Tom nodded. ‘You okay?’
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘I want to know why you told Taylor about my losing Jack?’
‘Righto,’ he said, climbing into the cab. ‘We’ll talk at the house. Want a lift?’ Clare shook her head. Tom leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ Tom nodded, slammed the door shut and took off up the track, with Samson racing along beside. Clare trudged uphill, a growing ball of fury inside her. It was as if he didn’t care at all that Jack was gone, didn’t care that he might never come home. It was as if he didn’t care about her. When she reached the house, Tom was unloading the truck, like nothing was wrong. Jack was gone and he’d gone shopping. Unbelievable.
‘Look out below,’ he said, and turfed a roll of chicken wire to the ground. There were more rolls of wire and some panels of Colorbond fencing.
Grandad came out of the house with his mug of tea, and gave them a wave. ‘Hope you put that stuff on my account, Tom.’
‘No way, Harry. This lot’s on me.’
Clare couldn’t believe it. Now they were both acting like nothing was wrong. She wanted to scream. Tom maneuvered the steel panels to the edge of the truck. She hadn’t seen him in a singlet before, and the strength of his arms and upper body was on display. If she hadn’t been so furious, she would have been impressed. ‘I asked you why you told Taylor about me losing Jack.’
Tom straightened his back and wiped his brow. ‘I assumed she already knew . . . that you’d told her.’
‘And give her ammunition to use against me?’ said Clare, itching for an argument. ‘Why the hell would I do that?’
‘Firstly,’ he said, in a measured voice, ‘I didn’t know it was a fight . . . and secondly, I thought you’d told her because she’s his mother and has a right to know what happens to her kid.’
‘He’s got a point, love,’ Grandad said.
Clare shook her head in disbelief. Tom was one thing, but her grandfather? Whose side was he on?
Tom went back to work as if the matter was closed.
For the first time, Clare focused on what was being unloaded from the truck. A tall chain-link gate, about two-metres high. The sort you might find in a factory fence or a dog run. Beneath the gate lay dozens of tall pine posts. Grandad emerged from the cart shed with a posthole digger and long-handled shovel. Tom jumped off the truck and kicked a roll of tall wire mesh towards the sagging, garden fence.
For a few moments she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing, and then it hit her. While she’d been moping around, imagining worst-case scenarios, blaming everybody else and feeling sorry for herself, they’d been planning to build a fence. A fence to keep Jack safe. Such a simple thing. Such a simple, loving practical thing to do. It left her completely overwhelmed. Tom caught her eye, and smiled. Clare smiled back and threw herself into the work at hand. No more simmering in an emotional stew. It felt so much better to be doing something constructive. Nobody talked much. Tom took a few calls from clients, but after determining they weren’t emergencies, he postponed their appointments or asked them to go elsewhere. By the time Grandad declared afternoon smoko, the new fence was half-finished.
An unfamiliar car turned into the gate, and for a moment Clare’s heart leapt with hope. ‘That’s just my mate, love,’ said Grandad, looking almost guilty. ‘Come to lend a hand.’
It took a little while to place the visitor. It was Sid, the wiry old whip man with the bushy white beard – the saddler from the Cobb & Co Museum at Toowoomba.
She might not have recognised him straightaway, but Sid knew her. ‘I should have known your boy had something to do with Harry. He had too keen an eye for them whips.’
Sid pulled some cold beers from an esky and handed them around. Clare took one, letting the bitter bubbles slide down her throat, letting the tension drain away. A high wind had swept the curtain of cloud from the Bunyas, framing their timeless peaks with a backdrop of infinite blue. An eagle soaring high overhead somehow put things into perspective. Eagles had hunted these same hills for thousands of years. One person’s problems didn’t amount to very much in the grand scheme of things.
Clare sat down in the sun, her back against the cart shed. Her arms ached and her shirt was damp with sweat, but the beer tasted good and things suddenly didn’t seem so dire after all. Not sitting out here in the sunshine, watching gangly foals play hide and seek around their patient mothers. Sid was telling some story about driving an eight-horse hitch back in the forties, while Grandad shook his head. ‘You’re dreaming,’ he said. ‘That was never more than a six-horse outfit.’ Then Grandad’s phone rang and, for once, he heard it. Everybody froze. Clare held her breath while he fumbled a little in answering it. ‘I’ll just get her for you . . . Taylor,’ he mouthed.
