Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Take my place today at lunch, will you?’ asked Roderick. ‘They’ll bang on a slap-up meal. And you’ll have the chance to do some networking before you take that break. Justice Cameron will be there. He’s had his eye on you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Clare. ‘Don’t you normally send Ted to these things?’

  ‘I don’t want to send Ted,’ he said. ‘I want to send you.’

  Clare experienced a slight shiver of excitement and pride. ‘Thanks, Rod,’ she said. ‘I’d love to go. You can count on me.’

  Chapter 7

  The Riverview Hotel. The concierge wore a gold braided uniform. She told him her name; he ticked it off the list, and directed her to the first floor. Clare made straight for the ladies room. Good, it was empty. She inspected herself in the full-length mirror. For once she approved. The fact that she’d dropped a kilo or two meant her business suit fitted like a glove. Better than it ever had. Hell, she looked sexy even, in a sensible, corporate sort of way. Stress must be good for her.

  She smiled at her reflection, inspected her hair, her make-up, her teeth. Her dark suit contrasted with her blonde bob. The look was serious, but stylish. And for the first time in days, she wasn’t thinking about Jack. But of course, that wasn’t true, was it? She had to think about him, in order to congratulate herself for not thinking about him. Clare shook her head. Today was a career-building exercise, no room for foolishness. She exited the gleaming marble bathroom and followed the signs to the hotel’s Grand Ballroom. Tables were already filling up with guests. Impeccably clad waiters dispensed warm bread rolls and jugs of water, bobbing with ice cubes and lemon slices.

  The man at the door led her to a table set for six, positioned near the front of the room. Clare couldn’t believe her luck. Justice Cameron was at the very next table. It was too perfect. Clare pulled out her chair to sit down and the judge turned around.

  ‘Just the person I wanted to see.’ Justice Cameron spoke in a low voice to the man beside him, and he swung around too and beamed at her. It was Paul Dunbar. She’d never actually met him before, but she recognised him at once. Paul Dunbar was the city’s most notable criminal barrister, and its most flamboyant as well. He wore a purple shirt, a polka-dotted bow tie and sported a magnificent handlebar moustache, a la Merv Hughes. The moustache in combination with his massive bald head, made Dunbar look somewhat like a walrus.

  ‘Frank and I were just talking about you, Ms Mitchell,’ Dunbar said. ‘Discussing your dazzling advocacy.’ He actually twirled his moustache between thumb and forefinger. ‘There’s been a lot of talk in Chambers about the Fenwick case. Bringing the teacher in like that, at the last minute? You practically turned the tables on the rules of evidence.’ He slapped his broad thigh. ‘And the jury eating right out of your hands? I hear the prosecutor went so red at the not guilty verdict that he popped a vein. That’s the way to nail a trial,’ he said. ‘With a bit of panache.’ His sweeping arm gesture resulted in a firm clout to the head of the Justice. ‘Ha,’ said Dunbar. ‘Take that, Frank Cameron. For all the trouble you’ve caused me in your estimable court.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dunbar,’ she stammered.

  ‘Call me Paul, please.’

  Clare felt herself flush as red as the aforementioned prosecutor. She had pulled off a coup in the Fenwick trial. Roderick had almost not let her have the case. If their client hadn’t been so emotionally attached to her, he would have farmed it out to one of his pet barristers. But the girl wouldn’t have testified for anybody else. She only trusted Clare. Clare spent many hours overtime settling her, reassuring her, even going to her house when her nerve threatened to fail. That was crossing the line between counsel and client, but it had paid off. The girl ended up being an astonishingly compelling witness. Such a standout victory in a high profile case was bound to attract attention, but she’d never imagined somebody like Paul Dunbar would sit up and take notice. She wished that Veronica had been there to hear Paul Dunbar praise her up like that.

  ‘Your Roderick and I go way back,’ said Paul. ‘At law school together, we were. Best friends for years.’

  Clare nodded. She already knew that. Veronica had received her job at Fortitude Valley Legal Aid as a favour to Paul. The two always helped each other out with career paths for their protégés. Paul got to his feet and sat down on the vacant chair beside Clare. ‘You have ambitions then, Ms Mitchell? Ambitions to go to the bar?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said. Too softly. She had to be more assertive. ‘Yes,’ she said again, this time owning the word.

