‘I’ve got it,’ said Tom. To her horror, he scooped up the creature and vanished inside, leaving her alone on the verandah. Clare tentatively pushed through the screen door just in time to see Tom disappear into the kitchen at the end of the hall.
‘Get that bugger out of here,’ yelled a voice, a female voice.
Who was here? Clare tiptoed down the corridor and peeked into the kitchen. A pretty young woman was standing with her back against the fridge. A slight muffin top spilled over the waistline of her low-slung jeans. Wavy blonde hair tumbled to her waist and generous breasts spilled from a tight boob-tube. Who was she?
Tom stood with the toad held out like a sacrifice. The creature lay acquiescent in his hands. ‘You’re not putting that thing in the freezer,’ the woman said defiantly. ‘Mum nearly had a heart attack when she found that other one.’
Time for some answers. ‘Hello,’ said Clare, entering the kitchen and introducing herself. She offered her hand, but the girl just eyed her suspiciously. ‘Tom,’ said Clare, indicating the young woman with a slight nod. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure . . .?’
‘Clare,’ he said. ‘This is Bonnie. Bonnie . . . Clare.’ Bonnie. The name sounded more like a collie than a person. ‘This is actually Bonnie’s home,’ said Tom. ‘I just rent a room.’
So that was it. His peculiar behaviour all made sense now. ‘Ahh . . .’ said Clare. ‘You didn’t tell me.’ She made no effort to hide the edge of rebuke in her voice. Tom shrugged and looked a little helpless. ‘I’m sorry—’ he began, but was cut short by a scream. A middle-aged woman barged into the kitchen, eyes blazing.
‘Get that infernal creature out of here,’ she shouted. ‘I went for the ice-cream last night and found two of them things instead. Stiff as boards, they were. What do you want with frozen toads anyway? Are you doing some sort of mad experiments?’
Clare stifled a laugh.
‘I’ve run out of Hop Stop,’ said Tom. ‘Cooling toads in the fridge overnight, followed by freezing, is the next best way to kill them.’
‘Fridge?’ said the woman, a look of mounting revulsion on her face.
‘You can’t put them straight into the freezer,’ said Tom, in his most reasonable voice. ‘Exposing fully conscious toads to extreme temperatures causes painful ice crystals in the skin. It’s not humane.’
The woman’s horror turned to mirth. ‘Humane?’ she said with a cackling laugh. ‘My George doesn’t worry about being humane. He practises his golf swing on the little bleeders.’
The toad squirmed. ‘You’re putting it in the fridge?’ said Clare.
‘Not any more, he’s not,’ said Bonnie.
‘The toads don’t know they shouldn’t be here,’ said Tom, calming his amphibian charge by flipping it over and rubbing its belly. The toad appeared to fall asleep. ‘Ultimately, all the damage they do is our fault for introducing them. We have to get rid of them, true, but we have to show them as much compassion as we would any other animal.’
The older woman looked pointedly at Bonnie. ‘I always said he was a little loopy.’
Tom retreated, complete with cane toad, and Clare followed him out the back door. ‘That was interesting,’ she said, failing to restrain a giggle. ‘Not quite how I expected the evening to turn out, but interesting just the same.’
‘I should have said,’ mumbled Tom. ‘About Bonnie, I mean.’
‘Yes, you should have.’
He took the toad to the car, found a cloth bag in the back and placed the unfortunate creature inside. ‘I’ll drop it off at the surgery after I take you home.’ Clare nodded. They sat for a bit, while stars wheeled above them in a show of celestial brilliance. The desire she’d felt when he kissed her in the shadows was undiminished, in spite of the strange scene in the kitchen. Clare reached for him, but he shrank away.
‘I can’t touch you,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘My hands, they’re starting to sting. I must have triggered her poison glands.’
‘You mean the toad? How do you know it’s a she?’
‘Size,’ he said. ‘The females are bigger.’ Tom uselessly wiped his hands on his trousers, then settled them back on the wheel. ‘I’d better get you home.’
Clare nodded, then leaned over and carefully kissed his cheek. ‘Tom,’ she said, while buckling her belt. ‘You really . . . really need to get your own place.’
