Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Jacky,’ yelled Clare. ‘Come away!’

  He ignored her. Instead he hugged the creature tighter to his body, while the tip of its prehensile tail twined around his wrist.

  The vet grasped the snake’s neck, and brought its head up, next to his own. Reptile and man regarded each other for a moment. Then in an awful, mesmerising dance, that involved passing the snake’s head rhythmically from hand to hand and around his back, he unwound the snake from his torso. Clare hated herself for thinking it, but his actions were oddly sexy. She shivered. His tanned face cracked into an expression of complete satisfaction. ‘I’m Tom, by the way. Tom Lord, the new vet. Help me get her into the surgery, will you?’

  ‘Are you insane?’ said Clare. ‘Aren’t you going to take it outside?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Tom said. ‘Not when I went to so much trouble to catch her.’

  ‘You caught it?’ said Clare. ‘I thought it caught you.’

  Jack was doing a surprisingly good job, helping manoeuvre the snake through the door and onto a stainless steel table. Tom wrestled its head into a rubber funnel attached to a plastic tube. The tube was in turn attached to some sort of machine. ‘Press that button,’ the vet said, looking straight at Clare and pointing to a red switch. The snake flipped, almost knocking Jack over. Clare was paralysed with fear. Tom raised his voice a notch. ‘If you want me to put this snake to sleep, you’d better bloody well press that button. That red one.’

  Clare hesitated for a moment longer, then pressed it. She felt unaccountably sorry for the snake.

  ‘Will it be quick?’ asked Clare. ‘And painless?’

  ‘Relatively so. I’m using Isoflurane.’ Tom adjusted the tube. ‘It’s gold standard for anaesthetising reptiles and there’s no oesophageal or tracheal irritation. That’s the problem with most of these gases.’

  Clare was astounded. How many people would care enough to humanely put down a snake? She waited with bated breath. For a little while, nothing happened. Jack still hung on, and the snake seemed as recalcitrant and active as ever. ‘It can take a few minutes. She doesn’t breathe as fast as a mammal.’ The vet flashed Clare a killer smile. ‘Won’t be long now.’ He was really quite good-looking, in a rough and ready sort of way. Sandy blond hair worn in a no-nonsense, almost military, buzz cut. Rugged tanned features. The material of his blue scrubs strained across broad shoulders and outlined the arch of his upper back.

  The snake sagged in the middle. ‘Get that wooden board in the corner and lay it on the table.’ Clare obliged, and he laid the front third of the snake across it. The vet gently disengaged Jack’s arms from their death grip. ‘Good job,’ he said. Jack beamed with pride. The snake looked lifeless.

  ‘Why the board?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Metal tables suck heat from reptiles and she’s weak enough already. Wood will keep her that little bit warmer.’

  Weak? The snake was more than weak. It was dead, wasn’t it? Why would you want to keep a dead snake warm?

  Jack was watching the man’s every move with rapt attention. Clare had never seen him so focused. It had certainly been an adventure for him. The thought that it might not have turned out as well as it did made Clare shudder. Tom scrubbed forearms and hands, pulled on surgical gloves, then stopped and stared at Clare as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Something’s happened to your face,’ he said. ‘It’s all puffed up and bleeding. You’d better let me look at that afterwards.’

  Clare felt her nose and ignored his comment. Jack was patting the snake. It was good for children to learn about life and death through animals. For her it had been Grandma’s chickens. Collecting eggs one morning, she’d found a hen lying quite still in the nest box. It took some time for Grandma to convince her that it wasn’t just asleep. For the first time she’d seen what dead looked like. Clare overcame an instinctive reluctance to touch the snake. She stroked its body, surprised by the skin’s dry silken texture. Its scales, reflected in the light, took on a transparent violet glow, dazzling in its brilliance.

  Tom followed her gaze. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she? Gets her name from that purple sheen. Amethystine python, although most people call them scrub pythons. Not nearly as poetic.’

  ‘It’s enormous. How long do you think?’ asked Clare.

  The vet sized up the reptile. ‘Four metres, maybe? But she’s just a tiddler. I’ve seen ones up north go eight and a half.’

  Jack gave the python a shake.

  ‘Sorry, darling. It won’t wake up,’ she told the little boy in a consoling voice.