  Paul took a fat wallet from his pocket and extracted a business card. ‘Call me,’ he said, ‘if you’d be interested in us working together. I’d enjoy a dynamo like you as my reader.’

  Clare took the card, and stared at it, dumbly.

  Paul looked right, then left, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Truth is, the person I’ve lined up to read with me next year isn’t quite ready . . .’ He trailed off, but the implication was plain enough. Clare almost felt sorry for Veronica.

  A waiter placed two bottles of wine on the table, and Paul helped himself to the red. He poured himself a generous glass and another for Clare. She was stunned by the sudden turn of events. It had had the feel of a set-up. A splendid set-up, certainly, but a set-up just the same. Roderick, being so solicitous, giving her time off, insisting she take his place at the lunch. This had been planned. By Paul and Roderick, and maybe by Justice Cameron as well. They’d talked it over, maybe many times. Over drinks, or in chambers, or at the Counsellor’s Club. It was overwhelming. Clare was thrilled right down to her toes. She knew she had a goofy grin on her face. Hardly becoming. She tried to arrange her face into some semblance of decorum.

  Paul looked her up and down. ‘You’re pleased then?’

  Her mouth was suddenly too dry to speak, so she nodded instead.

  ‘Don’t try to hide it,’ he said. ‘Passion can make the difference between an outstanding advocate, and a merely adequate one.’ He heaved a great belly laugh, as if at a hilarious, private joke. ‘Oh, it will get you into trouble at times, there’s no doubt. But without it? Without that ability to reach deep and yank the emotional guts out of a jury? Without that, a barrister can never achieve true brilliance.’

  Justice Cameron angled his chair around, caught Clare’s eye, and chuckled. ‘That passion he’s talking about? It doesn’t just work on juries. He’s ripped out my guts in court more than once. Nobody sums up a case, like Paul here.’ The Justice got up from his chair and crossed the room.

  Clare shook her head. ‘I just want to clarify,’ she said, ‘you’re offering to take me on as your reader?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘Next year?’

  He plucked an old-fashioned fountain pen from his pocket, scribbled the proposal onto a napkin, and presented it to her with a flourish.

  Clare could have kissed it. This was proof of merit, proof of a life lived with passion. If only Adam could have been here. He’d said much the same thing, that it was her passion that set her apart from his previous girlfriends. For all Veronica’s good looks and style, she had about as much passion as a snail. No, that wasn’t true. Clare had seen a documentary on snail’s mating habits. She’d seen them writhing together, a penis each apparently, in a copulation that could last for hours. Veronica didn’t even have as much passion as a snail

  Clare was basking in a soft, warm glow, when Paul excused himself. He stood and gave his moustache a few more twirls. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’ he proclaimed to the room in general, and then charged off to talk to a group of people by the door.

  Three other people sat down at the table. Clare didn’t know them and, in any case, they immediately became engrossed in private conversation. Left to her own devices she had a quiet moment to digest her news. Going to the bar with a man like Paul Dunbar as her mentor. Something her father had dreamed of for her, and now she couldn’t tell him. It was a bitter pill. She could tell A
dam though. She wanted to ring him then and there. Tell him they’d be working in the same chambers next year. She looked around the rapidly filling room. Was there time to duck out? No, better not. She might miss something.

  Clare absentmindedly buttered a bread roll and began to eat. As she was finishing, a man pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. She stared at him in disbelief. Adam. He’d come after all. He’d made an effort to rush back from Dalby. He’d understood how important this lunch was to her. For a moment, she wondered how he knew she’d be there. Of course, Roderick. Roderick had told Adam where she was and he’d come to surprise her. Maybe he already knew her news. All of Clare’s doubts about him melted away. He’d just proved how much he cared, hadn’t he? Warmth rushed through her.

  But when she looked into his eyes, Clare didn’t like what she saw there. His face, it was all wrong. She’d expected a look of smug satisfaction that he’d surprised her, that he’d known. That was his usual way. But instead he looked uncomfortable. Clare slipped her hand into his. ‘Adam, what’s wrong?’

  Now, he was positively squirming. A woman came up behind them, leaned over the back of Adam’s chair, a hand on each shoulder, and gave him a long, lingering kiss, low on his cheek. She slipped into the seat beside him. Veronica. Too late, Clare snatched her hand away. Veronica looked at them, and comprehension dawned in her eyes. The only gratifying thing about the whole, sick situation was that she looked as stunned as Clare felt.

