Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Danny and Jack ran over and helped themselves to homemade muffins.

  ‘Merriang can’t be that bad after all, eh?’ said Bronwyn.

  ‘No,’ said Clare, taking a muffin before the kids finished them. ‘Merriang is paradise.’

  Bronwyn was beaming now. ‘I should appreciate what I’ve got,’ she said. ‘Don’t take any notice of me. It sounds like I’m trying to talk you into leaving, when that’s the last thing I want.’

  ‘Isn’t it funny,’ said Clare, ‘how we think the grass is always greener on the other side?’ Bronwyn topped up Clare’s coffee cup. ‘Tom’s moving into the homestead tomorrow,’ she said. Bronwyn shot her a smile as if to say, Well, that explains everything.

  Chapter 30

  Sunday morning, and she and Tom would be living under the same roof by nightfall. Clare had been gearing up to ask whether he could come and stay, but before she did, her grandfather had made the offer. I’ve given the back room to Tom, he’d said. It makes sense for him to be here. She could have kissed him. The thought of having Tom so close all of the time had sent a quiver through her. Clare poured herself a cup of tea. ‘Want another cuppa, Grandad?’

  ‘No thanks, love. Got a bit of a headache. I’m going to have a lie down.’

  He’d had too many headaches lately. Clare took her tea onto the verandah as Tom’s jeep came up the drive. He’d already made a trip to bring his things over from Bonnie’s. He certainly travelled light. One suitcase, a few green garbage bags full of who-knew-what, and a dog kennel. But then he’d headed out again for some reason. Red bounced along the path ahead of Tom as he climbed the steps to the verandah. He carried a big bucket and a bag of groceries.

  Clare followed him into the kitchen. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Tom. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  ‘Digging in the sandpit with Samson.’

  Clare looked into the bucket on the floor. It contained a pile of strange-looking nuts, a bit bigger than Brazil nuts. They looked like the ones she’d found in the Currawong box at the top of her wardrobe.

  ‘Boiled bunya nuts,’ said Tom. ‘I’m cooking bunya nut pie for dinner, but I need Jacky.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Clare.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Tom. He went back to the jeep and returned with a big hammer and a small mallet. ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve made bunya nut pie, Currawong style.’ He pulled an ancient cookbook from the shelf. It was one of Grandma’s, with favourite pages still encased in plastic sleeves. He flipped to the page he wanted, then unpacked the grocery bag: onions, leeks, broccoli, sweet potato, carrots, and cream. ‘Harry showed me the recipe,’ he said, ‘It’s all in the preparation apparently.’ He chose a knife from the block and expertly sliced a carrot. Impressive. The man could cook as well. Tom took some eggs from the fridge. ‘Duck out to the veggie patch and get me a capsicum and some tomatoes, will you? And mushrooms. See if Harry’s got any under the house. About two cupfuls.’ Clare nodded and fetched the old wicker harvest basket her grandmother once used. She touched his shoulder as she passed him and felt a familiar tug of desire. Tom looked so at home in Currawong’s kitchen, and she loved how well he fitted in, but part of her longed for it to be just him and her. Between Jacky, Grandad and the surgery, it was difficult to steal time alone.

  Clare returned with the fresh garden vegetables and got to work on the chopping board, casting the odd sneak peek at Tom. She loved the way his tongue poked out slightly when he concentrated. She loved his steady hand as he brought down the knife on a sweet potato. For a while they sliced and diced in companionable silence. Occasionally Tom pointed to a line in the recipe, and Clare wordlessly set about the indicated task. She put the leeks, broccoli and sweet potatoes on to steam.

  ‘I’ll go get Jacky.’ said Tom. ‘We’ll need him for this next bit.’ Clare washed the sharp knives and put them away. What on earth could a four-year-old do to help? And what were the hammers and nuts for? A few minutes later, Jack and Samson burst through the door, with Tom chasing after. They were all laughing, even Samson. The dog, tongue lolling, wore a distinctly self-satisfied grin.

