Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Clare detoured down a grassy track that led to Currawong Creek. It opened onto a familiar expanse of winding water, more of a river really. Here were the red gums, bunya pines and reedy shallows of memory. This was the scene she’d remembered back at Koala Park. Back on that awful day when she’d lost Jack and they’d retreated from the reserve in disgrace.

  The sound of laughter drew her back up the path. Grandad, Jack and the dogs were returning from the dam. ‘The yabbies weren’t biting, but we haven’t come back empty-handed. Show her, Jack.’ Jack proudly showed Clare their bucket. It was filled with enormous eggs. ‘I finally found their nest, with the help of your shepherd pup,’ said Grandad, fondling Samson’s head. ‘There’ll be goose egg omelettes for breakfast tomorrow.’

  They put the eggs away and sat out on the verandah with cups of tea. Samson was helping Jack collect sticks. The little boy assessed each one carefully, then either discarded it or added it to his pile. ‘What’s the difference?’ Clare said. ‘They’re all the same. A stick’s a stick.’

  ‘To you maybe,’ said Grandad. He nodded when Jack balanced another stick on his pile, as if he agreed with the choice. A breeze blew out of nowhere and Grandad turned his head to meet it, staring into the distance and sniffing the wind. ‘Storm on the way.’ Clare studied his weathered face in profile. They’d lost so much time. In some ways Grandad was as big a mystery to her as Jack was.

  Chapter 12

  A week now at Currawong Creek, and she could feel the cares and anxieties of Brisbane slipping from her like an outgrown skin. She yawned and cleared away her dishes. Jack and Samson had already headed out with Grandad, leaving Clare to enjoy a lazy breakfast. No phone, no email, no need to do anything at all in particular. She’d been spending her days playing with Jack, or weeding Grandma’s veggie patch or exploring the house and sheds. Sometimes she simply sat in the garden, reading a book selected from Grandma’s well-thumbed Collection of Modern Classics. Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – the dusty hallway bookshelves were stacked high with all sorts of gems. A copy of Treasure Island that Grandad used to read, putting on a silly pirate voice. Mum’s Golden Treasury of Poetry, its spine mended with tape. A photo album. On the cover was a shot of Clare riding Smudge. Mum stood proudly by her side, holding the pony’s reins. She’d flipped slowly through the old pictures, stroking each page, closing her eyes to help summon memory. Here at Currawong, the past wasn’t gone. The present was crowded with it.

  Clare found Jack and her grandfather seated on picnic chairs by the dam, throwing bread to a gaggle of grey geese, and drinking lemonade. The day was picture-perfect. Water sparkling like diamonds. The sun sailed in a blue sky between islands of cotton wool clouds. The morning air had a special clarity that seemed to bring the Bunya Mountains close enough to touch.

  A lone horse in the adjacent paddock trotted over to the fence to say hello. He was of a monstrous size, with an arched crest and a proud, high-stepping gait. ‘Is that a stallion?’ asked Clare. ‘He looks a bit like Rastus.’ Jack moved towards the fence and Clare protectively blocked his way.

  Grandad nodded. ‘Well picked,’ he said. ‘That’s Goliath. Last stallion standing at Currawong Creek. Same bloodlines as Rastus and just as gentle. He’ll do your boy no harm.’

  ‘Aren’t some stallions dangerous?’ asked Clare.

  Grandad stood up stiffly and went over to stroke the horse’s nose. ‘Any stallion worth his salt is bound to be high-couraged,’ he said. ‘But Goliath hasn’t a mean bone in his body. He’d do almost anything for me without the slightest argument.’

  Jack darted past Clare, ran straight to the fence and joined in patting the horse. ‘The lad’s not scared,’ he said, trying to reassure Clare. ‘He’s got the knack, you see. Not everybody does. I’ve seen grown men try to hide their fear of stallions with a show of bravado, a loud voice, and perhaps a whip for defence. They may trick others, they may even trick themselves, but they’ll never deceive a horse. That stallion decides that since the man has no confidence in himself, there must be something wrong with the man, and stallions don’t suffer fools lightly. That’s when they get dangerous.’ Clare edged forwards and willed herself to be brave. Goliath nuzzled her cheek with utmost gentleness and Grandad beamed.

