Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Wrenching herself from the search, Clare pelted back to the homestead. She slammed in through the door, allowing herself one wild, hopeful sweep of the house before calling her grandfather on the two-way. Then she called Tom. Then she called the police, the rural fire authority, the state emergency service. Lastly she called Kim Maguire and left a brief message. ‘It’s Clare Mitchell. I’ve lost Jack.’

  *

  Clare sat slumped in the kitchen chair, staring out the window into the middle distance.

  ‘What was Jack wearing?’ asked Grandad. He took pen and paper from a sideboard drawer, along with a large sheet of folded paper, its edges curled and yellowed with age.

  ‘A long-sleeved blue T-shirt with penguins,’ said Clare. ‘Blue cotton trousers with yellow stripes and black elastic-sided boots.’

  Grandad noted it down and then spread the old survey map of Currawong out on the kitchen table. ‘You head west on the quad bike, out the laneway and up this hill.’ He pointed to the map. ‘I’ll take these eastern paddocks along the creek.’

  Clare licked her lips, but they wouldn’t stay wet. Currawong Creek began high in the Bunya watershed. In places it flowed dark and deep between steep, slippery banks and its course was choked with snags. So much danger for a little boy lost. The creek, the dam, the snakes, the wild dogs and dingoes . . . the vast, indifferent Australian bush.

  ‘I’ll keep Samson with me,’ he said. She was about to protest, when she realised: Grandad wanted Samson because he was searching the creek paddocks. In her mind’s eye, the dog stood barking at a small figure floating face-down, wedged between rocks, pale hair fanned out on the water.

  ‘Take the two-way,’ he said. A vehicle pulled up outside the house, then another. Neighbours rallying to help. It felt so good to see them there. ‘Get going,’ he said, nodding towards the cars in the driveway. I’ll fill them in.’

  A group of five riders on horseback arrived, along with a boy on a motorcycle. Clare ran down to the cart shed for the bike. Grandad held Samson’s collar. The dog leaped and barked and whined, straining to race after her as she roared out the gate and up the hill towards the Bunya range. Clare scanned the ground for tracks, scanned the trees for movement, scanned the horizon, praying to see the boy’s slight silhouette against the sky.

  She checked the time. Quarter past ten. Taylor would be here in a few short hours. Where would she find the words to tell the young mother that her precious four-year-old son was lost and alone in the bush? Perhaps dead. Where would she find the strength?

  ‘Harry to Clare . . . Harry to Clare.’ The two-way crackled to life and made her jump. Clare was clumsy in her haste, sweaty hands fumbling with the receiver. ‘Grandad, any news? Have you found him?

  ‘No, love, no luck yet. I’ve bloody well gone and lost Samson as well. Was up in the front paddock, near the road, when the dog just took off through that scrubby bit and I couldn’t keep up.’

  ‘Near the road?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you think he picked up on Jack’s scent?’

  ‘Might have done, love. I just don’t know,’ he said, unable to disguise the despair in his voice.

  ‘I’m coming home, Grandad.’

  The Dalby State Emergency guys had arrived by the time she got back. Clare gave them a description of Jack and his clothes. She was going inside to fetch a photo when Samson came galloping down the drive, barking his head off.

  ‘That’s Jack’s dog,’ said Clare. ‘I think he wants us to follow him.’

  ‘What,’ said one bloke. ‘Like Lassie?’

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Clare, over her shoulder. She was already pelting down the drive. ‘Just like Lassie.’ Samson led them out to the road. The emergency vehicle pulled up beside Clare, whose heart was bursting in her chest, trying to keep pace with the racing dog. She climbed in, gasping for breath, terrified she might lose sight of him. Samson detoured through an open steel-framed gate leading into a paddock on the other side of the road. Not a farm gate, more like one you’d find in a commercial enterprise. Beyond the gate lay some sort of earthworks, an expanse of bulldozed ground in the middle of open pasture. The dog suddenly vanished from sight. One minute he was tearing across the rough, broken ground, and next . . . he was gone.

