Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘A dog is a living, breathing, emotional being, Clare. Not some object that you can keep in the cupboard until you feel like playing with him.’

  Clare’s cheeks burned. ‘Sorry. I’m not really set up for a dog.’ She regretted the remark as soon as it had passed her lips, although it was true enough. Managing a German shepherd puppy in an upmarket, second-floor apartment was difficult to say the least.

  ‘Then why did you get one?’

  ‘Samson was my father’s dog. I only took him on a month ago, when Dad died suddenly.’

  There was a long pause before Helga spoke. ‘My condolences,’ she said. ‘You should consider rehoming him.’

  ‘No,’ said Clare, raising her voice and causing Jack to stir in his sleep. ‘Dad loved that dog. He’d never forgive me.’

  ‘Don’t sacrifice Samson on the altar of your guilt,’ said Helga. ‘Puppies who spend too long in kennels can suffer long-term damage. Aggression, separation anxiety, depression – an inability to properly bond. Particularly with a dog as large and strong as Samson, the risk must not be overlooked.’

  ‘I’ll do better, I promise,’ said Clare. ‘But I honestly can’t come and get him tonight. Could you perhaps drop him off?’

  Another long pause. ‘Will I see you and Samson at obedience school this week?’ asked Helga. ‘You missed last Sunday’s session.’

  That was blackmail. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. We’ll be there.’

  ‘Very well, Clare. I’ll drop him off around seven.’

  ‘Thank you, Helga.’ Clare switched off her phone. Adam was out for the night so he wouldn’t ring. In any case, the last thing she wanted was to talk to anybody. She pulled a stool up to the breakfast bar, sat down and drained her wine glass. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ward off the growing ache in her skull. It had been a very long Friday and the weekend wasn’t panning out quite like she’d planned.

  Chapter 4

  Clare opened her eyes. It took a moment, as it always did, to position­ herself in the new day. That’s right, it was Saturday. Her tongue was furry, a sure sign she’d been drinking. But her head barely ached, which meant she hadn’t overdone it. Good. A glance at the clock. Eight already? Samson would be busting.

  Clare yawned and headed for the lounge room. She remembered about Jack just as the stink hit her nose and the chaos came into view. Samson was in the kitchen, scoffing cornflakes and milk from her Venetian glass fruit bowl, which was on the floor. The dog acknowledged Clare’s presence with a wag of his tail. She rescued the bowl. Jack sat cross-legged on the tiles beside Samson, the cereal box upended above his open mouth. A shower of golden flakes rained down on them both. But that wasn’t the worst of it. In the lounge room, mounds of fluffy white stuffing spilled from the couch cushions. It looked like a fairy floss machine had spun out of control. Clare shrieked and hurried over to inspect the damage. It wasn’t just the cushions; the upholstery was ripped too, a long tear along the back. The matching drapes were wet and stained, where Samson had lifted his leg. Her bare foot squelched in something soft and warm. ‘Eeew.’

  Clare held her breath and changed direction, hopping for the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub, extended her smeared foot and turned on the tap as hot as she could bear it. The water turned brown and swirled down the plughole. Her couch. Her beautiful, insanely expensive couch. It had been Adam’s idea to buy an imported Italian sofa. It had cost almost as much as her car. And now it was ruined.

  Samson had been an instant hit with Jack and vice versa. Last night, before Helga even handed him over, the dog zeroed in on the sleeping child. Helga had followed the direction of his gaze, seen the lump on the couch beneath Samson’s blanket. Jack’s head was just visible. ‘A child?’ Clare nodded. ‘Children under twelve should never be left alone with dogs,’ said Helga. ‘You can never completely trust them.’

  ‘But Samson is so friendly,’ said Clare. ‘I can’t imagine him hurting anybody.’

  ‘I meant the children,’ said Helga. ‘It’s the children you can’t trust.’

  ‘I’ll supervise Jack very closely,’ said Clare. ‘Promise.’

  Helga cast one last, disapproving glance at Jack, gave Samson a consoling pat, then left Clare to it. But despite her best efforts, it wasn’t long before Samson jumped right on top of the little boy. Jack woke yelling. Clare dived for the dog’s collar and tried to drag him off. Samson ignored her, didn’t even seem to notice her tugging. Instead he licked Jack’s face thoroughly, his tail thrashing with excitement. The little boy stopped yelling and threw his arms around the dog’s thick ruff. Then he laughed – that pealing, musical laughter that had so surprised and delighted Clare at McDonald’s.