  They both turned to glare at Adam. He played it very cool, greeting Clare. ‘It’s good you made it,’ he said, a perfect smile on his face.

  No thanks to you. The room grew hot and airless. Her leg cramped. Perspiration trickled down her neck, inside her shirt. Clare wanted to scream. But instead, she put on a smile as forced as his own, gaining confidence from Veronica’s dumbfounded expression. For once, it wasn’t going to be her left standing on the back foot. ‘Isn’t it, though?’ she said, in as sweet a tone as she could muster.

  Uncertainty flickered across his face, as if he was weighing up his chances of her not having realised what was going on. Then he gave a lame nod, and turned away. Clare guessed he’d judged her, quite rightly, to be a lost cause.

  Adam turned his attention to Veronica. Clare strained her ears, and listened to their furious whispers. Adam spoke in a low murmur, but Veronica was unable to keep the strident tone from her voice. ‘. . . she doing here? . . . hand on your arm . . . must have known . . . deliberate humiliation . . .’ Adam soon lapsed into sullen silence. Clare was all too familiar with this particular defence strategy, and it was gratifying to think it wasn’t reserved especially for her.

  What should she do? Leave? This was her first impulse. Take the high road? She could stay, hide how gutted she really was and outlast them. She didn’t want to fight with Adam in public. She should leave, shouldn’t she? But how would that look to Paul Dunbar? And by staying, at least she got to see what happened next.

  Adam turned back to her, and embarked on a far-fetched explanation of how he came to be at the Bar Association lunch, instead of at the Dalby Court House. Clare briefly closed her eyes. She wasn’t listening to his words, rather she was listening to the meaning behind the words. Did he really think he could explain his way out of it? She wiped her forehead with her jacket sleeve and looked at Veronica. Did he take them both for fools?

  Adam finally gave up on talking, and now sat between the two of them, staring into middle distance. Veronica was rigid beside him, while the waiter placed a bowl of soup before her.

  Clare’s decision to say nothing was weakening and the desire to make Adam suffer was growing hot and insistent. Had Veronica been aware of their twelve-month liaison? Possibly not. No, almost certainly not. Clare was a particularly private person. Roderick may not even have known about her and Adam. Debbie knew, of course, but Veronica would never deign to talk to Debbie. If she didn’t know the full extent of their relationship, if her anger was based only on a hunch . . . then it wouldn’t take much for Adam to talk himself out of trouble and back into Veronica’s good books. He would get away with it.

  But before she could think of anything to say, Veronica leaned across in front of Adam, and fixed Clare with anguished, perfectly plucked brows. ‘Are you screwing him?’

  Clare took a bottomless breath, and her opinion of Veronica went up a few notches. This was a woman who knew how to cut through the bullshit.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘For about a year, now.’ She threw Adam a long, accusing stare. He dropped his head to his hands, and the table went quiet. The other people didn’t know where to look. She tried to imagine Veronica naked, tried to imagine her with Adam, but mercifully the image wouldn’t come. Clare’s phone rang, making her jump. For a moment she wondered who might be calling, but she should have known. Jolly Jumbucks, of course. This time Jack had surpassed himself. He’d bunkered in beneath the stairs and held the entire staff at bay for fifteen minutes with a cache of fire extinguishers he’d discovered there. Clare found herself impressed that Jack had figured out how to use the devices. Then again, they weren’t that complicated. All you had to do was pull the pin, rather like a hand grenade, then press the lever.

  She imagined a blizzard of foam, burying the Happy Elves in soft white drifts. This was it, surely. Jack’s last chance at Jolly Jumbucks, gone No matter. She didn’t need them any more.

  Clare sat back, took a long, objective look at Adam, then stood to leave, praying her legs would not betray her. She stepped away from the table, paused and stepped back. She leaned down, brought her mouth close to Veronica’s cheek, as if for a kiss. ‘He’s a good fuck at first,’ she said in a loud stage whisper. ‘But he wears off.’ Then she excused herself to the room in general, and walked out with head held high.

