Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Jack had crashed the party, and had been standing in line with a plate. Now he trotted over to the smashed cake and, using both fists, started shovelling chocolate and cream off the ground, and into his mouth. One turret. A piece of blue moat. The drawbridge. Then Samson grabbed a mouthful of Jack’s jeans. He began dragging the child back towards Clare by the seat of his pants, ripping the threadbare fabric.

  ‘Help!’ A women tried to move towards Jack, but her stilettos sank into the grass. Clare guessed her to be the party host. ‘Somebody help that little boy. That dog’s got him.’

  The clown dashed forward. Clare winced as he kicked Samson in the jaw, but the dog maintained his grip. The clown grabbed hold of Jack, and played a brief game of tug of war, until Jack sank his teeth into the man’s clutching hand. The clown let go, yelling that he’d been bitten.

  ‘Get back,’ said the woman. ‘That dog’s dangerous. It just bit this poor man.’

  ‘Not the dog,’ wailed the clown. ‘The boy. It was that fucking, feral boy who bit me.’

  Some kids gawked at him, open-mouthed. Others stared at each other and giggled. ‘That clown’s ruuuude,’ said one. ‘He just said a bad word.’ The parents looked even more horrified than before.

  Clare skidded to a halt in the midst of the chaos, planting herself squarely between Jack and Samson and the angry horde. She held up her hands, palms out, and forced her face into a smile. ‘I’m Clare,’ she said. ‘And little Jack here . . .’ She placed a protective hand on his shoulder. ‘He was lost. Thank goodness my dog found him.’

  Samson barked and the crowd, as one, took a step back.

  ‘He just got a little carried away, that’s all. A little too enthusiastic . . . a little over-affectionate.’ She grabbed hold of Samson’s trailing lead and picked up Jack. ‘Very sorry about the cake. It was absolutely spectacular, by the way. Let me pay for it.’ Clare put Jack down again, and pulled her purse from the tote bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I insist.’

  ‘Do I know you?’ asked the host.

  Clare shook her head, and maintained her smile. It was beginning to make her cheeks ache.

  ‘And you mean that’s your boy?’ Her tone was accusing.

  Clare nodded. She could feel her smile fading.

  ‘So, he was never invited?’

  ‘No. Jack’s a blow in, I’m afraid. I do apologise.’

  A confused chattering of I thought he was with you, began among the guests. Clare unzipped her purse, plucked out the notes inside, around two hundred dollars’ worth, and shoved them at the woman. Then the three of them made a run for it, Jack and Samson laughing and barking as they sped away. Back on the street, Jack’s sticky hand sneaked into hers. The same damned question niggled again. What had she got herself into?

  Chapter 5

  Clare woke to Jack jumping on the bed. She had a vague memory of him doing the same thing earlier on when it was barely light, and of her pulling the pillow over her head and going back to sleep. Clare groaned. Sunday morning, but not like any Sunday morning she could remember. She was used to suiting herself, waking in her own time, at her own pace. She sniffed. There was a sickly, sweet odour in the air. Clare glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Why couldn’t she see the time? She raised herself up on one elbow. A large tumbler was in the way, brimming with something that looked suspiciously like urine. What on earth? Was that the smell?

  Jack bounced off the bed, picked up the glass in both hands and offered it to her, slopping its pale contents onto the doona. She recoiled, and sniffed again. Wine, stale wine. He’d been in the fridge again. ‘Jesus, Jack.’ What if he’d been drinking it himself? She imagined Kim’s reproachful face as they pumped Jack’s stomach in the emergency room.

  Clare prepared to tell him off, but something in his expression puzzled her, gave her pause. It was an expression she’d not seen on his face before. Eager, hopeful . . . shyly proud. Clare was trained to get into people’s heads, discover their deepest motivations. How else could you portray them sympathetically to a magistrate? Everyone had a reason for what they did. The trick was to pick it. And then it hit her – Jack wasn’t being naughty. He wanted to please her by bringing her the wine. Heaven knows she’d swilled enough of the stuff last night. Another evening of drinking alone, she thought ruefully. How was a four-year-old supposed to know that a beverage she’d enjoyed so much last night, would be repulsive to her in the morning? It was touching really. Thank heavens she hadn’t scolded him.