  The same laughter that she could hear now.

  Clare turned off the tap, swung her legs out of the tub and returned to the lounge room, where Jack and Samson were playing tug-of-war with a tea towel. ‘Samson.’ The dog dropped the tea towel and bounced over to her. ‘Here, boy.’ She called him into the kitchen, encouraging him to lick the cornflakes and pools of milk off the floor. Clare picked up the empty cereal box. How would she tell Adam about the couch? He loved that couch, went on and on about its superb quality, its elegant craftsmanship. He waxed lyrical about Italian design, how it was unmistakable, but impossible to define. Its flair, its innovation, its beauty of line and function. You’d think it was his couch.

  When she turned round to put the box in the bin, there was Jack on hands and knees beside Samson, licking the floor too. ‘Oh, Jack, no.’ She swept him up, and he wrapped his arms around her neck and grinned. Such a sweet smile for such a naughty boy. It was hard to stay mad at him.

  Clare ran a bath and undressed Jack, wrinkling her nose. His little trousers were stiff with grime, underpants caked with faeces, jumper and T-shirt frayed at the seams. She half-expected to see bruises on his skinny body, signs of physical abuse. But apart from a few normal bumps and scratches, she found nothing. Thank goodness for that. She tipped a little shampoo under the running tap to make bubbles, like Grandma used to do for her. Jack laughed and tried to climb in. ‘Hang on,’ said Clare. She turned off the taps. ‘Okay.’ She watched him laugh and splash, catching great handfuls of suds and tossing them into the air. He was a nice kid. Taylor must be missing him terribly.

  Clare gathered his discarded clothes, threw them into the washing machine and brewed herself a coffee. There was so much to do before Monday. Arrange child care. Buy Jack clothes, and a camp bed or something for the spare room. And she’d promised Helga she’d show up to dog training on Sunday morning.

  The bell rang. Oh no, not Adam. Clare bundled Samson into the living room. ‘Sit, Samson. Stay,’ she said, without much hope. It wasn’t the first time she’d regretted the absence of doors in her airy open-plan apartment. But to her surprise, the dog cocked his head as if he was considering her request, then sank to his haunches. Clare whispered a quiet ‘Thank you’, took a deep, steadying breath, and answered the door.

  It was Debbie. ‘I’ve finished typing up that transcript,’ she said, thrusting a manila folder at Clare. ‘Thought you might need it over the weekend.’ It was a flimsy excuse for snooping. She peered past Clare into the apartment. ‘How are you getting on?’ Clare wasn’t quick enough, and Debbie was in before she knew it. ‘What’s that pong?’ asked Debbie. Her eyes widened when she saw the kitchen, widened more when she saw the lounge room and its clouds of stuffing. ‘Shit,’ said Debbie. ‘It looks like world war three. Did that little boy do all this?’

  No, thought Clare. He had some help.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Debbie.

  ‘In the bath,’ said Clare, but she was more interested in where Samson was. She couldn’t see him.

  Debbie explored further, peering first into the bedroom, then into the bathroom. She disappeared through the door. ‘Is your dog supposed to be in here?’

  Clare followed her. Samson and Jack were sitting together in the bathtub. Jack was emptying a bottle of sh
ampoo onto the dog’s back. A second empty bottle lay discarded on the floor, which was being swamped from foam waves made by Samson’s wagging tail. Shining mountains of suds lay everywhere, casting thousands of tiny rainbows.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Clare, trying to sound matter of fact. ‘They’re sharing. I’ve always believed in being water wise.’

  It was afternoon before Clare finally had the flat shipshape. Kitchen spotless, bathroom mopped, carpet cleaned. Air freshener sprayed about. She’d stuffed as much filling back into the couch as she could, and binned the rest. Gaffer tape worked well to repair the ripped upholstery. Pity it didn’t come in white. The couch looked a little deflated, but you’d hardly be able to notice, from a distance.

