‘You know who’s been a real turn up for the books?’ he said.
Clare shook her head.
‘Ronnie. You wouldn’t know her, not since that business with Adam Grant. She’s been twice as hardworking and ten times as clever. I’m afraid I underestimated her.’
Exactly what business with Adam was he talking about? How much did Roderick know?
He was smiling at her now. ‘Why the change of heart, Clare?’ His voice was kind, concerned. ‘Last time we spoke you were determined to stay up country till next year. You said you were so happy you mightn’t ever come back, remember?’ He picked up a perfectly sharpened pencil and tested its point with his finger. ‘What changed?’
‘That’s none of your business.’ Clare felt anger flushing her face. Then she stood up, horrified that she’d spoken like that to her old friend. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘That much is obvious.’ Roderick’s manner became businesslike. He patted a fat pile of folders on the desk. ‘Overflow files we could use a hand with. Nothing too complicated.’
Clare picked them up.
‘I’ve partitioned off the large storeroom and put a desk in there. It doesn’t seem right to chuck Davis from his office.’
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ she said, but her voice was not quite steady as a wave of longing for Currawong overcame her. Part of her wanted to apologise to Roderick, collect Jack and Samson and find her way back to Clydesdale Way and the Sunshine gates. But instead she turned on her heel and left. There was no going back – not now.
Clare threw herself into work, rating the files before her in order of priority. She made brief notes on each one, appraising the probable strength of the cases and flagging folders where, at first glance, a guilty plea seemed appropriate. This preliminary sorting stage was something she normally enjoyed, a kind of legal lucky dip. You never know what interesting cases you might come across. But today she found the process tedious. Her mind kept turning to the looming custody hearing. What would Taylor’s lawyer do and say? How would Jack’s psychological assessment go? What sort of witness would Taylor make?
By the time Ronnie knocked on her door at lunchtime, Clare had only worked through half the files she should have. Ronnie flicked through the documents in her out-tray with a curious eye. ‘My, we are in a bad mood, aren’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Clare.
‘According to you, in each of these cases our client is guilty as charged and should cop a plea. Remind me never to appear before you if you decide to switch sides. Her Honour, Clare Mitchell . . . the hanging judge.’
Clare threw her a sarcastic smile. ‘Do you want to have lunch or not?’
Ronnie nodded. ‘I wouldn’t dream of getting on your bad side,’ she said, in mock fear, tapping the pile of files on the desk. ‘Not after seeing these. Let’s go.’
They sat down on the chrome and glass chairs at the tapas bar. Adam would have loved it here, Clare thought. Just as she suspected, the menu was wildly overpriced.
‘Shall I order for you?’ asked Ronnie, with a faint look of pity. Clare nodded. ‘The drinks too?’
‘But I don’t drink at lunchtime,’ said Clare.
‘You must,’ said Ronnie, ‘or you’ll offend Chef Diego.’
And that apparently was that. Ronnie clicked her fingers at the waiter. ‘Miguel, we’ll have the champinones al ajillo, the clams, patatas aioli, chorizo sausage and the dancing flamenco.’
‘Very well, madam.’
‘And we’ll have that Basque cider to begin.’ Ronnie snapped the menu shut.
‘We’ve only got an hour,’ said Clare.
‘That’s plenty of time. And lunch is on me, by the way.’
As the clams arrived, their conversation turned to men. ‘So Adam never suspected that you leaked the Pyramid report?’ asked Clare. ‘I was worried for you.’
‘Adam didn’t have a clue. He did suspect you, but he couldn’t quite figure out how you managed it.’
‘Well he’ll figure it out pretty quickly if he sees us together. Do you reckon it’s safe?’
‘Adam’s gone,’ said Ronnie. ‘Pyramid traced the leak to his computer. He offered to resign without entitlements in return for them not pursuing a breach of contract claim. Right now, Adam’s working at his uncle’s practice at Bankstown in Sydney.’
Clare raised her brows and whistled. She tried to imagine Adam as a humble solicitor in a down-market suburban shopping strip, and failed. ‘What sort of practice?’
