The crowd cheered and clapped as they were all put through their paces. First the poodle and its handler, both trying to ignore the odd the turn of events. Then Jack, crawling and seesawing and climbing the equipment with surprising alacrity, copying the poodle’s every move. Then Samson, fearlessly pursuing Jack over and under and through every obstacle. And finally Clare, bringing up the rear, calling ineffectually to her charges.
How humiliating. Helga sent them all packing.
Clare had found a dog friendly café on the far side of the park, ordered ice creams and milk shakes, and sat down to lick her wounds. But for some reason, the embarrassment wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Maybe she was just getting used to it. Clare slurped the last of her milkshake, making Jack giggle. Clare hadn’t had a milkshake since she was a kid. She’d forgotten how delicious they were. Grandma used to make the best malted shakes, with creamy milk fresh from Angel, their Jersey house cow. Angel gave twenty litres of foaming white milk a day, more than enough for her calf and the household combined. Clare had loved Angel’s little calves, honey coloured with pretty dished faces. They had the longest, blondest lashes imaginable, framing the biggest, brownest eyes. Just like Bambi. Jack would love them too.
Clare shook her head, chasing away the idea. What was with her? Why was she thinking about the farm so much? Jack let Samson lick his ice-cream, but Clare was ready for it. She had a second one ready, gave it to Jack, and allowed him to share the first with the dog. It worked a treat. From now on, rather than scold Jack for giving his food to Samson, she’d have something he was allowed to share.
Another little boy arrived with his mother, and started playing with Matchbox cars at a nearby table. Jack stared and got off his chair. ‘Sit down, Jack,’ said Clare. After a moment’s indecision, he sat back down and quietly ate his ice-cream. Yes! Clare could hardly believe it. She felt a surge of triumph. Maybe she was finally getting a handle on the kid. It had been a hell of a day, and it was still only lunchtime. But now, sitting in the sun with a surprisingly compliant child and a tired, happy dog, smiling at the other mothers, watching Jack’s delight as sparrows stole crumbs from beneath the tables – right now, all seemed well with the world.
‘Come on Jacky,’ she said. ‘You’ve been good. Let’s go through the car wash.’
Chapter 6
The weekend with Adam never happened. It was three weeks now, since Jack had turned Clare’s life upside down, and there was still no sign of Taylor Brown. Jolly Jumbucks didn’t do weekends. They didn’t even do late nights. They closed, in fact, at six o’clock. Jack hadn’t settled well into their kindergarten program. Despite the cheerful sign out the front, proclaiming the place to be A Worry-Free Home Away From Home, Clare spent her workdays rigid with anxiety, fearing that every phone call might be from the dreaded centre manager. And unfortunately, a lot of them were. Jack was soiling himself. Jack had thrown yet another tantrum. Jack had hurled his, and everybody else’s food, at the Happy Elves, the ridiculous name they gave the mostly teenage kindergarten assistants. Jack had bitten another child. Jack was hoarding all the toys. He’d made them into a giant pile and then perched in defiance on top of them, in some sort of heroic last stand. He was screaming and spitting and snapping at anybody who came near.
Adam wasn’t much support, although he had calmed down about her having Jack. There’d been some mid-week lunches, and one stolen afternoon at his place, but he didn’t visit her flat any more. Adam said it was because he didn’t want to upset Jack. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he’d say. ‘I’m snowed under with work at the moment anyway. Why don’t we wait until you find somewhere for the boy.’