  Jack’s clothes were washed and dried. He’d cooperated when being dressed and eaten a sandwich without incident. She’d plonked him on the couch in front of the television, but now he and Samson were wrestling again. Clare glanced around at the order she’d reimposed. Her charges were bound to mess it up all over again so what was the point of being too picky? Clare shook her head. The apartment seemed suddenly crowded. Nowhere near big enough for a woman and a dog and a boy.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  They walked to the park. Jack no longer hung onto Clare’s leg; he hung onto Samson instead. And instead of pulling ahead, dragging Clare in his wake as he usually did, Samson matched the child’s pace, slowing down when he lagged, waiting patiently for Jack to grasp his collar again. There was no doubt about it. Far easier to walk the pair of them together than to walk either of them separately.

  A smiling, elderly couple came towards them. ‘What a charming picture,’ said the old lady. ‘You must be so very proud.’

  And suddenly Clare was. So very proud of Jack and Samson.

  ‘Those two make quite a team,’ said the old man with a grin, stopping to give Samson a pat. He reminded Clare of her grandfather. ‘Every child needs a best friend like that. Your son’s a lucky boy.’

  Your son. They’d mistaken Jack for her son. Well, why not? She was twenty-seven now, more than old enough to have a four-year-old, although she didn’t feel old enough or responsible enough to be anybody’s mother. She didn’t even feel responsible enough to be a dog owner, and Helga apparently agreed with her. Clare’s thoughts turned to Jack’s real mother, Taylor. Just twenty years old. Where was she at this very minute? Had she eaten today? Was she thinking about her son?

  They entered the park through a shady corridor of lilly pilly trees. Usually Clare headed for the Blue Dog reserve. The park had two large, fenced off-leash areas. Blue for big dogs and red for smaller dogs and puppies under nine months. She’d started Samson off in the Red Dog reserve. He’d been only five months old then, after all. But he’d mistaken his little companions for targets in a merry game of fetch, and had insisted on chasing them, retrieving the smallest ones and proudly bringing them to Clare. Unharmed, thank god. Clare marvelled at how gently he’d placed the little wriggling, whining dogs at her feet. The other owners hadn’t been quite as appreciative. She’d retreated, red-faced, and from then on joined the assortment of Labradoodles and other pooches roaming the big dog park.

  Today she made a detour. Jack had spied the playground. He released his hold on Samson’s collar and dashed off to the slides. Samson jumped and whined and dragged Clare after him. She hadn’t paid much attention to the playground before. What a wonderful place for kids, with its rockers and tunnels, bright blue bridges and spinning poles – even a sunken pirate ship. There were children playing and laughing in the sunshine. Clare used her hand to shade her eyes, and settled down with Samson in the shade to watch, her back against a fig tree. Jack was having a lovely time, swinging and bouncing and hiding. Every now and then he turned to look at her and she waved. For once Samson sat quietly beside her, eyes trained on Jack.

  The park overlooked the picturesque Rainbow River. Clare turned to watch an elegant egret stalk among the reeds. The scene was strangely familiar. Red gums lining the river bank, shedding bark in colourful ribbons. The single, sharp alarm call of a native hen. Flotillas of ducks floating by, trailed by fluffy ducklings. Diving grebes. A shag on a rock, wings hung out to dry.

  A tall tree stood on an island in the river. A distinctive tree. Prehistoric looking, with a domed crown, sharp, glossy leaves and green pinecones the size of footballs. The sense of déjà vu grew strong, and then it struck her. Currawong. The river bend at Currawong Creek, her grandparents’ property on the Darling Downs. How long had it been since she’d thought of it? Samson whimpered and rose to his feet. Clare soothed him with a few words and stroked his head absentmindedly. Memories flooded in. Long summers, she and her brother leaving the house after one of Grandma’s giant breakfasts and not coming home till dark. Clare could almost see Ryan now, sitting on the river bank with his line in the water, waiting for a bite. She smiled. As a girl, she’d always been too squeamish for fishing. If she was ever on the spot when Ryan caught something, her torrent of tears always convinced him to let it go. She preferred catching yabbies behind the bore head and keeping them as pets. Currawong’s dam was full of the pretty blue crayfish. She drew back the lens of her mind’s eye and a landscape appeared: the view from the old homestead across to the shining tower of the Southern Cross windmill and the dam. More of a lake, really. A shining expanse of sweet fresh water, fed by the Great Artesian Basin. A vast underground ocean, millions of years old. She’d written a story about it at school: a cross between Journey to the Centre of the Earth and Alice in Wonderland. A girl escapes from her bossy mother down a wombat hole, to the shores of the Great Artesian Basin. She makes friends with the Plesiosaurs that live there, she grows a long neck and gills, and she never goes home.

