Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Clare crouched down and threw her arms around the neck of the surprised dog, in one mighty hug.

  Tom was studying the video camera. ‘Got it.’ He showed Clare the footage of Jack. There it was, captured for anybody to see, audio and all. The little boy’s voice sounded clear as a bell. ‘Look, Jack,’ said Tom.

  The child stared at the screen in wonder. He stabbed it with his finger. ‘Jack,’ he said, his voice small and uncertain. He searched Clare’s face for reassurance. Clare released Samson from her arms. The dog jumped boldly up at the table, eyeing off the rounds of toast this time.

  ‘Get out of it,’ growled Grandad, and shoved him down. Samson slunk off, realising that for some reason his charmed breakfast-stealing life was over.

  ‘Here’s your answer,’ said Tom, holding up the camera. ‘The department won’t be able to argue with this sort of evidence.’

  That was true, it was wonderful, but a question still burned in Clare’s brain. ‘How did you know that would happen? I saw you before. You were pleased before Jack even spoke. And why do you just happen to have a video camera?’

  Tom didn’t answer her. She looked at Grandad who was showing a sudden interest in his shoes.

  ‘It’ll all be clear in a minute,’ said Tom, stowing the camera in his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘Come on.’ He took Clare’s hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise.’ He tousled Jack’s snowy head. ‘You too.’ Tom led them out of the house, past the barn to the stockyards.

  Clare couldn’t believe her eyes. Smudge. Her old pony was dead; she knew that. But the pretty, dappled-grey imposter standing in the yard was the spitting image.

  ‘Recognise him?’ asked Tom. ‘It’s Sparky. I bought him for Jack.’ If Clare hadn’t already been keen on Tom, this extraordinary, unexpected gift might well have been the clincher. It was like being a kid again, to see the pony there. Like having a boundless, bright future stretching before her and not a care in the world. She wanted to climb onto Sparky’s back, bury her face in his neck and inhale his warm, equine scent.

  ‘That pony’s a dead ringer for Smudge,’ said Grandad, shaking his head. ‘It’s almost like the old girl’s come back.’ He rubbed his eyes and turned away. Were those tears?

  ‘Come on in, Jacky,’ said Tom. He opened the gate with one hand and beckoned the boy inside the yard. His other hand held the camera. He was videotaping the meeting. So that’s what the camera had been for.

  Jack approached Sparky with care, just like he’d been taught to do. The pony bent his head and snorted softly, inspecting the little boy with his muzzle. Jack flashed Clare a brilliant smile. He stroked the pony’s crest, running his tiny fingers through his thick mane. With Fleur, even on tiptoe, he could barely reach her shoulder.

  ‘Sparky certainly is more his size,’ said Clare. ‘I won’t mind Jack riding him.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Tom. ‘Riding’s the last thing I’ll teach him, not the first. These two need to get to know each other, learn how to connect on the ground. They need to build a relationship. Riding will just be the icing on the cake.’

  ‘You’re the expert,’ said Clare. ‘But if Jack’s not riding Sparky, maybe I will. Right now I’ve got this urge to take him for a swim in the dam.’

  Tom smiled and gave her the video recorder. Then he took a head collar, showed Jack how to fit it, and snapped on a leading rein.

  ‘Shall we get started?’

  The little boy nodded and a sunny smile lit up his face. He looked particularly angelic today. No two ways about it, Tom was a miracle worker. Or maybe it was the horses, or the dogs, or just the space? There was room here at Currawong. Room for Jack to be himself, room for him to grow. Clare thought back to her cramped apartment, to the television that ruled the lounge room. She thought of Samson and the wretched inside doggy loo with its fake tree. She pictured the treadmill, with Samson running on the spot like a mad thing. Running and running and never getting anywhere. No place for a dog . . . or for Jack. Maybe it was no place for her either?

