Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Harry let out a long relieved sigh. ‘Come on then, lad. Let’s get back to Currawong. See if Clare has got little Jack back yet. I can tell you, Tom, that girl’s going to need you more than ever if Taylor takes the boy away.’

  Tom nodded. It would hurt Clare to lose Jack now. It would really hurt, but he’d be there for her. Harry could depend on him to stay right by her side.

  Chapter 28

  Clare sat out on the verandah, watching the sun rise towards its zenith, trying to get a handle on her seething emotions. Vignettes of her and Tom, together in the garden at Quimby Downs, crowded into her mind. Samson stood on watch beside her. Jack still wasn’t back. Clare ignored the kernel of fear, buried deep in her belly, buried behind the images of her and Tom and the sweet smell of the grass beneath them. Nothing would go wrong today. Jack would be home soon, she just knew it. The phone in the hall rang. Clare tripped over Samson in her rush to answer it. Hallelujah, it was Taylor.

  ‘We’re just about to leave Dalby,’ said Taylor.

  Dalby was an hour away. It still seemed like forever to wait, but in the mood Clare was in, it was easy to stay positive. They were on their way home, that was the main thing.

  ‘How’s Jack?’ asked Clare.

  ‘He’s good,’ said Taylor, but she sounded doubtful. Was that a child yelling in the background? ‘He’s been naughty in a shop, though . . . can you speak to the lady?’

  ‘Hello?’ said an unfamiliar voice. ‘I’m Jane Palmer. I own the gift shop in Main Street, Dalby. There’s a little boy here who’s done some damage. Broken quite a lot of china. My husband has had to restrain him to let his mother make this call or else there’d be nothing left intact in the store.’ The woman stopped talking, giving Clare time for the information to sink in. ‘His mother says you know her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare swiftly. ‘Yes, I know her.’

  ‘She says you might be prepared to pay for the damage and the stolen item. Otherwise, I’m calling the police. I’m afraid she allowed the boy to leave with a ceramic figurine hidden beneath his shirt.’

  Taylor was on a good behaviour bond. A theft charge would be a breach of that order. It would be so easy to put her back in court. So easy to put Taylor out of contention for custody. But that wasn’t the way that she wanted to win Jack. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll pay. Let me fetch my credit card.’ Ten minutes and five hundred dollars later, Clare hung up the phone. It didn’t matter about the money. All that mattered was that Jack came home and, from the sound of it, that was what Taylor wanted too. Clare turfed the dogs from the kitchen and took some cold meat from the fridge. A few biscuits on a plate wouldn’t be enough. Taylor would need something more substantial before she began the long drive back to Brisbane. Clare pulled out lettuce and tomatoes and began buttering slices of bread.

  Tom. A momentary lapse in concentration and the insistent idea of him almost chased Jack from her thoughts. Sex with Tom had been mind-blowingly amazing. Clare considered herself a woman of the world. She’d had her fair share of lovers. Adam had been the best of them – up until yesterday. He was experienced and considerate in bed. He took an immense degree of pride in his work, for that was how he approached it. More than once, when their relationship hit a rough patch, Adam’s talent in the bedroom had brought her back to him. Hands down the best make-up sex she’d ever had. The best sex she’d ever had, for that matter.

  But now? Now she knew she’d just been going through the motions. Adam was a skilled technician, nothing more. By contrast, sex with Tom was a wild, multi-dimensional ride, her lust and emotions tangled together so tightly that they could not be undone. Never before had she so truly inhabited each inch of her body. A constant, all-consuming desire for him ran through her veins, blotting everything else out. At times it even blotted out her yearning for Jack. And to top it off, in the soft afterglow, Tom had said that he loved her. He’d confessed it so earnestly, so early, so convincingly. He’d taken her completely by surprise. No matter how involved Adam was in the moment, no matter how many times an I love you was ripped from his ecstatic body, there had always been a time of him pulling away afterwards. How she’d craved for Adam to say those three words and really mean them. How she’d hoped it might be more than sex and convenience.

  But Tom? Tom turned her inside out with emotional and physical passion, then calmly announced that he loved her, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. She hadn’t believed it at the time. It had been too soon, too unexpected, but she tingled now at the memory. This is what she’d been missing. A straightforward, genuine man who wore his heart on his sleeve. A man who rejoiced in simple animal pleasure, then fell in love just as naturally. Clare laughed out loud with the sheer delight of it all.