  Clare took a sip, trying not to screw up her face. ‘Thanks, Jack.’ He flashed a swift smile and scampered from the room. Clare fell back on the pillow, still tired. Her tongue was thick and furry. She hadn’t brushed her teeth last night. Neither had Jack. Jack didn’t even have a toothbrush yet. What sort of a foster mother was she? With an immense effort, she threw off the doona. The room smelled like a bar. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Lank, tangled hair that needed washing. Dark rings beneath bloodshot eyes. Her white T-shirt had a big brown stain down the front, courtesy of last night’s tub of chocolate ice-cream. Lovely.

  Clare emerged from her bedroom to find Jack asleep on the couch, in front of cartoons. It was funny how he could just fall asleep like that. One minute a bundle of energy, the next minute, dead to the world. By the looks of things, he’d been up half the night. There were no books left on the shelf. Instead they were strewn over the floor, together with a mangled loaf of bread, its soft middle scooped out. Crumbs everywhere. Biro and lipstick scribbles on the wall. A lidless tub of melted ice-cream on a chair. Double rows of spice jars marched like little soldiers along the artificial turf of Samson’s doggy loo, flanking a procession of Pokémon toys.

  Not too much damage. You couldn’t really blame the kid, she thought, considering there wasn’t much for him to play with. She’d have to fix that, buy some toys. Put things up high. Fit some childproof locks. Samson whined from his crate. Normally on Sunday, she took him on a morning walk to the park. She thought back to the chaos of yesterday. No, the park was off limits for the time being. Anyway, with Jack flaked out on the sofa, she couldn’t really leave the flat at all. How on earth did full-time parents manage? She was stuck at home unless she woke him up, and that might be disastrous. As Dad used to say, best to let sleeping dogs lie. Samson would need to use his inside toilet this morning.

  Clare cleared away the spice jars, and the toys, and the tiny mirrored elephant with the raised trunk that stood in pride of place on top of the wooden wee post. She dumped them in a sink of hot, soapy water. She fetched the key to the padlock, and released Samson from his crate. The dog bounded obediently to the patch of fake grass. He didn’t squat like a puppy any more to empty his bladder. Instead he lifted his leg, half-missing the fake tree trunk, and leaving a mustard coloured spray pattern on the wall. Shit. She’d bought the Supersize Pooch model, but the poky contraption looked like it was designed more for a poodle than for a German shepherd.

  Samson trotted into the kitchen and fetched his lead from the hook. Clare shook her head. ‘Not this morning.’ She poured herself a coffee and sat down in a chair by the window. Samson cocked his head and inspected her face, confirming she was serious. Then he leaped for the treadmill, evenly positioning his great paws, quivering a little with anticipation. He gave a soft whimper. Clare put her forefinger to her lips. ‘Shh . . . Not now. You’ll wake Jack.’ Samson trotted to the sideboard, stood on his hind legs and picked up the remote control in his mouth. He dumped it in Clare’s lap. She hadn’t realised dogs were so clever.

  ‘Okay, just on slow.’

  The dog repositioned himself with a joyful wag of his tail. The treadmill beeped twice and ground into action. Clare kept a close eye on Jack, but he didn’t stir. Samson watched her as he padded along the rubber belt, his ears pricked, his eyes pleading. She knew that look. He whined. He’d bark soon if he didn’t get his way. She sped up the treadmill until Samson was galloping along. She wondered suddenly what her grandfather would make of it. She
remembered a timeless scene – driving down the winding lane to Merriang as a child, sitting high and proud beside him in the sulky, as he cracked the carriage whip above Baron’s broad back. Currawong’s energetic pair of Dalmatians, Pongo and Perdita, led the way to town, tails aloft, getting all the gossip with their twitching noses. By comparison, Samson here, toiling away on a stainless steel treadmill in a second-floor apartment, was a sad and sorry sight indeed. She felt a rush of sympathy for him. Helga was right. This was no life for a dog.

  A knock came at the door and Samson leaped from the treadmill in a flurry of barking. His voice was growing deeper and louder every day. What if it was Mr Jacobs, the secretary of the building’s body corporate? Strata management had given her permission to keep a dog. Luckily they hadn’t asked about the breed. Samson must be pretty close to breaking the peaceful enjoyment noise provision by now, and it was Sunday morning for Christ’s sake. Why couldn’t he just shut up?