It wasn’t much past ten when Clare got in, but Grandad had already gone to bed. Clare crept into Jack’s room, just like she’d done each night since she’d been at Currawong. It was hard to believe that she’d once seen Jack as an imposition.
She softly scolded Samson, who was stretched out beside the child, sharing his pillow. Jack was squashed up against the wall, one arm flung over the dog’s neck. ‘Come on, you. Back where you belong.’ A sheepish Samson commando-crawled backwards, down to the foot of the bed. Clare rearranged the little boy’s sleepy limbs, and repositioned his head more comfortably. Jack’s fine white-gold hair lay like a silky halo on his pillow. How long it was getting now. He’d need a haircut soon. There was that little place in town with the funny name, but where did she stand on that? Would Taylor mind? Did she have the right, as his carer, to take Jack to Click Go The Shears? A sharp stab of resentment caught her by surprise. Why should she have to agonise over something so simple, so ordinary? For almost two months now she’d been Jack’s mother in every sense of the word, hadn’t she? She’d even left her job, sacrificed her life in Brisbane to bring Jack to this place of healing.
A small voice whispered that this wasn’t quite true, that she was rewriting history. You came to Currawong because you were curious, it said, and because Adam cheated on you. She tried to ignore the voice, but it grew more and more insistent. You have no real place in Jack’s life, it whispered. It’s futile to think along those lines. You’re his temporary carer, nothing more.
That was the law and nobody understood it better than she did. Taylor could come back at any time. If she had made a fair fist of improving her life, Jack would be hers. And that of course, was just how it should be. Clare would take the job with Paul Dunbar and her sojourn at Currawong would end. Whatever was going on with Tom would probably end too. She stood there in the dark, still feeling Tom’s touch on her skin, his lips on hers. Maybe Jack’s social worker had been right all along. Getting attached to Jack was a recipe for heartache. And maybe getting attached to Tom was just as risky. Her picket-fence fantasy of staying in Merriang, of settling into some kind of life with Tom and Jack, was just that – a fantasy. An idyllic silly dream. Wasn’t it?
She sat down on the edge of Jack’s bed as a wild, hopeful notion took hold. To hell with her job. To hell with Taylor. If she could keep Jack she would. If she could stay here with him and Grandad . . . and Tom, she would. She’d stay and build a new life, a different future. Jack stirred in his sleep. Clare swept the little boy’s hair off his face, and her imagination took flight. It wasn’t an impossible dream, after all. It could really happen. She was suddenly sure that she and Tom would make it. It was early days, and she didn’t have much evidence, but her heart was shouting that he was the one. Not the carefully protected heart of her past, but one that had broken free of its safeguards: a heart that longed to recklessly love this boy, this man, this place.
All she could do was hope that Taylor would not return to claim her son.
Chapter 22
The ringing phone jolted Clare from sleep so abruptly that her dream was still vivid, the horror still real. She’d been kilometres beneath the earth, swimming in a warm underground ocean. Jack was there too, on the beach, laughing and throwing sticks into the shallows for Samson. A tranquil scene. But while they played, the waves changed direction, breaking at an unnatural angle to the shore. It was then she saw it – a dark stain in the distance, expanding at incredible speed. She’d called to them, but Jack had just waved, and cast a stick, way out into the waves. Samson bounded after it, swimming strongly out to sea. ‘Jacky, no!’ But like a
flash the child was in the water too, dog paddling towards the darkness. The black water assumed a concave shape – a monstrous, roaring vortex, swallowing all before it. Samson, then Jack vanished down its gaping throat. A primal scream broke from her lips. The whirlpool had sucked the ocean dry, and left her standing in a desolate wasteland. Nothing left but pale skeletons dotting the slimy seabed.
The phone call summoned her home. Clare shook her head, still groggy from sleep, and looked at the time on her alarm clock. Six o’clock in the morning. Who’d be ringing this early? She stumbled out to the hall.
‘Jesus Christ, Clare . . . You’re a hard woman to get hold of.’
It was preposterous to hear her boss’s voice coming from the clunky old Currawong phone. ‘Roderick . . . Hi.’ A worm turned in her stomach.
‘Don’t sound so surprised, Clare. You’re on the Darling Downs, not on the rim of the known world.’