‘Hello?’ said Clare. Don’t ask if everything’s all right. Don’t act worried.
‘My car’s buggered,’ said Taylor. ‘Me and Jack won’t be back till tomorrow.’
Clare’s stomach dropped like a lift with a broken cable. ‘Are you both okay?’
‘Yeah,’ said Taylor, sounding uncertain. Clare could hear a child screaming in the background. ‘Jack’s being a little turd, that’s all.’
‘Where are you?’ asked Clare. ‘I’m coming to get you.’
‘Nah, don’t worry.’ The screaming stopped. ‘We’ll be right.’
‘I’d better come,’ urged Clare. ‘You don’t have permission for overnight access. Jack’s on a guardianship order. The department might issue a warrant.’
‘No, that’s all sorted,’ said Taylor. Now Clare could hear a rhythmic thumping sound. ‘Kim said I’m allowed to keep him.’
That couldn’t be true. Either she’d misheard Taylor or the girl was lying. ‘Where are you?’ This time she couldn’t hide the panic in her voice.
‘I don’t know the name,’ said Taylor. ‘It’s real nice, but.’ There was a loud crash and a cry. ‘Got to go.’ And that was that. Clare longed to crawl down the phone. She ignored the curious expressions of the others, and rang Kim. Damn, an answering machine.
She was about to leave a message when Kim picked up. ‘Clare? I was just about to call. Taylor’s car broke down and won’t be fixed until the morning. I found some funding for her to stay at a motel in Toowoomba.’
‘What motel?’
‘You know better than that, Clare.’
‘Just tell me, and I’ll go get John. What if she doesn’t bring him back?’
‘Apparently Taylor calls him Jack, Clare. From now on, you should use the name favoured by his mother.’ Clare had neither time nor energy to point out the absurdity of this last statement. ‘You don’t have to worry about her bringing the boy back,’ said Kim, reading her mind. ‘Taylor’s doing much better, but she still finds it difficult to parent her son. He’s proved to be quite a handful and she hasn’t coped very well.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I think Taylor’s the one who’s not all right. She’s been glowing in her praise of you though, Clare. Says you’ve done wonders with the child. Says she doesn’t know how you do it. His behaviour at the beginning of the access was apparently impeccable . . . but Taylor said it wore off, and she blames herself. Frankly, I think she’ll be secretly glad to give him back.’
She could have kissed Kim. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘How is it wonderful that Taylor can’t manage her own son?’ asked Kim. ‘She’s made some positive changes in her life and was understandably very hopeful of regaining custody. I’m afraid this access has been a disappointing reality check for her.’
And a welcome reprieve for me, thought Clare. ‘Jack does have some extremely challenging behaviours,’ she said.
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Kim.
‘He’s much less violent now,’ said Clare.
‘Really? You’ve done very well then, and I’ve no doubt she’ll return the boy tomorrow. You’re a braver woman than me. Call if there are any problems.’
Clare handed Grandad the phone, then pressed her palms against her eyes, gathering her thoughts. ‘Well?’ said Grandad. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’
‘Taylor’s car broke down,’ she told them. ‘The department’s putting her and Jack up in a Toowoomba motel overnight and they’ll be back tomorrow. She’s had a lot of trouble handling him, and said some really nice things about me. Apparently, she can’t wait to bring him home!’
Grandad’s face spread into a slow smile. ‘I told you it would work out, didn’t I?’ She gave him a quick kiss. ‘Tom, why don’t you take Clare out somewhere? Help take her mind off things. She’s such a worrier. Takes after her grandmother, I guess.’
‘But we haven’t finished here,’ said Tom.
‘Sid’s the fastest damned fencing contractor in Queensland,’ said Grandad. ‘Between him and me, we’ll be done in no time.’
Tom looked at Clare. All the feelings that had been swamped by the day’s dramas flooded back . . . In her body was a low ache, a longing to be with him, somewhere shady and cool. A longing to feel his touch on her skin again.
‘Go on,’ said Grandad. ‘Off you go.’
‘What will we do?’ Tom asked her. ‘Anything you want.’