  But it was only a matter of time before Samson would be back on the treadmill. Her dream job awaited her in Brisbane, in just a few months’ time. She was living a fiction here, building a fanciful future upon the shifting sands of an overactive imagination. Or more ridiculous still, built on a delusional encounter with an enchanted forest. She could just imagine Roderick’s face when she told him that magic trees had told her to stay here at Currawong – to stay here with Tom and Jack. Jack isn’t your child, he’d say, and he’d be right. What was the point of giving him a pony? Just like Clare and Samson, he’d soon be back in Brisbane. With his mother. With Taylor. Where was Taylor, anyway? Roderick had promised to call the minute there was word. An unspeakable hope slipped into Clare’s consciousness from where it had been lurking at the edges of her mind. Maybe Taylor would stay away forever?

  Chapter 21

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Clare asked for the tenth time.

  ‘Positive,’ snapped Harry. ‘Now you get along to that meeting and see if somebody can’t talk some sense into you.’

  Clare sighed. Her grandfather had been impossible today. They’d argued. She’d been trying to point out the advantages of at least allowing Pyramid Energy to drill some test wells at Currawong. Clare had done her research, even visiting Pyramid’s office in Dalby to clarify a few points. Under the Petroleum and Gas (Production and Safety) Act 2004 and the Petroleum Act 1923, the miners held all the cards. Providing they produced a current authority to prospect and had issued a notice of entry, Pyramid had every legal right to enter Currawong. But what Grandad didn’t seem to understand was that they also had statutory responsibilities. They had to provide compensation for well heads and minimise environmental impacts. There were strict regulations with respect to fencing, stock and weed control. Surrounding land could still be used for grazing and a duty of care existed for land rehabilitation at the completion of drilling. If Pyramid were coming in anyway, it made more sense to work with them than to fight them. And according to the company’s landholder liaison officer in Dalby, there was no doubt they were coming in. He’d shown her the map. Currawong and its immediate surrounds was coloured red – an area estimated to be of high production value.

  But talking to her grandfather was like talking to a brick wall. ‘They’ll ruin the place,’ he’d said. ‘Pollute the air, the ground, the water, just like at Quimby Downs. Pete Porter’s had wells there for two years now. Won’t even let his dog drink the bore water any more . . . and he’s been crook for ages.’

  Grandad was going to blame every coincidence on the presence of the wells, that much was obvious. But she hadn’t put it to him as bluntly as that. She’d chosen her words very carefully. ‘The wells are constantly monitored,’ Clare had said, hoping to reassure him. ‘Not just by Pyramid, but by external Government inspections. I think you’re worrying about nothing.’

  Grandad had snorted. ‘Nothing? Is it nothing that Pete’s packed up and gone to live with his daughter in Dalby? He’s been my neighbour at Quimby Downs all my life. Best friend a man could ask for. Built the house with his own two hands. Brought up six children, nursed his wife there until she died. Thought the only way he’d leave his land was in a box, same as me. But no – he’s gone. Driven out by those bloody gas wells.’

  It was no use. He wasn’t listening. She’d tried a different tack. ‘The compensation payments might actually make it easier for you to stay on at Currawong.’

  ‘I don’t want their bloody compensation payments!’ He was shouting now. ‘I just want to be left alone. Your grandmother would turn in her grave to hear you talk like that.’

  He’d glared at her like she was the enemy. That last remark had cut deep. Was this just about the gas wells? A pool of guilt lurking just below the surface bubbled up. For the last sixteen years all she’d done was leave him alone. Was he having a go at her? Clare hated upsetting her grandfather like this, but it was no use him putting his head in the
sand. The gas wells were coming whether he liked it or not. ‘If I promise to get together the best, most up-to-date information on the pros and cons of what Pyramid’s proposing,’ said Clare, ‘will you at least read it?’

  He’d looked suddenly cagey. ‘Go along with Tom to the Shut the Gate meeting tonight. I’ll mind Jack. Keep an open mind and see what you make of it. Do that for me and I promise to read whatever you want. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ she’d said. It had seemed like a fair arrangement.

  It was almost seven o’clock when Tom marched in the door. ‘Thought I’d never get away on time tonight. That Mrs Potts would talk the hind legs off a donkey. Reckon I could just about recite the pedigree of every one of her budgies by now.’

  Jack pulled at Grandad’s sleeve and pointed to the top of the kitchen dresser. The old man reached up, took down a board game and set it on the table. ‘What do you say?’ he asked the little boy.