The weeks dragged on. At first she was grateful for his patience, then surprised and in the end even a little suspicious of it. He still rang her most nights, after Jack went to bed. She used to love his phone calls, full of wonderful stories about triumphs and mistakes in the court room. Lately though, any talk of mistakes left her cringing. Clare had made more mistakes in the last three weeks than she had in her entire legal career. And on top of that, she’d been late for work nearly every day. Dropping Jack off at child care was a long, drawn-out process. Painful too. Jack clung to her, wailing at the top of his lungs, holding on with surprising strength. When the centre staff intervened, Jack transformed from a clingy child into a violent ball of rage. Clare hadn’t yet managed to get away in under half an hour. At work she’d missed a few deadlines, prepared a few substandard briefs that she knew wouldn’t pass muster, and then stayed up all night redrafting. In between everything else, she was reading an assortment of child psychology and parenting books, as well as keeping up with case law. Once, the grey light of morning had crept through the window blind before she was through. And there was no catching sleep between sunrise and eight o’clock any more. Jack always woke at the crack of dawn, and rattled Samson’s crate to make him bark. Clare couldn’t risk that. So she had to get up, no matter how tired she was.
Inexplicably, the little boy was a delight in the early morning: cooperative, cute, endearing even. Jack loved getting dressed in the new clothes that she’d bought him. He inspected himself in the mirror, seemingly fascinated by his different reflections. He loved his bowl of Coco Pops, followed by rounds of buttery vegemite toast. Clare had been following suit. It was so much quicker and easier to make them both the same breakfast. Tasty too, and only temporary. So what about Adam’s organic berries and yoghurt.
It was after breakfast when the trouble really began. Jack didn’t want to leave the flat. He’d been okay on day one. Not too bad on day two, but by day three, he’d figured it out. Leaving the flat in the morning meant going to child care. So after breakfast Jack hid under the bed, or climbed into the bathtub, or wedged himself beneath the couch. When Clare finally extracted him, which of course she had to do, he’d throw the mother of all tantrums. He’d wet himself, necessitating a change of clothes. But how to dress a kicking, screaming four-year-old? Samson would hide in his crate and Clare felt like joining him. Heaven knows what the neighbours thought. She was exhausted before she even left the apartment.
Friday morning. Roderick poked his head in. ‘Clare. My office.’
What now? Clare sighed and followed him down the hall.
He gestured for her to sit down. ‘Coffee?’
She nodded and he put on the jug. It must be very bad news if he was making her coffee. ‘I’ve heard from Taylor. She wants to know how her son is.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ said Clare.
‘She called him Jack, by the way.’
‘As I told Kim.’
‘Yes,’ said Roderick. ‘You did.’ He was being unusually reticent.
‘Where is she?’ asked Clare.
‘Living in Ipswich, with a new partner. Some sort of boarding house. She didn’t say exactly.’
‘What about her court date? It’s next week. Do you think she’ll turn up?’
Roderick poured her a coffee, then sat on the desk and nursed his own. ‘She said she would.’ He seemed deep in thought.
‘Shall I represent her then?’ asked Clare. ‘Jack will be over the moon. When does Taylor want to collect him?’
‘That’s the thing.’ He gazed out the window for a moment before turning to look at her. ‘She doesn’t.’
‘What do you mean, she doesn’t?’ She must have heard him wrong. She waited for Roderick to explain, but he only shrugged. ‘You mean she doesn’t want her own child?’ asked Clare.
‘Taylor’s in a difficult position. There’s her new boyfriend, for starters. Belts her apparently, and a junkie to boot. And I’m afraid that under his influence, Taylor has lapsed from the methadone program.’ Roderick took a sip from his mug. ‘She’s actively using again, Clare. The girl has enough sense to know she can’t look after a kid right now.’
‘Where does she think Jack is?’ asked Clare. ‘Does she even care?’
Roderick gave her a reproachful look. ‘Of course she cares. If Taylor didn’t v
oluntarily surrender the child at this stage, the department would be under an obligation to take him from her anyway. She knows that.’ He downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp. ‘And as to your other question, Taylor believes her child is in a caring foster home. Which is the case, isn’t it?’
‘But I thought that you didn’t approve?’ said Clare. ‘That you thought it was stupid and unprofessional to take Jack on?’
‘I did, I did,’ he said. ‘But I’ve changed my mind. Don’t forget, my young Sam’s the same age as Jack. Nobody wants to see a child that young go into a resi unit. You have a good heart, Clare, a fearless heart, and you’ve already saved Jack from great harm. You’re not afraid to put yourself on the line. The least we can do is back you.’ He smiled. ‘If you must know, we’ve all been very moved and a little humbled by what you’ve done.’