  The phone rang again. What sort of trouble had Taylor got herself into now? But it wasn’t Taylor. It was Adam. Adam, who thought himself such a stud in bed. Adam, who didn’t actually have a clue about the rapturous, satisfying experience that was top sex. She banished another image of the sunlight on Tom’s bare back, and tried to concentrate on the call.

  ‘How are things?’ She guessed already that things weren’t good. There was a side of Adam she hadn’t seen before, a fragile, needy side. His text messages invariably described how low he felt and begged her to come back to Brisbane. We could try again, he’d say. This time will different. Clare had ignored them. They weren’t in the spirit of ‘staying friends’. Time to end this pretense; it was only giving him false hope. Still, part of her would miss talking to him. It offered a window on the world back in Brisbane, a chance to catch up on the latest legal news. Currawong was heaven on earth, no doubt about it. She loved the space and the silence, but she remained curious about her old life.

  ‘How’s your new job?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s boring as all fuck.’ He snorted. ‘God, I miss it, Clare . . . the challenge of the courtroom. The thrill of it. Pyramid have got me monitoring compliance, advising on law changes that might impact their business, drafting contracts, that sort of thing. It’s deadly dull.’

  Clare froze. Pyramid Energy? Adam was working for the enemy? ‘What are you doing right now?’

  ‘Redrafting confidentiality clauses on their contracts with landholders. Strengthening penalties. By the time I’m finished, those poor saps will be tied down so tight they won’t be able to tell their mother what they had for breakfast without being sued.’

  She felt her jaw tense. It’s not Adam’s fault, she told herself. It’s his job. In the same circumstances she’d do the same thing. If she hadn’t been to Quimby Downs, that was. If she hadn’t seen the water there turn to liquid fire. If she didn’t know that a man named Pete Porter, her grandfather’s dear old friend, was living out his twilight years in effective exile. Forced from the graceful homestead he’d built with his own hands, forced to leave his land, his livelihood, his community, his connections . . . and threatened with loss of his compensation payout if he complained.

  The dogs began to bark. Was Jack home? ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Clare.

  ‘So soon? When the hell are you coming back to Brisbane? I miss you, Clare.’

  Absence apparently, did make the heart grow fonder. Or was Adam’s ego still smarting from their breakup? But she didn’t ask him to stop calling. She didn’t ask him to stop his lovelorn texts. It was just too intriguing, him working at Pyramid. So instead she said, ‘Good to hear from you, Adam. Don’t be a stranger.’

  Jack burst in the door and hurled himself into her arms. She fell to her knees and embraced him, speechless with delight. Samson arrived and covered them both with doggy kisses. Jack squealed and hugged him tight. ‘Samsam,’ he declared, and turned to Taylor. ‘Mummy, Samsam.’ The young woman stood uncertainly in the doorway. She looked like she’d been crying.

  ‘He’s happy to see you,’ said Taylor. It was part observation, part accusation. Clare wrested herself away from Jack, leaving him wrestling on the floor with Samson. ‘That’s a nice dog,’ said Taylor. ‘I
like dogs. So does Jack.’ She took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Can I smoke?’

  It was ironic. Taylor had run off to have a cigarette when they’d first met and Clare had wound up with Jack. How grateful she was for that now. Maybe Taylor would do it again. Go out for a cigarette and not come back. Part of Clare wanted that, a big part, but then she looked at the girl’s drawn face. She looked utterly exhausted. ‘Go on,’ said Clare. She looked for a saucer in the kitchen dresser to use as an ashtray, and found something unexpected: a proper ashtray. It was tucked in behind Grandad’s little teapot, the one he used when making a cuppa just for himself. She put it on the table. Taylor gave her a nervous smile and lit up. Clare pulled out a chair, indicating for Taylor to sit. ‘Coffee?’ After a few moments hesitation, the girl nodded and took a seat. ‘Are you hungry?’ Clare put on the kettle and took the plate of sandwiches from the fridge.

  ‘I think he missed your dog.’ Taylor pulled a small, pottery German shepherd dog from her bag. ‘Now I know why he took this.’ She pushed the figurine towards Clare. ‘It’s yours now.’