  ‘That’s right, mate,’ said Tom. ‘It won’t, thanks to this little beauty.’ He inserted a thin tube into the snake’s mouth and tied it in place. ‘This goes down her trachea,’ he said. ‘It’s what she’ll breathe through. I’m running oxygen and Isoflurane down it so she’ll stay asleep, like your mum said. But don’t worry. She’s going to be fine afterwards. Now, let’s get her X-rayed.’ The vet wheeled the table across the room, positioned it beneath the arm of a tall, grey machine, and heaved the prone reptile onto her back.

  ‘You mean the snake’s not dead?’ asked Clare.

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘Not after all the bloody trouble I’ve gone to keeping her alive.’

  ‘I thought you were . . .’ Clare stopped, unwilling to admit her mistake, but Tom didn’t appear to be listening. Jack was still stroking the snake. She sprang for him and gathered the child protectively in her arms. Her reward was a head-butt in the face. Jack squirmed free and returned to the snake’s side.

  Tom glanced up. ‘She’s completely harmless,’ he said, then added with a grin, ‘right now.’ Clare didn’t know how to respond. For the first time, she became curious about the procedure this strange man was performing. His hands expertly massaged the reptile’s belly as if feeling for something. His large fingers were surprisingly tender, as they made their way down the body, probing gently as they went. ‘Aha.’ He disinfected a section of pale belly scales, then made a 10 cm incision. By now, she was as fascinated as Jack.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the vet. ‘She can’t feel a thing.’ He mopped away a small amount of blood. ‘There’s the problem.’ The final slice of the scalpel revealed three dimpled spheres, lined up along the reptile’s gut. What were they? Eggs? With a pair of tongs, Tom eased one of the objects out. It wasn’t an egg at all. It was a golf ball.

  ‘How in heaven’s name?’ said Clare.

  ‘Old Harry used them as decoy eggs in the hen house. To encourage the new pullets to lay in their nest boxes. Those chickens weren’t the only ones fooled. Madam here thought she was onto a good thing.’ Harry, Clare’s grandfather. Tom eased out a second ball. ‘This morning Harry found the nest empty, and her in the corner with a bellyache. He put two and two together and called me.’ He eased out the final ball and lined it up beside the others. They were covered in mucous and blood. The sight made Clare sick.

  Tom prepared to suture the wound. ‘Come on, Jack,’ she said. ‘Time to go.’ The boy shook his head violently.

  ‘Hold on. I’ll be with you in a minute,’ said Tom, indicating Samson. ‘He’s a fine-looking dog. What seems to be the problem?’

  For a moment Clare didn’t understand. ‘I’m not here as a client . . .’ she began.

  ‘Snake,’ said Jack.

  Had she imagined it?

  ‘A special kind of snake,’ said Tom. ‘A python.’

  ‘Python,’ said Jack.

  ‘That’s right. You’ve got a smart kid here.’

  ‘He spoke,’ whispered Clare, mainly to herself. ‘Jack spoke.’

  Tom tied off the stitches and eased the tube from the snake’s throat. ‘So you’re Jack,’ he said, giving him a warm smile. ‘And what’s your mum’s name?’

  ‘I’m Clare,’ she said, still stunned that Jack had spoken.

  ‘Clare?’ said the vet. ‘Harry’s granddaughter? Didn’t know you had a son.’ She nodded. The nod was for the first bit. It was a nod for, Yes, I�
�m Harry’s granddaughter, not for, Yes, I have a son. She opened her mouth to clear up the misunderstanding, but Tom was talking again. ‘The old man’s been waiting for you all day. Never seen him so excited. You didn’t have to stop in and say hello to me first.’ Clare sighed. Tom really was exasperating. He coiled the sleeping snake into a pet crate, then swung Jack into the air. The little boy giggled with glee. ‘I’ll come up to the house with you two. Update Harry on his snake.’

  She should say no. She should tell him to take his ugly portable buildings and his snakes and his vicious dogs and leave her alone. Maybe it was the shock of Jack speaking, or maybe she had concussion from falling out of the tree, but for whatever reason, she allowed Tom to carry Jack out the door.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, untying Samson. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter 10

  Time had stood still. The cream and green cupboards, the matching enamel stove, the battered timber table top – all just as they had once been. Clare might have been eleven again. The funny thing was that she couldn’t have recalled a single thing about that kitchen if you’d asked her an hour earlier. But now? Now she recognised each tiny detail.