Clare processed his words. That was all very well, very flattering. But it still left the little issue of Jack.
There was a knock at the door and Veronica came in without waiting for an invitation. She looked at Clare then back to Roderick. ‘More problems?’ She smiled.
Clare glared at her. Why couldn’t anybody else see her for what she was?
‘Whatever it is, Ronnie, it can wait,’ said Roderick. ‘I’m not quite finished here.’
Veronica cast Clare a pitying glance and withdrew. Bugger. Veronica probably thought Roderick was chewing her out for something. If only she’d barged in a few seconds earlier in time to hear all the compliments.
‘I assume you’re prepared to keep the child until a more suitable placement is found?’ said Roderick.
Clare didn’t know what to say. Taylor loved Jack. Clare didn’t know exactly how she knew it. She just knew it. And Jack loved his mother. Clare had always believed that Taylor would return for her son sooner rather than later. That her leaving had been some kind of aberration, some kind of desperate, last-ditch measure to cope with an impossible living situation. Taylor would come to her senses, and then Clare could refer her and Jack to the variety of excellent support services linked to the legal aid centre: crisis accommodation, counselling and health care. If Taylor had an abusive partner, there were refuges and domestic violence outreach workers. If she wanted help to manage Jack, Clare could make parenting classes and child psychologists available. If she needed to get back on track with her methadone program, Clare could help there too. There was so much she was ready to do, that she wanted to do, for Jack and Taylor. And now?
‘Truth is, I’m having a tough time of it.’ Clare disliked the tone of defeat in her voice. ‘Jack hates being in child care. It was bad enough for the poor kid when his mother disappeared. Now, it feels like I’m traumatising him all over again, every morning when I leave. It makes me late, distracts me, hurts him . . . I don’t know.’
Roderick popped a half-empty packet of Tim Tams onto the table. ‘Have one,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
She extracted a biscuit. He was being so amenable. For some reason it made her nervous. ‘You’ve got some time owing, Clare,’ he said. ‘God knows you’ve only taken one holiday in three years. You’ve always staffed our Christmas skeleton roster. You’re never sick.’ What was he saying? ‘Take some time off, Clare, until they find somewhere else for Jack. It shouldn’t take long. A week or two . . .’
‘So you don’t want me . . .?’
Roderick held up his hand. ‘There’ll be none of that. I want you working here more than you know. But will it kill you to take a break when you’re owed it?’
Clare thought the suggestion through, trying to put aside the idea that this was just a nice way to get rid of her. But Roderick was as straight as they came. She could trust him. ‘How’s Kim going with finding Jack a new home?’
‘She’s been a bit vague,’ said Roderick. ‘Apparently they’re expecting a disability placement to open up soon.’
‘He doesn’t need a disability placement,’ said Clare. ‘There’d be so many more options if they looked in the pool of general foster carers.’
‘Clare,’ said Roderick, in a soothing voice that got her back up straightaway. ‘We lose our objectivity when we get too close.’ What was it with the royal we? ‘You said yourself, not ten minutes ago, that Jack has some very challenging behaviours.’
‘He’s four years old,’ she said, ‘and he’s just lost his mother. What do you expect?’
Roderick tapped his finger on the desktop. ‘Does he speak?’
‘Of course he does. I already told you that.’
‘The average four-year-old asks over four hundred questions a day,’ said Roderick. ‘I know our Sam does. What did Jack ask you today? Or yesterday? What did he say?’