‘Wills, tax, conveyancing,’ said Ronnie. ‘Oh, and family law.’ Neither of them could stifle a sputter of laughter. ‘What about you?’ asked Ronnie. ‘You and your vet patched things up yet?’
‘Tom?’ Clare shook her head. ‘No.’
‘So it’s all because of his attitude to Jack?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Clare, finishing her cider, and starting on a crisp dry white that had miraculously appeared before her.
I don’t understand,’ said Ronnie. ‘You never struck me as the maternal type.’
‘With respect, counsellor,’ said Clare. ‘I don’t think I struck you as much of anything.’
‘Well, I think you’re crazy,’ said Ronnie. ‘To give up a scrumptious man because he thinks a boy belongs with his mother?’ She shook her head. ‘He’s probably right about that, Clare. And how on earth will you combine motherhood with being a barrister?’
Clare put the last mushroom on a piece of bread, ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘No idea at all.’ She ate the bread and finished her wine. The waiter put a little plate of sausage in front of her. ‘If I eat this,’ she asked, ‘do I have to have another drink? Yes? Tell me,’ said Clare, as Ronnie pointed out an item on the wine list to Miguel, ‘why do you care so much that I get together with my scrumptious vet?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Ronnie. ‘If you make a tree change to play house with Dr Doolittle, I get your job with Paul next year.’ She finished her wine just as Miguel arrived with fresh drinks. ‘Although it was actually my job to begin with, wasn’t it? So actually we’d just be restoring the status quo, wouldn’t we?’ Ronnie’s hair had come loose from its sleek chignon and her fingers were not quite steady on her glass.
‘Yes, it was,’ said Clare, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘It was your job, and I did take it from you, and you’ve been very, very nice about it.’
Ronnie brushed her hair back from her face and picked up her glass. ‘I propose a toast,’ she said. ‘To our unlikely friendship . . . and to being back late in the office.’
They clinked glasses. ‘He’s been calling,’ said Clare. ‘Tom. Calling, texting, emailing . . .’
Ronnie raised her exquisite brows. ‘And?’
‘And I’ve been ignoring him.’
Ronnie rolled her perfectly made-up eyes. ‘You could at least talk to the poor man.’
‘Why?’ said Clare, remembering Tom’s words . . . what’s best for Jack is to be with his mother. ‘There’s nothing to say.’
Chapter 35
Clare had been back in Brisbane for two weeks, and it was finally the day of Jack’s pre-hearing assessment with the court psychologist. She was a bag of nerves. For the first time her dubious, self-taught parenting abilities would be clinically assessed. Not only that, she’d be seeing Taylor for the first time since the young woman’s visit to Currawong.
Clare took a deep breath, then got down on the floor to extract Samson from the chewed-up land under the bed. She grasped his collar and dragged him out. Damn, she’d caught her skirt on something and brought the hem down. She tied the dog to the table leg and quickly pinned it up. Next job was to extract Jack from under the battered couch. Ouch . . . she’d kneeled on the pin. Biting her lip, Clare reached under and tried to grab him. Jack began to wail. ‘Jesus. Give me a break.’ She pulled him out by his shirt, feeling guilty and justified all at once. She was already late. What was she supposed to do?
W
ith practised precision she slung her bag over one arm, tucked the little boy under the other, and groped for Samson’s lead. The quick-release knot Grandad had taught her allowed her to free the dog one-handed. Very useful that. Clare hitched Jack up higher and reached awkwardly for the doorknob with her left hand. This couldn’t go on. She needed a house. A place with a yard and a swing and a lemon tree. She intended to spend the weekend searching for just such a house. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel like it was her and Jack against the whole world. Maybe then they’d be happy again. She took one last look around the chaos that was her flat, and backed out of the door.
The waiting room was airy and spacious, with floor-length windows that let in the light and a well-equipped play area. Jack was on edge, choosing a toy, then discarding it moments later. He glanced at Clare often, as if he thought she might sneak away while he wasn’t looking. How many times, she wondered, had he been through this sort of thing before?
Clare was on edge too. She’d had a long, sleepless night to rehearse her fears. What would happen when Taylor walked in?