  ‘Harry,’ yelled Tom, still holding Jack aloft, ‘got something for you.’

  Her grandfather emerged from the hallway. Unlike the kitchen, he had changed. The few strands on his head were white now. His clothes hung loose on a skinny frame and the years showed on his lined face. But he still stood tall, unstooped and, when he saw Clare, his smile was as warm as ever.

  ‘Well, look at you,’ he said, taking her in, not seeming to notice her dishevelled hair and bruised face. ‘My little Clare all grown up and quite a beauty, wouldn’t you say so, Tom?’

  For some ridiculous reason, Clare found herself waiting on Tom’s response. She turned her head away a fraction in embarrassment.

  ‘That I would, Harry,’ came the answer. ‘That I would.’ Clare bit her lip. The man had some hide.

  Harry strode over and embraced Clare, holding her for the longest time.

  Clare blinked back tears. What a precious sensation, to be encircled in her grandfather’s protective arms; it was a feeling to hold on to. ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he said. She felt a shaft of shame. ‘And I’m sorry about Grandma.’ She wanted to say, ‘I’m sorry for not being here, for not caring enough,’ but the words were like a weight she couldn’t lift.

  ‘And who have we here?’ asked Harry.

  ‘This is Jack,’ said Clare. ‘The little boy I was telling you about.’

  Comprehension dawned on Tom’s face. ‘So he’s not yours then?’

  ‘I’m just his temporary foster parent.’

  ‘I’ll bet that’s quite a story,’ Tom said, his smile broadening. ‘She’s got a dog too, Harry. He’s outside. A black German shepherd pup.’

  ‘Well, bring him in,’ said her grandfather. ‘The more the merrier.’

  Tom put Jack down. ‘I’ll go get him.’ The little boy followed Tom out the door, ignoring Clare’s call. ‘He’s fine with me,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll be back in a jiffy’.

  Clare hesitated, then nodded and let Jack go. She was too worn out to argue. Truthfully, it was a relief to abdicate responsibility, even if it was just for a minute, even if it was to that insensitive idiot.

  Being alone with her grandfather left Clare a little tongue-tied. It had been easier with Tom there, helping the conversation along, but now she felt the gulf of years between them. What to do? What to say? They were strangers.

  Harry put an ancient kettle on the cast iron range and indicated for her to sit. Clare sensed an awkwardness in him too. He fussed about the kitchen while they waited for the others to come back. Clare was on to her second cup of Grandad’s strong, sweet tea, when Samson poked his head in the door. She froze. The blue heeler was right behind him, a deep growl in its throat. She jumped to her feet, tipping over her chair and retreating against the wall.

  ‘Don’t mind Red,’ said Harry, with a chuckle. ‘He’s daft. Growling’s his way of saying hello.’ Grandad sounded like the daft one. The dog advanced, a snarl on its lips. Clare edged around the wall towards the hallway. Thank god Jack was still outside. Harry gave her a bemused look. ‘And that snarl? . . . That’s just him smiling. People get the wrong idea.’ As if to prove Grandad’s point, the heeler jumped up and licked his hand, still making the rumbling sound. ‘See? He’s like a cat purring.’

  Clare began to relax. Had she really got it so wrong? The heeler turned his attention to her now and she steeled herself to stand still. He licked her toes where they poked through her sandals, making her flinch. He looked up and whined. She tried to imagine his bare-toothed snarl as a grin. ‘Hello, boy,’ she said hesitantly, smothering a squeal as the heeler jumped up for a pat.

  Grandad was rummaging round in a cupboard. ‘I’ve got biscuits somewhere.’

  Samson and Jack tumbled inside and played chasey around the kitchen table. The heeler joined in the fun, growling and snarling and wagging his tail. Clare composed herself and sat down just as Tom came in. He took a seat beside her and watched the game, shaking his head. ‘That sure is one, crazy mixed-up dog.’ He glanced up, laughing, and caught her watching him. She flushed a little, and hoped it didn’t show. ‘Let me take a look at those cuts to your face,’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘What happened, anyway?’ he asked. ‘You come a cropper off a horse or something?’