  Clare opened the door. It wasn’t Mr Jacobs. Worse than that, it was Adam. Clare shook her head in disbelief. How could it be Adam? The first time in the entire twelve months of their relationship, that he’d dropped by unannounced, and she just happened to look like shit. In fact, she happened to look a lot more like shit than usual. And the place was a mess. Utterly trashed. It wasn’t fair.

  Samson growled quietly and Adam backed up a fraction.

  ‘I’ll put him away.’ Clare, grabbed Samson’s collar and dragged him off to his crate.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Adam asked from the doorway. ‘You missed a real treat on Friday’ He flashed his handsome smile, but she didn’t respond. ‘I tried to ring’ he said, ‘but your phone’s turned off.’

  He searched her face with his piercing grey eyes. Sunday morning, and Adam was still the picture of style. White oxford shirt with rolled-up sleeves exposing smooth, tanned forearms. Her favourite Borrelli boot leg jeans, the ones with the hand-stitched, twisted seams. A razor-straight part in his, dark flicked-back hair. His mouth was straight too, and the bridge of his nose. Everything about him was sharply defined.

  Clare, by contrast, was a frump. She needed to shower, to change, to wash her hair. She needed to make Adam go away and come back in half an hour. She needed for him not to go into the lounge room and expect to sit down on the couch. Clare ducked into the bathroom, and dragged a brush through her hair. Not that it would help much. Combed greasy, didn’t look much better than tangled greasy. She spared herself by not looking in the mirror.

  Jack ran in and clamped onto her leg.

  ‘Clare?’ Adam’s voice was uncertain, but he’d obviously moved from the doorway into the lounge room. ‘Clare? Who’s the kid?’ She froze, as if she might thereby evade detection, ‘. . . and what happened to the couch?’

  Clare looked down at Jack’s anxious, upturned face and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Dogs could sense your mood, that’s what Helga said. Maybe kids could, too? She didn’t want Jack to think there was anything wrong. And anyway, was there anything wrong? Not really. Her vanity was taking a bit of a hit, that was all. Clare took a deep breath, picked Jack up and went into the lounge room.

  Adam stared at them, a confused expression on his face. ‘The dog was bad enough, Clare. But a kid? And who demolished the apartment? Were you robbed?’

  ‘This is Jack,’ she said, pushing the little boy forward. ‘He’s the son of a client who’s . . .’ She’d been about to say who’s done a runner. ‘A client who’s unable to look after him this weekend.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit . . . unorthodox?’ said Adam. He knew very well that it was. He was a barrister, a rising star. Clare couldn’t imagine what he must think about her getting so personally involved with a client. It was about as unprofessional as you could get.

  ‘There were no disability placements available,’ she said. ‘You can’t put such a little boy into a residential unit. He’d be eaten alive.’ She realised her mistake at once.

  ‘Disability?’ said Adam. He leaned close and peered at Jack, like he was a bug under a microscope. ‘What the hell’s wrong with him?’

  Jack spat in his face. Adam recoiled and plucked a tissue from the box on the shelf. ‘Dirty little bugger,’ he said, wiping his cheek. ‘He could have AIDS or anything.’

  ‘Would you please not talk about him like that,’ said Clare. ‘He’s not deaf.’

  ‘Okay then. He’s not deaf, so what is he? What’s wrong with him?’ asked Adam again, this time from a safe distance.

  Jack ran to the couch and hid beneath Samson’s blanket. ‘They say he’s autistic,’ said Clare. ‘But I think they’re wrong.’ She could hear the defiant tilt in her voice.

  Adam indicated the ruin all around. ‘The flat looks like this and you think they’re wrong. You do. You, who’ve had so much experience with children.’

  She hated it when he got sarcastic like this. ‘Didn’t you tell me just last week that you couldn’t stand kids? That you didn’t have a clue about them? And now you’re suddenly a fucking child expert?’

  She wished he wouldn’t swear like that in front of Jack. ‘This is different,’ she said. ‘There was nobody else. Jesus, Adam. It’s just for a weekend.’