  Back at the dam, two yabbies sat in the bucket. She’d forgotten how beautiful they were – flawless satin shells, dappled with soft beige, and brandishing electric blue claws. Jack was entranced by the little crayfish. He’d been at Currawong for just a week, but his attention span already seemed to have stretched. Grandad took Jack’s hand and moved him a little way down the bank, then threw a baited string in the water. ‘Hold this,’ he said. Jack did as he was asked. Amazing. Samson sat down next to him, ears cocked forward, watching the rippled surface as intently as any human yabby hunter. Grandad returned to Clare wearing a thoughtful expression. ‘What’s the lad’s story?’

  It was a relief to pour it all out. Not just about Jack, but everything else that had happened since the day Taylor Brown had turned up in her office. How could she have predicted the profound effect Jack’s arrival would have had on her life?

  ‘That’s some story,’ he said. ‘Did he break your heart, this Adam feller?’

  Clare was floored by the question. A broken heart was such an old-fashioned, sentimental concept.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose he did.’

  Grandad leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘He never deserved you then, love. I can promise you that. You’re well out of it.’

  How good it was to be affirmed like that? Since Dad died, there was nobody who really cared enough to say such things. Clare suddenly missed her mother. She turned and wrapped her arms around her grandfather’s bony shoulders.

  He held her very tight for a moment, then pointed to Jack. ‘The pup’s been a help there?’

  Clare nodded. ‘Without Samson I probably would have given up on Jack in a week. You have no idea what he’s been like because, for some reason, he’s all of a sudden on his best behaviour. But the kid was expelled from kindergarten for god’s sake.’

  Her grandfather chuckled. ‘It wasn’t funny,’ said Clare.

  He moved to Jack’s line and, with infinite slowness, began to haul it in. ‘No, I guess it wasn’t.’

  A little kingfisher landed on the pump house to their left. It was a colourful bird, with a cobalt blue back, buff-orange breast and violet streaks along its flanks. In a flash it dived into the dam at their feet, and carried away the squirming yabby off Grandad’s string. ‘Good luck to you,’ Harry said. ‘At least the little snappers will make someone a good supper.’ He rebaited the line, and threw it back into the water. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d ask Tom about the lad. Tom’s got a certificate in equine therapy, or some such thing. Worked with kids back home in the Hunter Valley.’

  ‘Really?’ said Clare. ‘He doesn’t seem very responsible. I don’t want Jack getting hurt.’

  ‘I’m telling you, love, Tom ran groups at Riding For The Disabled. Worked wonders on those children apparently.’

  Really? Clare considered her grandfather’s words. Tom might be a blockhead, but he did have a way with Jack.

  ‘It won’t hurt you to talk to him,’ urged Grandad.

  ‘I will,’ she said, cutting herself a piece of string. ‘Just as soon as he’s back from his rounds.’ She checked the watch Grandad had given her. It was her grandmother’s and she loved it. Plus, it was the only way to tell the time now her iPhone was defunct. Still early. She held up the string to check its length. Grandad gave it an approving nod.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘I just need some bait.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘Gee up,’ Tom told the grey mare. ‘I’ve got someone for you to meet.’ He led Fleur down the hill to where Harry and the little boy stood beside the stockyard with Clare. There was straw in Clare’s hair. She must have been collecting eggs, fossicking through the hay shed where Harry’s hens stubbornly c
ontinued to lay, instead of in their nest boxes in the chook house. The tousled look suited Clare – her windswept, shoulder-length bob messy and stylish, all at the same time. He couldn’t help thinking it was how she’d look straight out of bed.

