.

‘I didn’t. Until you spoke I thought you were the Ms Langhall they’d been advertising every two minutes before the show began. She flew in last night and only agreed to do the show this morning.’

Fast-forwarded commercials flip by in silence, then Cara is back on the screen, and Jim hits play. Well practised at interviews, Cara makes it obvious that she is there to sell her latest book.

And the camera swoops to Juliana. She’s attempting to snap off that dangling thread but it unravels, as the hems of shop-bought garments are apt to do – Juliana’s expression is all Jenny’s. Jim laughs, and again Jenny fights him for the remote control.

There’s a close-up of Cara on the screen. As a girl she resembled Jenny. Her hair is shoulder length, its curl gone, its colour now that popular champagne blonde. She sounds English – or sounds like Myrtle. Jenny watches intently as Cara speaks of her years in Sydney, in Melbourne, of her children, her greatest achievements, she says.

‘That’s enough, Jim!’

‘Trust me.’

She’s always trusted him, almost always, and he’s right. Midway through the torment, survivor Jenny steps into the lady in pink. She plays the game out to the end.

*

Dare I bid them such an abrupt goodbye? Dangling threads encourage fingers to pick, to poke. Seams can unravel – and surely there is more to tell of Morrie and Cara.

Only their return flight details. They leave from Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport at 18.09 on 28 November. They won’t return to Australian shores.

Trudy will, and soon. At this moment she and Nick are in a plane over the Indian Ocean. She’s five months pregnant with twins and wants them to be born in Australia. By midday tomorrow Vern Hooper’s big old house won’t feel so empty. There’ll be talk and too much laugher when Jim plays his Pink Lady video again.

He’ll play it on Saturday when Georgie, Paul and Katie arrive . . .

Ah, Katie. There must be more to tell of Katie Morgan Dunn.

Not one word more, my faithful reader. She is Jenny’s tomorrow, and you and I are not going there.

About Joy Dettman

Joy Dettman was born in country Victoria and spent her early years in towns on either side of the Murray River. She is an award-winning writer of short stories, the complete collection of which,
Diamonds in the Mud
, was published in 2007, as well as the highly acclaimed novels
Mallawindy
,
Jacaranda Blue
,
Goose Girl
,
Yesterday’s Dust
,
The Seventh Day
,
Henry’s Daughter
,
One Sunday
,
Pearl in a Cage
,
Thorn on the Rose
,
Moth to the Flame
,
Wind in the Wires
and
Ripples on a Pond
.
The Tying of Threads
is the sixth and final novel in Joy’s Woody Creek series.

Also by Joy Dettman

Mallawindy

Jacaranda Blue

Goose Girl

Yesterday’s Dust

The Seventh Day

Henry’s Daughter

One Sunday

Diamonds in the Mud

Woody Creek series

Pearl in a Cage

Thorn on the Rose

Moth to the Flame

Wind in the Wires

Ripples on a Pond

The first novel in Joy Dettman’s sensational ‘
Woody Creek’
series.

On a balmy midsummer’s evening in 1923, a young woman – foreign, dishevelled and heavily pregnant – is found unconscious just off the railway tracks in the tiny logging community of Woody Creek. The town midwife, Gertrude Foote, is roused from her bed when the woman is brought to her door. Try as she might, Gertrude is unable to save her – but the baby lives.

When no relatives come forth to claim the infant, Gertrude’s daughter Amber – who has recently lost a son in childbirth – and her husband Norman take the child in. In the ensuing weeks, Norman becomes convinced that God has sent the baby to their door, and in an act of reckless compassion, he names the baby Jennifer and registers her in place of his son.

Loved by some but scorned by more – including her stepmother and stepsister who resent the interloper – Jenny survives her childhood and grows into an exquisite and talented young woman. But who were her parents? Why does she so strongly resemble an old photograph of Gertrude’s philandering husband? And will she one day fulfil her potential?