  ‘Ta,’ said Jack, pulling off the lid.

  Grandad beamed at Clare, and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘He’s coming along in leaps and bounds, this one.’

  ‘He certainly is,’ said Clare. She kissed her grandfather’s cheek. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the meeting instead?’

  He held up his hand. ‘A deal’s a deal. And to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit crook today. I’d just as soon stay home and play Snakes and Ladders with Jacky.’

  ‘Crook how?’ asked Clare. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ll live,’ he said. ‘Get her out of here, will you, Tom? Jack and me are busy.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, and ducked into the bathroom to brush her hair in the mirror.

  ‘The lass won’t be a minute,’ she heard Grandad say. ‘Probably putting on her face.’

  ‘If she didn’t do a thing,’ said Tom, ‘she’d be streets ahead.’

  Grandad chuckled appreciatively and Clare emerged, feeling both embarrassed and flattered. Tom saluted and took hold of her hand in an almost proprietary way. Grandad took in the gesture with a long, considered stare and Clare held her breath until he cracked a smile.

  ‘See you, Jacky,’ she said, and waved goodbye as Tom pulled her out the door.

  The meeting was at the Merriang Soldiers Memorial Hall on the outskirts of town, a small weatherboard building with a gabled porch reminiscent of a Californian bungalow. The car park was overflowing, and they had to stop up the street a way.

  ‘It’s a good turnout,’ said Clare.

  ‘The local MP’s coming,’ said Tom. ‘Gordon McCrae. We hope he’ll take our fight to parliament.’

  Inside, chairs had been set up, facing the stage. A document tray full of fat envelopes stood on a card table by the door. It was labelled CSG Submissions. An elderly lady in front of them dropped an envelope into the tray. Basildon Bond, the same elegant brand of stationery her grandmother had used for letters and thank you notes. It was addressed in ink, a graceful, flowing hand. Another man dumped a box file beside the tray. Tom slipped an envelope from his own pocket and added it to the pile.

  A teenage girl was playing John Williamson’s ‘True Blue’ on a piano in the corner. In proper bush fashion, benches and tables groaned with plates of sandwiches and cakes. An urn bubbled beside the sink in the kitchen.

  ‘We should have brought a plate,’ said Clare. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of bringing one,’ said Tom, popping an Anzac biscuit in his mouth. ‘I’m in the habit of taking one home.’ He ate another biscuit. ‘I love these things.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Clare, and found a seat. Tom squeezed in beside her. ‘Is that another biscuit?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s always too much food,’ he mumbled, his mouth crammed full. ‘I’m doing them a favour.’

  The piano stopped and a man brought a microphone and stand onto the stage and people began to take their seats. A loud buzz of conversation came from the back of the hall. Clare turned to see what it was about. An unassuming middle-aged man, grey at the temples, had arrived, and was clearly the centre of attention. That must be Gordon McCrae, the MP.

  A young man with dreadlocks, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, thanked everyone for coming, and the crowd greeted him with an enthusiastic round of applause. ‘We’ll get housekeeping matters out of the way first,’ he said, ‘and then Gordon will talk about why he’s here. He’s vowed to take your questions into parliament.’ There was a little cheer.

  ‘Who’s the hippy?’ whispered Clare.

  ‘Gavin Butler, the group convener.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like a farmer.’

  ‘He’s not,’ said Tom. ‘Gavin’s an artist – a painter. This gas business has led to some strange bedfellows. Farmers and greenies both want to do the right thing by their land. There’s more sense in them teaming up than fighting, I guess. And it’s not just the greenies. There’s both sides of politics here as well.’

  Clare was impressed. This kind of community consensus was rare. Only a powerful groundswell of protest would fuel it. Maybe there was more to the gas wells than she’d imagined?

  Now Gordon McCrae began to speak. He gave some background about where things stood politically, and the leverage of independents in the current house. The audience listened politely, although there was a grim set to many of the faces. ‘There’s a lot of power in the cross bench,’ he said, ‘So let’s use it.’ A general nod of approval came from the crowd. ‘Now, I’d like to hear from you folks who’ve come along tonight,’ said Gordon. ‘I’ve done my own research, discussed it with the bigwigs on both sides of the house. Sat on a parliamentary committee or two on the subject. What I want now is some anecdotal evidence about what it’s like out here on the ground. So . . . stories please, folks.’