‘Let’s go riding,’ said Clare, the desire coming to her seemingly from nowhere.
‘Riding it is, then,’ said Tom. ‘Great idea. How about you ride Sparky and I’ll take Fleur?’
‘Sparky? I’m too big for Sparky,’ she said. ‘I want to ride Fleur.’
‘Well, I certainly can’t ride a pony,’ said Tom. ‘My feet would touch the ground. Are any of your Clydies saddle-broken, Harry?’
‘There’s the stallion, Goliath. Although he hasn’t been ridden in a while.’
‘How’d he be riding out with a mare?’
‘Level headed enough, as long as the mare wasn’t in season. Then you might have a job on your hands.’
‘Goliath?’ said Sid, and slapped his thigh in amusement. ‘You won’t have any problem with your feet touching the ground on that fella. He must stand eighteen hands.’
‘Are you game, Tom?’ Harry asked.
‘My oath,’ he said, and grinned at Clare. ‘We’re going to have a ball.’
Chapter 25
Clare scaled the stockyard rails and scrambled onto Fleur’s broad back. It was the first time she’d been in the saddle since childhood and she was a little unsure. Fleur seemed impossibly tall. ‘Give it some time, Clare Bear,’ her grandfather told her, rubbing the mare’s cheek. ‘You were always a terrific little rider. Gutsy as well. It’ll come back to you.’ She leaned down, stroked Fleur’s broad neck. Tom strapped on a saddlebag, then hopped around on one leg trying to mount Goliath, who refused to stand by the fence. He was a mountain of a horse, rich bay in colour, with a wide blaze, magnificent feather and four tall white socks. It looked like Tom was trying to mount an elephant.
Grandad disappeared into the cart shed and emerged with an old wooden mounting frame. Tom scaled its steps and was finally aboard. He sat his horse with the easy grace of a man at home in the saddle. Straight back. Strong thighs. Steady fingers, firm on the reins, but soft on the mouth, the embodiment of good hands. Goliath pranced sideways, muscles rippling beneath his satin skin, ears pricked and head held high. Tom’s expression was one of calm control and Clare saw him in a whole new light. Man and horse moved with the grandeur and grace of a medieval knight and his charger. Grandad opened the gates, a look of tremendous pride on his face, and they moved off down the drive. Clare was tentative at first. It was a long way to the ground and she wasn’t exactly sure what her mare wanted to do or how to read her signals. But while she was busy thinking things through, her body was responding all by itself. Call it muscle memory, call it intuition: she didn’t know, but once she got used to it, sitting on the Percheron mare’s broad back seemed as comfortable and familiar as sitting in an armchair.
They reached the Sunshine gates, which were closed, of course. They were always closed these days. Clare gave Tom a rueful smile. ‘Someone’s going to have to get off.’
‘Maybe not.’ Tom maneuvered his giant horse parallel to the gates. It was obvious the pair spoke the same language. In a few moments he’d swung the catch and, barely shifting in his seat, hauled the gate open.
Goliath arched his neck and Tom waved them through. ‘Very gallant,’ Clare whispered to Fleur, with a smile.
Tom expertly closed the gate. They headed out onto the road and turned right. The horses walked abreast to start with, but the stallion’s long legs and impatience soon saw him forge ahead. Clare urged Fleur into a timid trot to catch up. Late afternoon sunshine fell in dappled patterns across the road. Goliath shied at the shadows, but Tom easily kept his seat. Thank goodness Fleur had more sense.
‘I love riding this horse,’ said Tom, turning in the saddle and parking his right palm on the stallion’s round rump. ‘I absolutely love it. It’s like floating on a couch in the clouds.’ Clare nodded agreement. Fleur’s gait was also slow, smooth and easy, yet there was something thrilling about sitting astride this magnificent mare. Clare was riding tall, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun.
The road rose before them in a gentle incline. ‘Let’s trot,’ said Tom.
Clare shortened her reins a little, and pressed her heels to Fleur’s side. Goliath began calmly enough, but soon he was pulling and tossing his great head.
‘Can we canter?’ asked Tom.