The glass had turned the room into a hothouse, one that was full of emotion. A young woman approached the doors and Clare held her breath, but it wasn’t Taylor. Maybe she wouldn’t show. Jack began to jig from one foot to the other, like he needed to wee. Clare swooped and encouraged him towards the toilet, but he wouldn’t move. When Clare turned around, Taylor was standing behind her.
‘Jacky,’ cried Taylor. The little boy made an excited beeline into his mother’s arms.
‘Hello, Taylor,’ said Clare.
‘You can go now,’ said Taylor. ‘The shrink wants to see me and Jacky, not you.’
‘I think you’ll find she wants to talk to both of us,’ said Clare, and sat back down.
Taylor glared at her, and cuddled Jack harder. He pulled away and Taylor looked stricken. Jack began to line up wooden cars along a pattern in the carpet, but his mother made no attempt to join in. When Jack gave her a car, she tried to pull him back onto her lap. He threw the car at her.
‘You’ve turned him against me,’ said Taylor.
Clare remained silent. Unnoticed by Taylor, a middle-aged woman had emerged from a side door, and was quietly watching them. ‘You must be Taylor Brown,’ she said, with a kindly smile. ‘I’m Stella Martin, a court-appointed psychologist. And this is your son Jack?’ Taylor nodded. She looked well. She’d put on weight again and had some colour in her cheeks. ‘If you two would like to come with me,’ said Stella.
‘Come on, Jacky,’ Taylor said hopefully. ‘We’re going to speak to this nice lady.’
Jack looked like he was in two minds. After an interminable pause, he followed Taylor into the room and Stella closed the door.
Clare stared out the window. The sun was pitiless, blazing uninterrupted against the glass. What was happening behind that door? Oh, to be a fly on the wall. It seemed to take hours before they emerged. ‘So, you’re Clare,’ said Stella, offering her hand. ‘Do you happen to have an extra pair of pants? Jack’s had a little accident.’
‘Yes,’ said Clare. It felt like a test. ‘Yes, of course. I always carry a spare, just in case.’ She fossicked around in her bag and produced a small pair of jeans. Taylor was glaring at her.
‘Would you help Jack change, please, and then meet me in there.’ Stella pointed to the room she’d just come from. Thank god Jack hated being wet these days. Clare waved the pants at him and he followed her promptly to the bathroom.
When she emerged, Taylor was sitting again in the waiting room. ‘We’ll be some time,’ said Stella. ‘Do you want to say goodbye now?’
‘I want to have a visit with my son when he comes out,’ said Taylor.
‘I’m going back to work after this,’ said Clare. ‘I’m afraid there won’t be any time.’
‘Work?’ said Taylor, looking puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be taking Jacky back to the farm. He likes it there. He’s got a dog.’
Clare wanted to strangle her. Yes, she felt like saying. He does like it there, and so do I. But since you told everybody that Currawong was a violent death trap, crawling with armed men and dangerous dogs, I’ve had to make other arrangements.
‘I’m living back in Brisbane now,’ said Clare. ‘Come on, Jack.’
The boy didn’t move. He’d been watching the exchange between Clare and his mother with a defiant look on his face.
Taylor must have sensed a mutiny. She called Jack herself. ‘Come to Mummy, sweetie. Come and say goodbye.’ To Clare’s horror, Jack climbed onto his mother’s knee. Taylor beamed at Stella, who was watching the scene with great interest. Any minute now, she’d start taking notes. Stay calm, don’t make this into a contest. Clare waited with a fixed smile on her face, while Taylor and Jack played a tickling game. It was stupid and immature to be jealous, but she couldn’t help it.
‘We really must get on,’ said Stella at last. ‘Clare?’
What was she supposed to do? Drag the boy from his mother’s arms? She dared not call him again, in case he didn’t come. What did she do when Samson ignored her? Of course, she offered his ball. Clare took Jack’s box of Pokémon from her bag. ‘I thought we might show Stella your toys,’ she said. ‘But I can’t remember this one’s name.’ She extracted a figure and started towards Stella’s office. Jack looked torn. ‘It’s Pikachu, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Jack, unable to resist correcting her. ‘That’s Squirtle.’ He struggled from Taylor’s grasp and ran to Clare. She offered the box to him. He rummaged through it until he found a little yellow figurine. ‘This is Pikachu.’