  Clare picked a delighted Jack up from Jolly Jumbucks, barely hearing the manager’s long-winded account of the boy’s wrongdoings, and why he wasn’t welcome any more. She had a far warmer reception from Helga. ‘You should collect Samson early more often. It’d do you both the world of good.’

  Clare drove in silence, numb, like she’d been cut with a very sharp knife and was waiting for the pain to set in. By contrast, the pair in the back were in high spirits. She drove them beyond the city limits, found a stretch of bushland, and set them free. Jack ran along a river, splashed after fish in the shallows, threw sticks, skipped stones. Nobody here to report them for anti-social behaviour. No signs saying keep that dog on a leash or stay off those gardens or don’t climb the trees. Not a sign in sight. Not another person in sight, for that matter. Just them and the bush. Jack spotted some horses in a paddock and took off down the slope to investigate, with Samson at his heels. But for once, their impetuous bolt didn’t cause her stomach to lurch in fright. Out here, there were no roads, no shops, no stranger-danger. Clare could let them go. She sat down on a stump to watch.

  It was a pearl of an afternoon. From her perch on the hillside, she had a spectacular view to Moreton Bay, a shining, azure crescent in the distance, merging with a deep blue sky. Somewhere a currawong called. Paddocks stretched out along the river flats below. Jack ran to the fence with Samson and put an outstretched arm through the wire. A horse grazing nearby raised its head, stared at them for a few moments, then ambled over. Clare stood up, in readiness to sprint down the hill if Samson went in for the chase. But dog and horse simply touched friendly noses. Good on you, Samson. Clare was proud of him.

  Jack amused himself by tugging at long grass on his side of the fence, and collecting green bunches to give to the horse. It accepted these offerings with a gracious, bowed head and whiffling lips. Half an hour later, Jack still hadn’t budged from the fence. When it was time to go, Clare had a battle to tear him away, and he really cried. Not yelled. Not his usual angry screams, that sounded more like a roaring animal than a child. No, he cried, with real tears. It was a breakthrough, she knew that.

  Clare stretched out on the couch and flicked on the television. Her strategy had been
to tire the pair out, and it had worked like a charm. Jack was asleep. Asleep in his own room for once. Samson was asleep too, curled up at the foot of Jack’s bed, and it was only seven o’clock.

  Clare’s phone rang. It was Debbie.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Her voice was high and excited. ‘What Adam did, I mean. I’ve heard all about it.’

  Clare sighed. Of course she had. Who knew why? Who knew how? But Debbie had the uncanniest nose for gossip. She launched into a protracted appraisal of Clare’s relationship with Adam, founded on nothing, apparently, but the odd snippet or two of news that Clare had carelessly let slip at work. And the once or twice that Debbie had met Adam at the office. Hardly a sound basis for judgement. It was surprising then, how accurate Debbie’s assessment actually was. ‘Ooh, you just can’t trust blokes like him.’ How right she was.

  ‘I could tell the minute I saw him,’ Debbie said on the phone. ‘It’s the eyes that give them away, every time. Kind of shifty.’

  Clare tactfully refrained from reminding Debbie that she’d swooned over Adam’s dark eyes just last week. They’d been dreamy then. Now they were shifty. Clare smiled. They agreed on that much, at least.

  Clare fobbed Debbie off as kindly as she could, and tossed the phone in the direction of the coffee table. It slid along the smoked glass top and onto the floor. Exhaustion washed over her, and she left it where it fell. There was a nature documentary on the telly. A weasel chasing a hare. Clare always cringed at moments like these. She decided she was barracking for the hare this time. She didn’t always barrack for the prey animal. It depended on the day she’d had. She never did if pictures of the predator’s hungry young were shown prior to the hunt.

  This hare didn’t have much going for it. A rough crevice in a cliff served as a temporary hiding place, but it wouldn’t fool the hungry weasel for long. And worst of all, it was a dead end. The weasel sniffed out the refuge, and prowled about for a few moments, sizing things up. Then it dived for the hare. Clare jumped. Jesus, were her nerves ever shot! But to her surprise and delight, the hare leaped into the air at the very last moment. Using the weasel’s narrow head as a stepping-stone, it flung itself skywards and somersaulted in mid-air. The hare scampered to freedom, no doubt thanking its lucky stars. The weasel seemed to shrink in embarrassment, as if it knew that the cameras were upon it. Clare made up her mind, then and there, to never be the hare again.