Clare took a deep breath. ‘Go ahead.’ The stallion took off, and Fleur followed suit. Clare gave an involuntary scream. Exhilarating and scary, to thunder down the road on these great horses, manes and tails streaming, plate-sized hooves pounding, striking sparks from the road like fire from flint stones. A pure, physical adrenaline rush, the likes of which she couldn’t remember. Really good sex perhaps, or an important, improbable victory in court. Fleur put on a sudden burst of speed, almost leaving her behind. She gasped and laughed and tried to find her rhythm . . . there it was. Grandad said it would come back, and he was right. The knowledge was latent not lost, how to meld with her horse and read its mood.
Tom wheeled Goliath about. The mighty stallion half-reared in a shaft of sunshine and the sight took Clare’s breath away. Even Fleur looked impressed. She nickered and pranced, sidling up to Goliath against Clare’s instructions. The horses touched noses. Fleur squealed and pawed the ground while Clare laughed and tugged at the reins. ‘Where are we going anyway?’ she asked, breathless.
‘It’s a surprise,’ said Tom, and he swept away. Clare and her mare followed like they were drawn on a string. Tom turned into the gate leading to the mysterious earthworks where Jack had got into trouble that morning. The horses plodded across the soft ground. Clare dared not look into the pit. She half-expected to see Jack there, his clothes dirty and his face streaked with tears. Real tears. He’d learned to cry at Currawong.
‘What is this place?’
‘Pyramid’s building a new waste water pond,’ said Tom. ‘Quimby Downs already has thirteen coal seam gas wells.’ Quimby Downs. Where had she heard that name before? ‘Harry was gutted when Pete left.’ That was it. Grandad’s friend. The one who’d raised six kids and lost his wife. The one who said he’d been driven out by the gas wells.
‘So nobody lives here any more?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Pete still runs a few head of Brangus breeders out here. Harry and I keep an eye on them for him, but he doesn’t take the cattle side of things too seriously any more. The wells give him a guaranteed annual income.’
Fleur ducked her head to snack on a patch of fresh grass. Clare gave her mare a loose rein. ‘That would be one good thing at least, if the wells come to Currawong,’ she said. ‘Grandad won’t have to work so hard any more. He can sit around and listen to the cricket, or go on a holiday while the money just rolls in.’
Tom did not look convinced. He moved his stallion up close to Fleur. ‘Do you know why Pete moved out?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Come on,’ said Tom, heading up the hill. ‘I want to show you something.’
Tom dismounted his horse in one sure, swift movement, then helped Clare down. His hands encircled her waist as she slipped from Fleur’s back. It was a shock to feel them, rougher than expected, in firm control of her descent. Clare’s heartbeat quickened. She landed a little awkwardly, and stumbled into the mare’s warm neck. For a fleeting moment she was sure she felt Tom’s hard body pressed against her, his breath on her neck. But when she turned around, he was leading Goliath into a large stockyard, its rails overgrown with willow jasmine. The stallion tore eagerly at the long grass, while Tom unbuckled his girth and hauled the mighty saddle from his back.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Clare.
Tom unstrapped the saddlebag and took out a bottle of champagne and a huge punnet of strawberries. He held them up to her, eyebrows raised. Clare laughed and tugged Fleur across to the yard. Soon the horses were both unsaddled and grazing contentedly.
‘This is such a lovely place,’ said Clare. The timber homestead’s pretty portico led to a wide verandah. A profusion of purple flowering bougainvillea almost obscured the decorative white balustrade. Above the front door, a stunning fanlight of etched, coloured glass depicted a sunrise. ‘How could Pete bear to leave?’
‘How, indeed?’ said Tom. ‘Pete built this house of pit-sawn timber. He felled the cedar and blackwood himself, up in the Bunya Mountains. See there?’ Tom pointed to the roof. ‘You can still see original hand-cut shingles beneath the corrugated iron.’ Clare murmured her admiration. ‘Wait until you look inside. It’s a real showpiece.’
Clare didn’t doubt it. ‘The house is truly beautiful,’ she said. ‘I want to live here myself.’ Fantasies of her and Tom came to mind, sitting out on the porch at twilight, sipping wine and watching Jack play.
‘You might think differently after you see this.’ Tom led her along the side of the house. A vegetable plot, rampant with weeds, stood across the path to her left. They stopped beside an outside tap, with a simple garden hose attached.
Currawong Creek Page 18