  Jack’s attention was drawn to the big bucket by the door. Tom took down a heavy cast-iron pan from the shelf. He cleared the sink, then tipped out a cascade of nuts into it. Next, he played some sort of magic trick, extracting a nut from behind the little boy’s ear. Jack’s face glowed with delight. ‘Nothing up my sleeve,’ Tom said, and another nut materialised from Jack’s pocket. Now Clare was laughing too. Tom gave her a swift kiss and, with great ceremony, placed a single nut onto the worn, timber tabletop. ‘Now watch me,’ said Tom. He hefted the big hammer and smashed it down on the unsuspecting nut with an enormous bang. Jack squealed and Clare screamed. The shell lay splattered around its smashed heart. Tom picked out the bits of kernel and threw them into the pan.

  Grandad emerged from the hall. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ he said. ‘I’d just nodded off.’

  Tom chose another nut with a flourish, put it on the table and gave it the same treatment. ‘Only way to do it,’ he said.

  Grandad chuckled. ‘Did you boil them well, lad?’

  ‘Boiled them to billy-o,’ said Tom.

  ‘Go on,’ said Grandad. ‘Do another one.’ Tom obliged. Bits of shell skimmed along the floor, providing Samson with a lovely game. The dog slid along the floorboards after the woody pieces, pouncing and wolfing them down. ‘That’s one way to get your fibre,’ said Grandad.

  Clare captured Samson by his collar and hauled him outside. When she returned, Jack was standing on a chair at the kitchen table, a look of glee on his face, and brandishing the small mallet in his hand. Tom deposited a nut in front of the little boy. ‘Drum roll, please.’ It didn’t seem right to teach the little boy to bash things with hammers. Clare began to speak, but Tom held up his hand for silence. ‘Objection dismissed,’ he said with mock solemnity. ‘Think of it as an exercise in hand-eye coordination.’ Clare smiled, felt her stomach flip over again at the sight of Tom, and held her tongue. Jack was stabbing at the nut with his mallet; it skittered around the table. Tom observed for a while, then put his own nut on the table. Jack stopped to watch him smash his target to smithereens, then, with a determined glare, planted both hands firmly along the handle of his mallet.

  ‘Keep your eye on the nut,’ advised Grandad.

  With a sweep of his arms, the little boy scored a bullseye, caving in the hard shell and exposing the creamy white kernel beneath.

  ‘Bravo, Jack,’ cried Grandad. ‘Bravo. That’s the same technique your uncle Ryan used to use, the double-fisted slammer.’

  A memory crept into Clare’s consciousness. A memory of Grandad and Ryan, jumping and shouting and slamming away in the kitchen. She tried to catch hold of the recollection; it threatened to slip away like a half-remembered dream. There, she had it again. She was a child, with her hands over her ears and a big grin on her face. Grandma was there too, laughing until she cried, but always a little shy to pick up the hammer.

  ‘I want a shot,’ said Clare.

  ‘Good on you, love,’ said Grandad.

  Tom placed a nut in position. She lined it up and delivered a killer blow, splitting the shell in one shot, and leaving the kernel exposed and intact. It took more force than she’d expected.

  Grandad clapped. ‘That’s the way. Not too hard. Not like this mad bugger.’ He pointed to Tom. ‘There’s nothing much left after he finishes. And not too soft, or you’ll never get through it.’

  She gave him a thumbs up. This was a lot of fun. ‘More nuts,’ she said. Soon she and Jack were yelling and thumping and laughing. Grandad and Tom were an enthusiastic audience, rescuing the kernels and throwing them into the pan.

  Grandad took the hammer and held up a nut. ‘I name this nut Pyramid Energy.’ Bang, it was gone.

  ‘Let me,’ said Clare. Soon she was smashing her way through all the people and institutions in life of which she did not approve.

/>   Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve got a long hit list.’

  ‘And I haven’t finished yet,’ she said, through tears of laughter. ‘I name this nut Adam.’ Bang. ‘I name this nut Veronica.’ Bang.

  Was that the phone? Its ring was barely audible over the noise. She ran into the hall. ‘Hello?’ Nobody spoke, but there was somebody on the end of the line. She could hear them breathe. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

  ‘Clare? Is that you?’ It was hard to hear over all the banging but she’d recognise that prim, self-righteous voice anywhere. It didn’t make any sense, but Veronica was on the phone. I just smashed you to bits, Clare wanted to say, but restrained herself.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare.