Clare didn’t know what to say. She was fond of Roderick. More than fond. His encouragement and passion had inspired her ambition for the bar. But she didn’t want to hear from him now. Not now. Not here.
‘Good news,’ he said. ‘Taylor’s back.’
It was like he’d punched her. ‘That’s good,’ she managed. ‘How is Taylor? How’d she go in court?’
‘She’s well and truly headed in the right direction,’ he said. ‘Good behaviour bond and a treatment order. We’ve found her safe housing, she’s dumped the violent boyfriend and, best of all, she’s back on the methadone program.’
‘You’ve been busy,’ was all Clare said.
‘It’s all gone far better than we could have hoped. I reckon our Miss Taylor Brown is a fine contender for getting that kid back.’
Clare’s hand trembled. She couldn’t hold the phone steady. Bile rose in her throat, while some far distant part of her mind was begrudgingly acknowledging the girl’s achievements and commitment to her son. Clare subjected Roderick to a searching inquisition, desperate for every detail. Roderick met her barrage of questions with silence. Finally he said, ‘Settle down, Clare. I’ve already breached Taylor’s confidentiality by telling you what I have. Let’s not compound the offence, eh?’
‘Of course,’ said Clare. ‘Sorry.’
‘Will keep you posted. I don’t mean to raise your hopes too soon. Taylor’s got a way to go yet.’ She could almost hear him beaming. ‘Meanwhile, how about sending me through some photos of John for his mum? And the department’s organised for Taylor to go down there for a visit, so just make sure I can contact you, okay. Is this landline the best number to get you on? And what the hell happened to your mobile? It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth.’
If only! thought Clare. ‘My mobile’s kaput.’ Not a bad thing either. She liked not having a phone, liked not being at everybody’s beck and call. ‘It fell out of a tree and broke and there are no phone shops in Merriang, but you’ll always get me on this number.’
‘I will, will I?’ said Roderick. ‘That’s funny . . . because I’ve rung you half a dozen times on this number in the past week. Some old bloke always answers. Your grandfather, I’m guessing? Left messages, but you never get back to me. Why else do you think I’m ringing you so goddamn early in the morning?’
Clare felt a warm flush of love for Grandad. He should have told her about the calls – of course he should have, but she knew why he hadn’t. He’d wanted to keep her and Jack close. They were co-conspirators now.
‘Grandad’s forgetful.’
‘That’s not good enough, Clare. I need to be able to reach you. And what sort of an excuse is my phone fell out of a tree? It’s about as believable as the dog ate my homework.’
Perfectly believable, thought Clare. After all, a dog had eaten her phone.
‘You will get me on this number,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a word to my grandfather.’
‘You do that, Clare,’ said Roderick.
There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘How’s the new guy doing?’ she asked. ‘Davis. Filling my shoes all right?’
‘Clare . . . it’s almost November and we’re losing you to Dunbar next year anyway.’
‘Yes.’
‘I could offer Davis a full-time position now. He’s not you, Clare, but he’s good. I’d be happy to have him on the team. What do you say?’ Clare didn’t say anything. ‘We’ll solve next year’s staffing problem and it’ll give you time to ease Taylor back into a parenting role.’
His words wrenched at her. It hurt, no doubt about it, hurt that Roderick had replaced her so easily. But of course he was right. One way or another, she was leaving Fortitude Valley Legal Aid. She should be grateful that her position would be so swiftly and capably filled. What was it that Grandad had said the other day? Nobody’s indispensable. Nobody but Grandad, she’d wanted to say. Clare could no longer imagine life without his warmth and wisdom.
‘When’s Taylor coming?’ she asked.
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to ring,’ said Roderick. ‘She’s coming tomorrow, Clare, Thursday. Thank god I finally got hold of you. There’ll be hell to pay if Kim Maguire organises this access, and it falls through. Stay by the phone, won’t you. She’ll be calling you this morning.’
‘Of course,’ mumbled Clare and they said goodbye. Clare sat down on a kitchen chair and tried to put herself back together. Part of her was proud of Taylor – in awe of her. How difficult it must have been, struggling alone with her addiction, battling on for the sake of her son. Her son. Jack was Taylor’s son. Not hers.