  ‘So that’s why you couldn’t come on Friday’ said Adam. ‘You weren’t sick at all, were you?’ She didn’t deny it. He snorted. ‘It’s not much of a relationship if we can’t be honest with each other.’ It was the first thing he’d said that she agreed with.

  They stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Adam frowned then said, ‘Sorry. Can we start again?’ He slipped an arm around her waist. He kissed her cheek, her ear, the nape of her neck. Clare yielded a little. What did she expect? He’d had no more to do with children than she had. No nieces, no nephews. She loved him for his dry wit, his brilliant mind, his ambition, not for his parenting skills ‘I missed you last night,’ he said.

  She’d missed him too. It was a whole month since she’d spent a weekend at his South Bank apartment, a month since Samson had moved in. She loved Adam’s place, with its panoramic views of the tranquil Brisbane river. You could see the botanical gardens from the balcony, the golden glow of Brisbane’s CBD at night. The riverfront restaurant precinct was a short stroll away, South Bank just a two-minute ferry ride. Clare looked at Samson, whining in his crate. Helga or no Helga, she needed to find a good kennel where he could spend his weekends.

  Adam kissed her mouth with searching lips. Clare waited for the hot, insistent pull of him to kick in, the delicious hunger for more. But the kiss was a fizzer. Nothing. Well, how was she supposed to feel romantic with Jack peeking from the couch and with Samson keeping up an indignant whine? She pulled away. Adam threw up his hands.

  ‘Lisa brought down the house with her performance in Giselle,’ he said pointedly. ‘Thanks so much for asking.’

  ‘If I’d told you about Jack, you wouldn’t have understood.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have. The reasons we don’t get involved with our clients is first-year law stuff. This’ – he gestured around the apartment – ‘this . . . situation you’ve got yourself into. It has conflict of interest written all over it.’

  Clare was suddenly weary. He was right, of course. She had been a fool, but a willing one. And she still was.

  Adam ran his hand across the tear in the back of the couch, a stricken expression on his face. Then he peered at Jack again.

  ‘Roderick must be ropeable.’

  ‘He’s not happy,’ she said. ‘But he didn’t go off at me like you just did. Christ, Adam, it’s only temporary.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Adam. ‘It’s clear I won’t be able to talk any sense into you.’ He looked at the shambles all around and grimaced. ‘Call me when you get yourself sorted.’ He turned to go, paused when he reached the door, and came back into the lounge. He kissed her on top of her head. ‘Spend next weekend at my place,’ he whispered. ‘Put the dog in a kennel, find somewhere else for the kid if, god forbid, it isn’t sor
ted by then, and come home with me on Friday. Okay?’

  She nodded and watched him leave. As soon as he’d gone, Jack released Samson from the crate. The two of them started a rowdy game of chasey round and round the beleaguered couch. Clare slumped down among its dishevelled cushions. She glanced at the clock. Time to get ready for Helga’s doggy obedience class. What a shame there wasn’t one for kids too.

  Clare arrived at Centennial Reserve, a huge expanse of well-kept parks and playing fields. She was on time for once and sat Jack down on a shady bench with a good view of the class. ‘Stay,’ she said, without much hope that he would. Then she joined the line of dogs and owners. Samson and Clare were in the beginner basics class, but several grades of training were going on at once. Next door were the agility dogs. They were doing some sort of trial, and had quite an audience. Their arena looked just like a children’s playground, complete with colourful equipment, and Jack couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it. Neither could Clare.

  She watched a dog prance down the course beside his owner. A pitch-black German shepherd – a grown up version of Samson. Before long he was leaping over obstacles and into tyres, shooting through brightly striped tunnels and balancing on boardwalks. He teetered on a seesaw, scaled walls and finished by weaving between a line of purple poles at breakneck speed. So clever. Clare wanted to applaud.

  She was less enthusiastic about the next performance. It started off well enough. A graceful standard poodle commencing his round, sailing over jumps and bounding into stripy tunnels. ‘Be mindful of your dog’s mood. Always watch his ears,’ boomed Helga. But Clare was too busy watching the neighbouring arena to pay much attention to Samson’s ears. Samson tugged on his lead just as a ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. Oh no, not Jack. He’d escaped his bench and was crawling into the tunnel after the poodle. Samson plunged forward and Clare was so distracted that she let go of the lead. He took off after Jack. Here we go again, she thought.