‘You’d better come, Jack, in case I get it wrong again,’ said Clare. The child nodded and took her hand. Taylor looked close to tears.
‘Good,’ said Stella brightly. ‘Let’s get started.’
*
Stella watched Jack arrange his Pokémon on the desk. ‘He spoke,’ she said, sounding puzzled. ‘I didn’t see anything about him speaking in his file.’
‘That’s because his file’s wrong,’ said Clare. She took an iPad from her bag. ‘Take a look at this.’ It was the video of Jack at breakfast. ‘Samsam stole my sausage,’ he said, clear as a bell.
Jack peered at the screen. ‘That’s me,’ he said with a broad grin. Clare smiled too. For a shutter-blink of time she wished Tom could be here to share the moment. The mutinous desire sneaked in before she could cast it aside.
The rest of the assessment went just as well. Jack liked Stella and wanted to teach her about his Pokémon. She was a willing student, and that put Jack in an amiable mood. Clare answered all her questions as reasonably as she could, keeping a firm lid on her emotions. By the time Stella escorted them out, Clare was pretty sure she’d made an excellent impression.
‘You manage him very well,’ said Stella, with genuine admiration in her voice. ‘Jack has made astonishing progress in the few months he’s been with you.’
Clare smiled and allowed a wave of warm relief to wash over her. ‘He certainly has.’
‘He could even be at the point where his mother might manage him,’ said Stella. ‘With a little help, of course. What do you think? You know the child better than anybody.’
Surely not? Surely this woman wasn’t suggesting that Jack’s improvement was a reason to hand him back to Taylor? ‘I don’t know,’ Clare mumbled, trying not to let her misery show. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m late for work.’ Stella nodded and waved them goodbye.
Great. She thought she’d managed so well during the assessment. But she might have just shot herself in the foot instead.
Chapter 36
Friday afternoon. Clare checked the clock. Home time at last. During the last few weeks she’d performed her duties, represented her clients, gone through the motions – but her heart wasn’t in it any more. The crawling days, the restless nights, the ever-present burn of tears and loneliness. Clare had never been more miserable. She missed Tom. His absence stung her every hour of every day. Bed was no comfort any more and n
either was work. Where had her drive gone, her energy, her commitment? Clare listened to her clients’ sad stories. She listened to their tales of alcoholic fathers and disabled mothers, and could barely muster any sympathy. How was she supposed to present a plea of mitigation to the magistrate, when she wasn’t convinced of its merits herself?
The drunk drivers and drug users, the teenage car thieves and shoplifters that she used to feel sorry for – now she saw them as foolishly bent on self-ruin, destroying their loved ones lives in the process. Their anguished parents and grandparents, their neglected children – all of them collateral damage in a desperate, downward spiral. Thank goodness it was only three days a week. How would she ever manage full-time in this frame of mind? How could she possibly do her clients justice? She tried not to think about the life of a criminal barrister that awaited her next year. That was full-time. That was more than full-time. It was an all-encompassing career choice, a commitment that would entail a complete lifestyle change. Where would there be time for Jack, even if she did manage to hang onto him?
She shook her head to clear it, squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of tears. ‘I’m out of here,’ she told Debbie as she hurried past the desk. What a relief to get outside. The day was bright and hot, the sky an empty, punishing blue, but the city buildings hid the sun. Heat shimmers rose from bitumen and cement. Late-afternoon shadows lengthened across the road and crept up the facades of skyscrapers, as if trying to climb out of the concrete jungle and escape across the rooftops. The city felt like a prison.
She clicked the remote on her key ring. The roll-a-door to the basement car park glided up and she hurried to her car. Damn Jack, damn Currawong – damn Tom. He’d made her feel like a fish out of water in her own life. We’ve only been city creatures for a few hundred years, he’d said one night, staring up at the stars. That’s just a blink of evolutionary time. He was right. She didn’t belong here in Brisbane any more, but she didn’t belong back there either – not while Tom took Taylor’s side. Not while he expected her to hand over Jack without a fight.
Currawong Creek Page 24