  A long silence ensued. ‘I found this number in Adam’s phone,’ said Veronica at last. ‘I didn’t know whose it was.’

  Clare tried to make sense of Veronica’s words. Why would she ring an unknown number she’d found in Adam’s phone? And why did she have Adam’s phone in the first place? Then it struck her. Of course. Veronica was still seeing him. Here was Adam, professing his undying love for Clare in every second phone call, when he was still screwing around with Veronica.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ said Veronica, ‘considering your very public breakup, why there’ve been a number of calls between his phone and this number . . . your number.’ There was a challenge in her voice. ‘It’s not been one-sided. Recently you’ve matched him, call for call.’

  Of course Clare had. She’d been trying to get some dirt on Pyramid Energy, so far without success. ‘I’m not seeing Adam, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ said Clare. ‘Not after what he did.’ She couldn’t resist a little dig. ‘I wouldn’t be so stupid.’

  ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t,’ said Veronica, her voice bitter, ‘but I, evidently, would.’

  Clare almost felt sorry for her.

  ‘Is he . . . is he pursuing you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘He is. At first he just asked if we could stay in touch.’

  ‘Because he’s so depressed and needs a friend,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Why yes. Then he said he loved me and what a mistake you’d been. He’d only been with you . . .’

  ‘Because I threw myself at him and, hey, he’s only human.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Clare. ‘I guess he said the same thing about me?’

  ‘Precisely. I can’t believe I fell for it. I really can’t believe it.’

  A huge shout came from the kitchen, followed by a tremendous bang.

  ‘What on earth’s going on there?’ asked Veronica.

  How odd that particular explanation would sound. ‘It’s a bit hard to explain,’ said Clare, ‘but don’t worry, everything’s fine.’ Veronica hung on the end of the phone without speaking. ‘What about you?’ said Clare. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I will be,’ said Veronica. ‘Once I get back at the bastard . . . like you did.’ This conversation was getting more and more intriguing. ‘There were times I wasn’t fair to you, Clare. I’m sorry.’ Clare gasped. Veronica was famous for never apologising. ‘Truth is, I was jealous. You’re such a natural in court. You’re brilliant.’

  ‘This is insane,’ said Clare. ‘You always went out of your way to make me feel like an idiot.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry,’ said Veronica. She sounded genuine; even the tone of her voice had changed. ‘I want you to forgive me for being such a bitch. I imagine you’re the kind of person who can do that, Clare, the kind that’s gracious in victory. And it’s been a comprehensive victory, hasn’t it. Adam, Paul Dunbar . . . even Roderick. You’re always the favourite.’

  ‘Veronica —’

  ‘Call me Ronnie. It’s what my friends call me.’

  ‘Okay . . . Ronnie. This was never a competition.’

  ‘No . . . I suppose not,’ said Ronnie, with an unhappy sigh. Clare took a deep breath. What other astounding things might her newfound friend say next?

  ‘I was so in love with Adam that I couldn’t see straight. Thoroughly, stupidly, blindly in love. I won’t be able to sleep until I settle the score with that pig,’ she said. ‘And don’t go all holier-than-thou on me, Clare. You swung some serious payback yourself. You destroyed his career. I do so wish I’d had that privilege.’

  Clare was about to say that she hadn’t planned it that way, that she’d behaved on an impulse, when she bit her tongue. Perhaps she could turn this bizarre situation to her advantage?

  ‘Ronnie.’ The nickname sounded wrong on her lips, too casual, too friendly. ‘Adam’s working for a coal seam gas company that wants to put wells on my grandfather’s land. Under ordinary circumstances there’s nothing he can do to stop it.’ Words spilled from her mouth as if they had a mind of their own. ‘I’ve been pumping Adam for anything that might put a spanner in the works. Some sort of corporate non-compliance maybe, anything that might trigger the unconscionable conduct provisions – whatever might slow the process down, or better yet, stop it altogether.’

  ‘So that’s why you’ve been calling him,’ said Ronnie. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Clare. ‘Listen.’ Her tone was urgent and low. ‘You want to get revenge? Then help me and my grandfather. Dig up some dirt on Pyramid Energy and leak it to me.’