  One by one people stood and spoke. Clare knew better than to be swayed by emotional rhetoric. There was plenty of that on show. But some accounts were genuinely disturbing: bores losing pressure, groundwater tasting of metal and salt, sick stock and failed crops. Some people claimed health impacts, too. Reports of nose bleeds, and sore eyes and rashes. How much was truth, she wondered, and how much was paranoia?

  After almost two hours, Gavin closed the meeting. The MP stepped down from the stage to enthusiastic applause and cries of ‘You tell ’em Gordon,’ and ‘We’re depending on you, mate.’ The crowd descended on the refreshments at the back of the hall and Tom joined them. Clare hovered at the edges, observing. Nobody approached her, even though she recognised quite a few people. Anne Brady for instance, and the basset man, Brian Baker. They all seemed too preoccupied to make idle chit-chat with a virtual stranger.

  Tom caught her eye and separated himself from the cake table. ‘Try these rum balls.’ She shook her head. Tom tempted her, holding a chocolate sphere to her lips. She couldn’t resist snapping at it. He pulled the sweet away, teasing. Clare got it on the third try and Tom went back for more.

  People were still lining up to put their case to Gordon. The relentless fears they held were beginning to unnerve her. She studied the poster of a gas plant beneath storm clouds that was pinned to the wall. The odd machinery squatted, alien and strange, over a familiar patchwork of crops. A sinister image, carefully designed that way. Clare knew all this but found herself swayed nonetheless. It wouldn’t take much for her to embrace their alarm.

  Clare caught Tom’s eye. He swallowed two dainty sandwiches at once and made his way back to her. ‘Can we go?’ she asked. Tom nodded and said some swift goodbyes. Then taking her elbow he guided her out the door. How different he was to Adam. Half the time with Adam she’d felt like she was just tagging along, a bit of an afterthought. She hadn’t realised quite how unimportant he’d made her feel, until she had Tom for comparison. By contrast, his need for her was plain.

  ‘That was pretty intense,’ she said when they were back in the car.

  Tom slung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. ‘You want to see intense?’

  He kissed her slow
and hard, then cradled her face in his hands. Butterflies stirred in her stomach, but a curious group of people passing on the footpath caused Clare to pull away. She wished she hadn’t. The sky was darkening outside and the air was sweet. Inside the car she could hear Tom shifting in his seat and the sound of their breathing. Why had she moved away? What if she’d put him off?

  ‘The night’s still young,’ said Clare. ‘Shall we go back to your place?’ Tom didn’t respond.

  Oh. Had she screwed things up? She tried again. ‘Grandad won’t mind if we don’t go straight home.’ His hands were on the wheel now, instead of on her. Perhaps he was just overwhelmed. Her skin, where he’d touched her, felt alive.

  Finally he spoke. ‘My place is no good.’

  Why was he suddenly playing hard to get? The anticipation of his touch in the dark made her bold, and she slid her hand onto his knee. Tom’s expression was hard to read in the fading light.

  ‘What are we waiting for,’ he said at last and turned on the ignition. The wheels spun on the gravel roadside. In a few minutes they pulled up outside a raised bungalow, a typical Queenslander, with flower beds and an ornamental woven-wire fence. The gabled iron roof was framed by the fading sunset. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this. She tried to imagine absent-minded, disorganised Tom pruning roses, and failed.

  They walked up the twilight path and the porch light switched on as if by magic. Timber steps led to a verandah swathed in flowering jasmine. The air hung heavy with its rich fragrance. ‘This is lovely,’ said Clare, taking his hand. Tom pulled her into the shadows and kissed her until every nerve in her body screamed for more. She drank in his warmth, his strength, the delicious force of his desire, and her head swam like she’d had too much wine.

  As his fingers found the buttons of her shirt, Clare caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A huge toad leaped from the darkness and snapped up a beetle near her shoe. She let out an involuntary scream.