Clare was about to launch into her answer. About how Jack always asked for strawberry ice-cream because he liked it better than vanilla or chocolate. About how he wanted her to read The Poky Little Puppy before bed. About how he complained when she switched the television over from cartoons to the news at seven o’clock. ‘I want cartoons,’ he’d said just last night. But when she thought about it, when she really thought about it, she realised that Jack had said no such thing. Clare even surprised herself with this revelation. She knew strawberry was his favourite flavour, because he gave chocolate or vanilla to Samson. She always read him The Poky Little Puppy before bed because he threw the other books on the floor. He asked her not to switch channels by hiding the remote control. She wracked her brain to come up with examples of him speaking. ‘Jack tells me when visitors come,’ she said at last. But that wasn’t strictly true either. What Jack actually did was rush to the door with Samson and bark. It was a game, Clare knew that. A copying game. But she dared not tell Roderick that the only verbal communication the child had made during his stay, apart from screaming, was to make animal noises.
It appeared Roderick could read her mind. He did not look convinced. ‘File notes say the boy is completely non-verbal,’ he said. ‘Taylor’s been getting a payment available only to parents of disabled children.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ said Clare. ‘That payment’s far more generous than the regular single parent benefit. Can’t you see what’s happened? She’s gone along with a misdiagnosis to get more money.’
‘Wherever the truth lies,’ said Roderick, ‘Jack is a special case, wouldn’t you agree?’ Clare had to nod. ‘And finding him a suitable placement will take time.’ She nodded again, a begrudging nod. ‘Well, Clare. The offer’s there. Take a break, just until this matter’s sorted.’
Clare considered his words. Maybe he was right. She did need a holiday and not just because of Jack. She was sleep-deprived, strung-out. She’d lost weight. What a luxury it would be to forget about work for a while. And how good for Jack? No day care. He could stay home all day with her and Samson. They could take drives to the beach, or into the country. She could let them both off the leash. By the time the child had a new placement, he’d be calmer, more settled. More able to cope.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘I’ll seriously think about it.’
‘Capital.’ Roderick was beaming. A genuine, open, inclusive smile. The sort that made you want to be around him. ‘Just in case, I’ll send somebody in and you can bring them up to speed on your cases. Ronnie perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Clare quickly. ‘Not Veronica. She was just telling me yesterday how snowed under she is.’
Roderick looked surprised. ‘Really? I thought her workload was a touch on the light side. Much lighter than yours, Clare. I’d better look into that.’ He fixed her with encouraging eyes. ‘Our extra funding is in. That young bloke Davis starts next week, so we won’t be down a solicitor. It’s the best possible time for you to take leave.’
As Roderick talked, Clare found she’d made her decision. A weight seemed to lift from her, and she smiled. ‘Relax, boss. You’ve convinced me.’
‘That’s more like it,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself. ‘I reckon Isaac’s our man. He’s in court this morning, but I’ll
send him round to you when he gets back. Now, get out of here.’
‘You’ll let me know when there’s any news?’ said Clare.
Roderick nodded. ‘And don’t worry about Taylor. I’ll represent her myself.’
Clare returned to her office. She was lighter, happier than she’d been. Roderick’s praise had left a warm residual glow, and everything about her decision felt right. She launched into her day with renewed enthusiasm, pulling out manila folders, going through the most important points that she needed to brief Isaac about. Clare liked Isaac. Isaac was competent, and compassionate. She trusted that he’d recognise and then act in her clients’ best interests while she was away.
The phone rang. Isaac, she thought, but it was Roderick again. ‘Do me a favour, Clare? The annual Bar Association lunch is on today. I’m supposed to go, but you know how I hate those do’s.’
Clare knew all about the lunch. Adam had promised ages ago to take her and she’d been really looking forward to it. That lunch was one of the high points of Brisbane’s legal calendar, a supreme networking opportunity. A place to be seen. But then on Monday, Adam had cancelled on her. Apparently he had an appearance today, at Dalby court, of all places. An assault or something. Dalby was way out west, less than an hour’s drive from Currawong Creek, her grandfather’s property. Odd how little reminders of Grandad kept popping up. Clare hadn’t even known that Adam plied the country court circuit, but she supposed a young barrister couldn’t afford to go around refusing briefs. Not even a rising star like Adam. It was all right for him; Adam could afford to miss the lunch. As Paul Dunbar’s junior, his career was right on track. But for Clare, it had been a definite disappointment.
Currawong Creek Page 5