  The wheels sank into the soft earth, losing traction. Clare leaped from the car and ran to where she’d last seen Samson. And there, standing below her in a shallow pit, arms locked around the dog’s shaggy neck . . . there was Jack, alive and well. Clare felt a lightness in her limbs, weightless, unanchored. She slid down the steep bank and swept the little boy into her arms. Jack looked at her reproachfully, face smudged with dirt. ‘You lost me.’

  Clare nodded, smiling through her tears. ‘But I’ve found you now.’

  Jack scrunched shut his eyes and buried his face in her neck.

  ‘I won’t lose you again, Jacky,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  Chapter 24

  Clare rushed into the bathroom with a towel and clean clothes for Jack. Tom was back, sitting on the edge of the ancient, clawed bath, helping Jack to build a bubble tower. The little boy was giggling and squealing as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Tom stood and gave Clare a swift kiss. ‘Talk to you later.’ Clare nodded absently, still in a daze, barely registering Tom’s lips against hers, the burn of them. She hoisted Jack from the tub and wrapped him in a towel. Please let the clock on the wall be fast. It couldn’t be one o’clock already. She hadn’t told Jack about his mother’s visit yet.

  It hadn’t helped that she’d been on the phone to Kim Maguire for half the morning. Clare had rung her the minute she’d found Jack. She’d meant it to be a brief call, informing Kim of the good news. She’d hoped recriminations could wait. No such luck.

  ‘What happened today is completely unacceptable,’ Kim had said. There was an air of exaggerated outrage about her words, but Clare could hardly disagree. ‘I’m writing a full incident report, as we speak.’

  You’ll enjoy that, thought Clare. People like Kim were much more at home filing forms than dealing with people face to face.

  ‘And I have a great many questions,’ said Kim.

  Clare had spent a humiliating half hour admitting her neglect, only to discover that Kim’s concern was more for herself, than for Jack. ‘You betrayed my faith in you in a major way, Clare. You exposed the department, and potentially exposed me, to a law suit.’

  Should Clare argue? Should she point out that Jack was back home and had suffered no harm? Should she advise Kim that as she’d placed the child in Clare’s care – and after conducting a proper assessment, however brief – there was no breach of any duty of care that could sustain a legal action? Not like when Kim had tried to place Jack at Brighthaven. That was a textbook case of failure to protect.

  But Clare had known how to play this game. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Kim,’ she’d said. ‘You bent over backwards to accommodate me, rushed through the kinship assessment. You’ve been so wonderful, and then I go and cause you all this grief.’

  Kim sounded mollified. ‘Can you tell me what steps you’ll take to ensure John doesn’t wander away again?’ As Clare talked about childproof gate locks and not allowing Jack outside unsupervised she pictured Kim ticking off the boxes. Kim asked if there was a garage door that allowed access to the street. She’d clearly forgotten that they were talking about a country property, where you couldn’t even see the street from the house. She’d also forgotten that Clare had a dirty, tired, frightened little boy to deal with, one who was currently rocking on her lap. ‘Well goodbye, Clare.’ At last. ‘Thank god you found the child before his mother arrived.’

  That was one thing, at least, that they’d both agreed on.

  The dogs were barking now, signalling a visitor. She glanced out the window, in time to see Taylor emerge form a dinged-up Holden station wagon. Surely that thing wasn’t roadworthy? Tom greeted Taylor, and waylaid her with conversation. Good, that would
buy her some time. Clare finished dressing Jack and sat down on the bathroom floor beside him. ‘Listen to me, Jacky. We have a ­visitor . . . Mummy’s here.’

  The little boy stopped trying to climb back into the bath and just stared, his eyes large. Why on earth hadn’t she told him this earlier, given him some time to get used to the idea? Clare ran through the possible reactions she’d been warned to expect. For some reason, the one reaction she wasn’t prepared for was one of unbridled joy. Jack ran from the room. Clare scribbled Grandad’s landline and mobile numbers on a piece of paper and followed the boy outside.

  Jack was already wrapped in his mother’s arms. The four dogs romped around them, but Taylor didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed. Clare took a closer look. She looked much healthier than the first time they’d met. Her long chestnut hair was clean and brushed. Her face, once so pale, was flushed pink with pleasure. Her limbs were a little rounder, her face a little fuller . . . her eyes, still hard, but so much brighter. And right now those eyes glowed with unmistakable love and pride as she gazed at her little son. She looked up as Clare approached, without seeming to recognise her.