  She nodded. Anything to avoid admitting that she’d climbed a tree to escape his stupid, smiling dog, and had promptly fallen out of it.

  Grandad produced a packet of Iced VoVos, offered one to Jack, and shook the rest onto a plate. She took one and examined it. Pink fondant icing atop a wheat biscuit, a strip of strawberry jam running down the middle, and the entire thing dusted with coconut. She turned it over. The back still bore the fancy moulded design that she remembered from childhood. A memory of sharing these same biscuits around this same table hit her so powerfully that Clare half-expected Grandma to walk right in the door.

  ‘You were right about the python,’ said Tom, helping himself to a biscuit. ‘I just cut three golf balls from her belly. Had a hard time holding her. These two were a big help.’ He stood up and dusted crumbs off his shirt. ‘Better get back to it. You coming to the meeting tonight, Harry?’

  ‘Planned to,’ said Harry, ‘but I wouldn’t miss the first evening with my granddaughter, not even for the cakes.’

  ‘Righto,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Never know your luck. I might bring you all back a lamington.’ He waved an expansive goodbye and left, with Red trotting at his heels.

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked Clare. ‘This meeting?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ said Harry. Samson sat at his feet, squirming and smiling as Harry rubbed his ears. ‘How about I find this scoundrel of yours a bone and the lad some toys, eh?’ His face, alight with pleasure, already looked ten years younger.

  Why had she left it so long between visits? They’d lost too many years, years that should have been filled with love, and family, and a sense of belonging. All of it sacrificed to her father’s bitterness, and the altar of her own ambition.

  Harry emerged a few minutes later with a huge cardboard carton. He put it on the kitchen floor and called Jack over from where he was watching flies buzz at the window. Here was a treasure trove of memories – a wind up jack-in-the-box that used to frighten her, a fleet of hand-carved trucks, a wooden skittle set. Jack began collecting up the Matchbox cars. Samson picked up a worn gollywog in his mouth. It wore a purple dress that she remembered Grandma knitting. Harry took an enormous marrowbone from the fridge and offered it to Samson. ‘This’ll suit you better.’ He rescued the doll, and Samson took the bone into the corner. Clare watched the boy and the dog, both of them relaxed and happy in a way that just didn’t happen back at her apartment – like they’d broken free of something.

  Clare gazed around the kitchen. Sixteen years of
memories held in its walls and she didn’t know what they were. She could guess. Grandma cooking her famous roasts. Grandad dancing her around the table. Card games and flower pressing. Writing and wrapping all those unopened cards and presents. Grandad taking over the cooking as Grandma got sick. Boiled eggs and cups of tea. Chicken soup and toast. Clare could guess but she didn’t know. She wanted to ask her grandfather about it, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Not when she looked at the door and realised just how long it had been since Grandma had walked through it.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Mum?’

  He gave her a heavy-hearted smile. ‘Not often, love. She’s all caught up in her own world. No time for her old dad.’ Or her children, thought Clare. But who was she to judge? She’d been just as bad, abandoning Harry for all these years . . . and Grandma. That was unforgiveable. She was suddenly horrified to think she’d never see her again, as if the dreadful finality of her grandmother’s death had only just hit home. Guilty tears pricked at her eyes. But all that she could see in Grandad’s eyes was love.

  Clare spent a magical afternoon showing Jack around. They pushed each other on the tyre swing in the garden. They played the giant xylophone of Condamine bells in the cart shed until her ears rang. They collected eggs from the chook shed and picked the first broad beans of spring. They climbed on the haystack and practised whip cracking. The little boy was entranced by each activity. ‘That’s a fine stockwhip,’ Grandad said, when he came to find them. Clare told him an edited version of their day at the Cobb & Co museum. It turned out he knew the saddler. ‘I thought it was one of Sid’s.’

  Grandad and Jack took the horses some carrots, while Clare returned to the house to make up Ryan’s old bed in the verandah room. When she opened the curtains, spectacular orange trumpets of winter-flowering flame creeper crowded against the rusted flywire.