  Clare hadn’t been to Currawong Creek since she was a child. It was the only permanent home she could remember, a precious constant in an ever-changing world. With Dad in the military, she and Ryan had grown up as army brats. Their childhood had been shaped by the constant loss of friendships, by never having a hometown, or any place to belong. It was hard on them and on their mother. Clare must have been about eleven years old on that final visit to Currawong. It was the same summer that Mum had left them. And afterwards, Dad had discouraged all contact with her side of the family. Clare had lost both her mother and her grandparents in one cruel hit.

  She’d watched her father fight his way out from under the loneliness and grief, fight to obliterate the memories of their former life. And Clare had respected his wishes, all this time. The dreams of Currawong, its creeks and mountains, had slowly faded. Even when Grandma died, they’d only sent flowers. That was ten years ago, and now Dad was dead as well. How was Grandad? she dared to wonder. He’d have to be at least seventy by now. Clare could still picture him, a pair of huge Clydesdale horses in tow, crossing the stable yard to the cart shed. Those Clydesdales had seemed bigger than elephants when she was a child. But they were gentle giants and she couldn’t ever remember being afraid. Not even when Ryan dared her to lead their pony, Smudge, under the belly of Rastus, Currawong’s enormous stallion. Eighteen hands, he’d stood. Rastus had spooked and reared, a tonne of horseflesh looming above her, blotting out the sky. His platter-sized hooves had crashed to earth just inches from her head. But she’d known with calm certainty that Rastus wouldn’t hurt her, that he would do everything to avoid her.

  That was a lifetime ago. Those things had happened to a different person. After finishing school she’d studied law on her father’s advice and built a career in the city.

  She didn’t have a lot of friends, but that didn’t bother her. Childhood experience had taught Clare that friendships didn’t last anyway. It was an advantage that she didn’t have a busy social calendar to distract from her professional ambitions. Her life up til now had suited very well.

  Sixteen years had passed since she’d seen Grandad. At first, each time a hot north wind blew, reminding her of Currawong, she’d ached for her grandparents, but she�
��d learned the knack of letting go. She’d built a fence around her heart, walling out the pain, growing into a self-contained, studious teenager, trying hard to please her father. In the end she’d hardly thought of them at all. Until today. It was only natural, she supposed, to think of family with her father’s death so fresh. Grandad probably didn’t even know that Dad was gone. Who would have told him?

  Samson started to bark, then with an almighty tug he wrenched the lead from her hand, dragging her away from her recollections.

  Clare jumped to her feet. The sun was still in her eyes, and it was hard to see. She shielded her face with a hand and scanned the playground. Where was Jack?

  ‘Jack,’ she yelled. ‘Jack!’

  Clare sprinted down the hill after Samson. The dog ran straight as an arrow. And like an arrow he seemed unable to deviate from his course. He ploughed straight through a group of children.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ asked a red-faced woman, nursing a screaming toddler.

  ‘I’m reporting you,’ said another, comforting a crying child at the same time. ‘Dogs like that should be put down.’

  ‘So sorry,’ called Clare, putting on a burst of speed. She was well out of earshot before anybody else had a chance to complain. Clare crested the hill and stopped to catch her breath. In the distance, at the far side of the barbecue area, stood a red and yellow striped marquee. Bunches of bright balloons were strung from poles. Someone was handing out plates to a line of waiting children, while parents milled about. Clare ran closer for a better look. She could see now. A colourful clown held aloft an elaborate, castle-shaped birthday cake. Candles in the shape of fluttering flags graced the towers and turrets, along with tiny chocolate cannons. Its moat, with candy swans, glinted in the sun. A truly magnificent creation. A work of art. And Samson was on a direct collision course with both the clown and the cake.

  ‘Samson!’ yelled Clare. She’d never get there in time. It was like being witness to a looming train wreck, and being powerless to stop it. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Too late now. Samson bowled the clown over and the cake toppled majestically to the grass. Toy soldiers leaped from the battlements as it fell. The poor clown landed face down in the ruins, while kids ran screaming in every direction. All except one. Jack.