  ‘I’m Clare,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘We met at my office.’

  ‘So sorry my kid ran off on you,’ said Taylor, turning on a smile. ‘He can be a such little bugger like that.’

  Clare was stunned. It was an absurd apology. Clare was the one who’d lost Jack. It had all been her fault. Nevertheless, the girl sounded perfectly genuine, heartfelt even. But there was something much more confusing. How the hell did Taylor know about Jack’s disappearance in the first place?

  ‘Where’d you find him?’ Taylor had directed that question to Tom. He ruffled Jack’s hair. ‘I wasn’t there. Clare will fill you in.’ With a nod, he left. She tried to make sense of it. Tom. Tom had told Taylor that she’d lost Jack. He’d handed Taylor a powerful weapon to use against her, something even that witch Kim Maguire hadn’t been prepared to do.

  ‘Come inside,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll make you a coffee, and explain what happened.’ If she could just convince the girl to spend her visit here at Currawong.

  ‘Nah,’ said Taylor. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She put Jack down and lit a cigarette. ‘We’re going to the circus.’

  ‘What circus?’

  ‘Toowoomba, was it? I love Jacky’s hair. It’s long now, isn’t it? He looks like a little girl.’

  ‘Toowoomba?’ Clare’s mouth went dry. Toowoomba was more than two hours away. ‘You can’t . . .’ started Clare, brain scrambling to find a logical excuse for keeping Jack home.

  ‘He’s my son,’ said Taylor, eyes narrowing. There was a new edge to her voice. ‘I can take him if I want.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Clare, forcing herself to smile. ‘It’s been such a long drive, that’s all. I thought you might like a coffee first . . . or maybe a cold drink?’

  It wasn’t working. Taylor looked wary now. ‘No thanks,’ she said, avoiding eye contact.

  Clare pulled the piece of paper from her pocket and handed it over. ‘You can get me on these numbers,’ she said. ‘My old one won’t work. I lost my mobile.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Taylor.

  ‘So . . . you don’t have a phone?’

  Taylor shook her head.

  ‘What if I need to call you?’

  ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ She shoved the piece of paper into her pocket, then dropped the smoldering butt of her cigarette and ground it beneath her heel.

  Such a filthy habit. Clare bit her tongue, trying to keep track of where the butt lay on the drive, so she could retrieve it later.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Taylor said.

  Clare’s hands tightened into fists. It was intolerable to think this girl could just strap Jack into that deathtrap of a car and drive off. Clare looked to Jack. Maybe he wouldn’t want to go? Maybe he would fight and scream to stay.

  ‘Bye bye, Clare.’ Jack waved and climbed into the car with heartbreaking alacrity.

  Taylor’s eyes lit up. ‘He’s talking? Does he talk much?’

  ‘More and more each day,’ said Clare.

  ‘Cool,’ said Taylor. She secured Jack in his seat, then turned back to Clare. Her hard eyes softened. ‘Very cool.’

  ‘Samsam,’ called Jack. The dog leaped in too and took up his customary position beside Jack, on the cracked linoleum back seat.

  Taylor stroked his head. ‘Can we take the dog?’ she asked. ‘That’d be fun. Jacky loves dogs.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Clare. She dragged her hands through hair, limp with sweat and desperation. Take it easy, she told herself. If you’re not careful, you’ll make things worse. ‘Samson better stay here,’ said Clare. She meant to sound bright and upbeat, but her voice was wavering. ‘They wouldn’t let him into the circus.’ For a moment Taylor looked like she wanted to argue the point. Then she turfed Samson out of the car. Jack whined and began to bang his head. Taylor shoved a Chupa Chup in his mouth then climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘When will you be back?’ Clare asked.

  ‘See ya,’ said Taylor and turned the key.

  ‘I need to tell you about his routine.’ Taylor lit up another cigarette. ‘Jack needs to be home by six.’

  Taylor wound up her window and took off down the hill, wheels spinning on the gravel. Samson launched off after them and Clare grabbed his collar just in time. The dog howled. Clare choked back a sob. She’d broken the solemn promise she’d made to the little boy less than two hours ago. She’d promised not to lose him again, and yet now, for the second time that day, Jack was gone.