  Clare poured two coffees and sat down. ‘Thank you.’ She ran a finger down the little dog’s smooth back.

  ‘I saw that hot guy down the drive. Tom. Why’s he got a rifle?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘He’s a vet,’ said Clare. ‘My grandfather has an old cow that’s sick . . .’

  ‘So, what, he’s going to shoot it?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘He’s going to put it out of its misery.’

  ‘That poor cow,’ said Taylor. She looked like she was going to start crying again.

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ said Clare. ‘Jack’s father . . . is he dead?’

  Taylor nodded, her expression hard to read. ‘An overdose. Jacky found him . . . He was only two, he wouldn’t remember.’

  The little boy heard his name and ran over, cheeks rosy with excitement. ‘Bikkies,’ he said. Clare took a tin down from the cupboard and gave the boy two Malt‘o’milks, one for Samson and one for himself. ‘Ta,’ said Jack, and began playing keepings off with Samson, who seemed determined to get both biscuits. She offered the tin to Taylor, who took two as well and dipped one in her coffee.

  ‘Now there’s something I want to ask you,’ said Taylor. ‘How do you do it? How do you get him to behave like that?’

  The question caught her off guard. ‘It’s not that simple,’ said Clare. How to describe in a few sentences, the fraught process that had underpinned Jack’s progress? So much had been trial and error. All the puzzling and problem-solving. All the time and thought and gentle boundary-setting. Samson and Currawong and Tom’s amazing equine therapy, and maybe a bit of magic thrown in. All these things had played their part.

  ‘Jack was real good when I picked him up,’ said Taylor. ‘Talking and everything. But he went crazy at the circus, yelling and kicking people. By this morning, he’d stopped speaking. I couldn’t get him to do anything. Then he trashed that shop . . .’

  ‘I think it’s mainly this place,’ said Clare. ‘All the room . . . and he loves Samson, and the other animals.’

  Taylor nodded. ‘I always wanted to get him a dog.’ She butted out her cigarette and took a sandwich. ‘I told you he liked dogs, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did,’ agreed Clare.

  ‘Could you teach me how to do it?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get Jack to do what I say?’

  ‘I said it’s not that simple.’

  ‘You just don’t want me to know,’ said Taylor. ‘You don’t want me to have Jack.’

  There was plenty of truth in that, but Clare felt obliged to protest. Jack came over and climbed on her knee. ‘Don’t fight,’ he said and pinched Clare’s lips together.

  ‘You tell her, Jacky,’ said Taylor, looking pleased with her son.

  Jack ducked under the table and appeared on Taylor’s knee. The girl tried to cuddle him, but he hit her in the face and ran off. Taylor’s face fell and Clare’s heart went out to her. ‘I didn’t know much about kids at first either,’ she said, ‘but I did read a lot about parenting.’ Clare went into the lounge room and came back with a book. She gave it to Taylor. ‘Transforming the Difficult Child. It’s great. You can have it if you like.’

  Taylor’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘So this taught you how to get Jack to behave?’

  ‘It was a big help, yes,’ said Clare.

  ‘I’m not usually that great with books,’ said Taylor. ‘But I’ll read this one. I don’t care how long it takes me.’

  Clare couldn’t help but like this girl.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ said Taylor. ‘Can I take some sandwiches?’

  Clare stood up and packed two rounds of sandwiches in a paper bag. She threw in some biscuits, a banana and a boxed juice. Taylor needed someone to look after her almost as much as Jack did.

  ‘Um, can I borrow some petrol money? Twenty dollars would do.’ Clare found her bag and handed over a fifty. ‘Thanks,’ said Taylor. ‘Bye, Jacky. Mummy has to go.’

  Jack ran over and wrapped himself about her leg, just like he used to do with Clare. ‘I’ll see you soon, Jacky. Be good now. Maybe Mummy could ring you up and tell you a bed-time story one night?’ She opened up the little boy’s clenched fist and put her lips to the palm of his hand. ‘Put this kiss under your pillow for when you need it.’ She closed his fingers. Jack stared at his hand for a second and then began punching her. Taylor looked pleadingly at Clare, who helped her disengage the little boy. Jack ran to the corner, where he began to rhythmically bang his head against the wall, accompanied by an angry singsong wailing. ‘Just go,’ said Clare. Taylor disappeared out the door, face white as a sheet. A few seconds later, the old Holden coughed to life and roared off. Taylor must have lost her muffler somewhere. Clare went to sit on the floor beside Jack. He hadn’t behaved like this in weeks, but she knew better than to try and interrupt him until he calmed down. Every time his head hit the wall, she flinched.