Chapter 23
Thursday morning. Clare stared at her scrambled eggs with no appetite. She pushed them around her plate, then gazed out the window. The sun shone, but to the north an odd shelf of grey clouds had obscured the Bunya range.
Jack was biting his vegemite toast into the shape of a gun. ‘Bang,’ he said, and shot her. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Have you told the lad yet?’ asked her grandfather. Jack looked up.
She shook her head miserably.
‘Want me to do it?’ Grandad asked.
‘No,’ said Clare, her voice sharper than intended. ‘Of course not.’ She hated the look of disapproval on Grandad’s face. Currawong and guilt so often seemed to go hand in hand, even if the guilt was self-inflicted. Jack pushed his plate away and hopped down from the table, still clutching his toast gun.
‘Bang,’ he said, and chased Samson out the door. If only Tom was here. Clare didn’t quite know why, but it would have been easier to tell Jack with him around. But he’d left at daybreak to go to Oakey and wouldn’t be back until after lunch. Taylor would be here by then. One o’clock, that’s what Kim had said. Taylor had got hold of a car somehow and had permission to take Jack out for the afternoon. Clare could barely let herself think about it. What if Taylor was using after all? She might be high, or drunk. She might shoot up with Jack in the car. She might crash . . . She might leave with him and never come back.
‘I’m driving out to check the broodmares . . . taking the dogs. Want me to bring the lad with me? Once you tell him about his mother, that is. Give you some time to yourself?’
‘No,’ said Clare swiftly. ‘I’m spending this morning with Jack.’
Grandad wrapped his arms around her in a fierce embrace. ‘Things will work out, love. I’m only as far as the two-way, if you need me.’ He whistled and Samson cannoned back into the kitchen, followed by the Dalmatians. ‘Come on, you lot,’ said Grandad, and they all vanished out the door.
Clare had half-expected Jack to answer Grandad’s whistle, along with the dogs. She glanced at the time. Nine o’clock. Taylor would have begun her long drive to Merriang. She couldn’t put off telling Jack about his mother’s visit any longer. Kim Maguire’s warning echoed in her ear: ‘A child like John probably won’t understand, but it’s still wise to prepare for some acting out, just in case.’
Jack would understand all right. Clare was woefully unprepared to deal with the situation and, for once, she’d listened carefully to wh
at Kim had to say. ‘Access visits can trigger a child’s repressed feelings of anger, sadness and despair, all associated with separation, and loss of their parents. This may manifest in tantrums or anxiety. John might be hyperactive and agitated, or conversely quiet and depressed.’
Great. In other words, anything could happen. That was a big help.
Clare finished her tea. Breakfast dishes could wait. It was time to get it over and done with. The day was bright, with a scattering of high cloud and the scent of jasmine on the breeze. An early chorus of crickets thrummed in the garden, and a courting currawong piped a tune. Such a perfect day, such a pervasive sense of peace. Surely nothing could go wrong on such a day. Maybe she was blowing Taylor’s visit right out of proportion.
‘Jack,’ called Clare. ‘Ja-cky.’ He wasn’t building roads in the load of builder’s sand that Grandad had dumped beside the stable for him. He wasn’t in the feed room, looking for mice. He wasn’t in the cart shed, making cubbies, or playing in the hay, or hunting for eggs in the chook house. Where was he? The big gates across the drive were securely closed. Maybe he was inside after all. But as Clare turned back towards the house, something made her stomach lurch. The little garden gate leading to the paddocks hung wide open. A spidery fear crept up her spine, and her heart hammered at her ribs. ‘Jack!’ Clare ran out the gate, screaming his name.
Sparky . . . that’s where he’d be. She ran down to the day yard. Jack’s pony dozed in the shade of a Myall tree, his satin coat twitching away flies, but the little boy wasn’t with him. If only Samson were here. She searched the stables, the stockyards, the turnout paddocks. Nothing. She combed the nearby fields at a run, startling the grazing Clydesdales, causing them to frisk away with their big, slow-motion trot and lumbering hooves. Not a sign. Then, with lungs bursting, with breath rasping in shallow, painful spurts, Clare sprinted to the dam. No. Not that. Not her dream.
‘Jack!’ She yelled for him. Yelled so hard and so long and so often that her voice grew hoarse and faded to a husky whisper.
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