  ‘You mean spy on him?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘You’re on.’ The answer came clear and unambiguous, just as the ruckus in the kitchen reached a crescendo. ‘What is that?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘I’ll shut the door,’ said Clare. ‘Promise me you won’t hang up.’ She rushed down the hall and slammed the door. It would be impossible to draft a battle plan on the house phone. What she needed was some privacy. Tomorrow, she’d drive to Dalby and get a new mobile. ‘It’ll be tough,’ she told Ronnie. ‘You’ll be playing a charade. You said you love Adam.’

  ‘I thought I did, yes. How stupid can a person be?’

  ‘Don’t do this if it hurts you,’ said Clare. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘It will hurt more if I don’t do it,’ said Ronnie. ‘Now, tell me more about these gas wells . . .’

  Chapter 31

  Tom put down the phone. ‘Why is it,’ said Tom, his voice raised in frustration, ‘that the minute a vet touches an animal, he’s held personally responsible for every bad thing that happens to it from that moment on? That was Ray Sharp. Yesterday I treated a cow of his that’d been sick for two weeks. Two bloody weeks. I almost told him to ring his neighbour instead, the one that had been doling out free but completely useless advice ever since the cow went down. I get there and can see straight off that she’s going to die. They’ve pulled her dead calf using a bloody tractor and then left her all this time with a ruptured uterus.’

  Clare put the kettle on. She hated hearing these stories. The life and death of a production animal could indeed be a brutal one. But she knew how much it helped Tom to have a sounding board. He felt for each and every one of his patients, no matter how hopeless their case, no matter how close to the end of their life they might be. It was one of the reasons that she loved him. The bell over the door rang. Another client on an already busy Thursday surgery.

  ‘The cow was in shock,’ he continued. ‘Hadn’t eaten for a fortnight, covered with flies . . . her body racked with infection.’ Clare put her hand on his arm. ‘I told him straight out that she’d die. Let me put her out of her misery, I said. But no. To hear Ray tell it, that poor cow that he’d left untreated for weeks, that cow suddenly meant the world to him. So I did what I could: painkillers, intravenous fluids, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics.’ Clare pressed a coffee into his hand. ‘That was him on the phone. The cow died last night. He says I must have killed her, so he’s not paying the bill. Next time I’m at the produce store, it’ll be I hear one of Ray’s best cows had calving trouble. He got you out and it died.

  Clare wrapped her arms around Tom’s neck and kissed him. Even here, with him in scrubs, and a full waiting r
oom, she still felt the sizzle when their skin touched. ‘Nobody with any sense listens to Ray.’

  ‘Maybe so, but unfortunately, there’s a heap of folks without any sense around here.’

  She smiled. ‘Lucky you happen to have a waiting room packed with sensible people then.’ He gave her a wry grin, and called in the next patient.

  Clare was settling down to the thankless task of sending out bill reminders, when the phone rang. Ronnie again. It was two weeks now since that first conversation about Adam. Since then they’d been in constant touch, partly to discuss industrial espionage strategy, and partly because Ronnie needed a friend and friends were apparently a bit thin on the ground back in Brisbane. It was still hard for Clare to get her head around it. That the stylish and sophisticated Veronica Fisher had been jealous of her. This new Ronnie was embracing their fledgling friendship. She’d even forgiven Clare for snatching the Paul Dunbar readership out from under her. ‘You’re better than me, right now anyway, but I won’t give up,’ she’d said. ‘I’m going to stick it out at the Valley for another year . . . see what happens after that.’ Clare was impressed. She was even more impressed with Ronnie’s enthusiasm for her new role as a spy.

  Clare took her call in the hospital ward, under the curious gaze of an epileptic poodle, and a sick swan. ‘I’ve hit paydirt,’ said Ronnie. ‘Something that will knock your socks off.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ said Clare. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘A risk management report Adam used to draft gag clauses in settlement agreements. It’s backed up by over a hundred cases of contamination and other damage caused by fracked wells.’ Clare sucked in a quick breath. ‘Listen to this. Pyramid Energy must be protected from liability for aquifer contamination caused by recent surface spills and operations underground. And this. The fluids involved contain heavy metals, toxic minerals, chemical additives, and known carcinogens. I’m telling you, this stuff is gold.’