  Samson trotted over, whining his displeasure. Firstly he squeezed in between her and Jack, and then between him and the plasterboard, so that the little boy’s head thumped into his soft back instead of against the hard wall. ‘Good boy,’ said Clare, and stroked Samson’s fur. A few head bangs later, Jack collapsed against Samson and started to cry. Proper crying, with proper tears. Clare heaved a big, relieved sigh. She knew how to help Jack back from this. She’d done it before. Her thoughts turned to Taylor driving home to Brisbane, smoking and eating sandwiches. Clare imagined her reading the book. She suddenly wished she hadn’t felt so sorry for Taylor, wished she hadn’t given her that book. What was it her father had always told her? Yes, that was it. No good deed goes unpunished.

  Chapter 29

  Swathes of sweet-scented wattle perfumed Bronwyn’s bush garden. Bright blossoms abounded: magenta callistemon, scarlet grevilleas and a colourful collage of day lilies. High up in the air, Clare could hear the refrain of a butcherbird piping a tune; on the ground, the buzz of bees on nectar-laden flowers. Merriang in late October was truly glorious.

  Clare sat out on the verandah with Bronwyn, watching Jack and Danny play in the wading pool. Samson kept leaping in and out, showering the boys with water and provoking squeals of delight. ‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing Samson along.’ They both smiled as Jack tipped a bucketful of water over the dog’s head. ‘Those two are inseparable,’ said Clare. Samson shook himself in a rainbow of spray, showering Jack with water all over again. Jack screamed with laughter, and chased Samson from the pool.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Bronwyn. ‘Danny loves Samson too. He’ll miss him when you go back to Brisbane.’ She indicated the fresh pot of brewed coffee on the table. Clare poured herself a cup.

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  Bronwyn gave her a searching look. ‘But that job you were telling me about. That dream job . . . You can’t just turn your back on it.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’<
br />
  Bronwyn stared.

  ‘Go, on.’ Clare didn’t mean to sound defensive, but that was how it was coming out. ‘Tell me why I can’t turn my back on that job?’

  Bronwyn’s mouth gaped, but for a few moments nothing came out. She twisted a stray lock of dark hair in her fingers. ‘I wanted to go to university, you know. I wanted to study fine arts. Had fantasies about being some sort of designer.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Clare.

  ‘The course was too expensive. Dad sent me to the Agricultural college in Dalby instead. I met Jordy, got married and landed right back on the land where I started. I’m not complaining, mind you. I love it here, but part of me always wonders what would have happened if I’d moved to Brisbane after school and studied art.’

  Clare sipped her coffee. Was Bronwyn right? Would she regret her decision to stay? Sometimes it did seem like a mad choice, to throw away all that Paul Dunbar offered. Then she thought of Jack and Tom and her grandfather and she was sure that leaving Currawong would be the truly mad choice.

  ‘Everybody’s different,’ said Clare. ‘And I didn’t say it was an easy decision, but we can all play the what if game. Maybe you’d have been miserable studying in Brisbane. Maybe you’d have been deliriously happy. How will you ever know? One thing’s for sure, you wouldn’t have Danny.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bronwyn. ‘And of course I wouldn’t be without him, or Jordy. But to tell you the truth, I was pretty jealous when I heard of your brilliant career. I was so impressed by your ambition.’

  ‘I think it’s easier for us than for our mothers,’ said Clare. ‘Mine studied accounting and always wanted a career. I think she resented having me and Ryan because we got in the way. Mum left us when I was eleven.’

  Bronwyn whistled. ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘It was different for her generation. She thought she was a failure for just being a mother,’ said Clare. ‘I’m not like her. I don’t have anything to prove.’

  ‘Never thought about it like that,’ said Bronwyn. ‘It came as a shock, that’s all, to think that someone like you would rather have my sort of a life.’