  *

  Clare sat at the kitchen table with Samson’s head cradled in her lap. All those hours to fill. Minutes crawled by. Clare checked the clock so frequently that sometimes no time seemed to have passed at all. The worst thing was that Taylor had given no indication of when she’d be back – or even if she’d be back. Clare fought back tears. A huge chunk of her seemed to have vanished into a vast black hole, along with the child. This must be how it felt to have your legs amputated, or your house burn down. The shaft of sunlight streaming through the open window dimmed and then disappeared altogether. Clare shivered and hugged herself. Jack didn’t even have his jumper.

  Grandad came in, hung his hat on the peg by the door, then pulled up a chair opposite. ‘Jack’s mother came for him, then?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When’s he due back?’

  ‘Tonight sometime,’ said Clare.

  Grandad reached across the table for her hand. ‘It’ll be all right, love. The lad will be back home before you know it.’

  Clare shook her head. ‘What would you know about it, Grandad? This is killing me.’ She stood and paced the room. For a moment she didn’t realize that she’d translated her mean-spirited thought into words.

  Grandad withdrew his hand and slumped a little in his chair. He rubbed his brow as if warding off a headache. ‘You might give me a bit more credit,’ he said. ‘I’ve done my fair share of waiting for people.’

  Clare swallowed hard. He was right. Grandad had been waiting for his daughter, her mother for a very long time. Waiting for Ryan . . . waiting for her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sitting back down. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

  He extended his hand once more, and this time she took it. ‘I know you didn’t, love. We’re all on tenterhooks. Would you like a cuppa?’

  Clare gazed into her grandfather’s worried eyes and felt ashamed. This was hard on him too. She had no monopoly on loving the little boy. Today had been one heart-wrenching drama after another, and yet she’d barely given a thought to how Grandad was.

  Clare stood and threw her arms around him, kissing his rough cheek. He smelt comfortingly of horses and sweat. ‘How about I make you one instead.’ She was rewarded with a smile. She loved the way his hollow cheeks filled out when he smiled. He was suddenly a young man again, with a twinkle in his eye. Now Samson licked her hand. His expression was one
of almost human concern. Maybe she should stop worrying about Jack and start appreciating what she still had. Grandad and Samson . . . and Tom. But did she really have Tom? He’d betrayed her, blurted out to Jack’s birth mother, of all people, how Clare had lost her son. How she’d let him wander away. There was one good thing, though. Jack was no longer in care on a voluntary basis. She was grateful that Kim had moved so quickly on that front. The state of Queensland was now Jack’s legal guardian and Taylor would be technically kidnapping her son if she failed to return him to Currawong.

  Clare made the tea, scalding her hand with steam in the process. A glance out the window showed Tom’s jeep, still parked down the hill outside the surgery. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said, handing Grandad his tea. His smile had vanished, replaced with a look of great weariness. ‘Won’t be long.’ Clare kissed him again, called Samson, and headed out the door.

  Despite the sunshine, a cold breeze had blown in from nowhere. Swirling twigs and fallen leaves formed sad little willy-willies, which died as soon as they began. Clare rubbed her goose-bumped arms. Tom wasn’t at the clinic. A closed sign hung on the surgery door and a chain stretched across the car park entrance.

  Samson padded restlessly about, whining and sniffing the breeze. She ran to crouch beside him, burying her face in his dark ruff. When Samson had first arrived, back in Brisbane, he’d seemed like such a silly pup: destructive, demanding, annoying. She’d only taken him on out of a sense of duty to her dead father. And now? Now, between the two of them, Samson seemed by far the cleverest and wisest.

  The dog pricked his ears. Clare heard it too, the thrum of an approaching car. She checked her watch. Only two o’clock, but perhaps Taylor had changed her mind and was bringing Jack home early. Her heart made a joyful leap and she and Samson ran for the Sunshine gates. But as the vehicle came into view, Clare’s hope died. It was her grandfather’s tray-back truck, with Tom at the wheel. Clare reached him as he got out to open the gate.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’ Her voice sounded angry but she didn’t care.