  ‘This is Fleur,’ said Tom, bringing the big horse to a halt. She nickered a greeting. Age had not detracted from the mare’s natural air of nobility and she arched her snow-white neck as proudly as if she was once more in the show ring.

  ‘What is she?’ asked Clare. ‘Not a Clydesdale?’

  ‘Fleur’s a Percheron,’ said Harry. ‘A draft breed originally from France. They’re used a lot over outback station mares to put size and strength into stock horses. Add a bit of toughness.’

  Fleur stood only sixteen hands, on the short size for a draft horse, but she was quality through and through: short-coupled, strong of top line, and straight of bone. Her legs were clean and free from feather and her eye was kind.

  ‘She’s a nice sort of mare,’ said Tom.

  ‘Supreme Champion Royal Sydney Show three years in a row,’ Harry said, his voice swelling with pride. ‘One of her foals is the drum horse for Victoria police. The national vaulting team has two more.’ He stroked her neck. ‘This old girl’s done well by me, but her breeding days are over. Sent her off to Macca’s new stallion two years in a row and she never came in season. Wouldn’t have a bar of him.’ He chuckled. ‘Reckon she’s telling me she’s done.’

  ‘Haven’t you got something smaller?’ Clare was trying to hold Jack back from climbing into the yard.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said Harry. ‘Fleur’s the smallest horse at Currawong. But she’s gentle as the day is long, is Fleur. I trust her and Tom with your lad, love, and I’d tell you if I didn’t.’

  Clare did not look convinced. ‘Jack’s not going to ride her,’ said Tom. ‘Not if you don’t want him to.’

  ‘What exactly will you be doing then?’

  ‘I’ve got a diploma in Equine Facilitated Learning.’ Tom threaded a piece of grass around his fingers as he talked. He noticed Clare watching his hands. ‘There’s clinical proof that being around horses changes our brainwave patterns, that they have a calming effect. They can help kids to stop fixating on negative events in their past. EFL works particularly well for kids with autism, kids who find it hard to communicate. Can we see how Jack likes it?’

  It was already pretty clear how Jack was going to like it. Clare was struggling to hold him back.

  She nodded and let him through. ‘How does just being with a horse do all that?

  Jack approached and stroked Fleur’s shoulder. The mare bent her giant head in greeting.

  ‘Horses mirror people,’ said Tom. ‘Reflect back their emotions. Don’t let her size fool you; at heart, Fleur’s a prey animal so she wants to feel safe. If Jack is fearful, she’ll be fearful. That’s the challenge: in order to get Fleur to cooperate, Jack must first overcome any fears himself. Horses are good at picking up on human emotions, so the kid has to modify his own behaviour in order to get the horse to cooperate. He has to be calm and reasonable to put her at ease. This teaches him that his behaviour affects others. It’s a great communication aid.’ Clare looked a bit happier. ‘That’s the theory anyway. There’s a mystical side to it that I swear no theory will ever explain. Shall we give it a try?’

  She smiled, though he could tell she wasn’t convinced. ‘Calm and reasonable? I’d try anything for calm and reasonable. Although, I admit, just being at Currawong has already worked wonders.’ She smiled at Jack, who was hugging Fleur’s front leg. ‘Good luck, Jacky.’ She blew him a kiss.

  ‘You’re going to help me work with Fleur today, all right?’ Tom said to Jack.

  The boy nodded, eyes shining with excitement.

  ‘Now hold this rope in your right hand, which is this hand, and stand there by her shoulder.’ He positioned Jack correctly. Fleur stood steady as a rock. ‘Now before we start, I want you to say hello to your horse, okay?’ Jack nodded. ‘I want you to say, “Hi Fleur”.’

  ‘Hi Fleur,’ said Jack softly. He didn’t quite get the L, but it was a good attempt. Tom heard Clare’s sudden intake of breath.

  ‘Say, “How you doing?”’

  ‘How you doing?’ said Jack, with a bit more confidence.

  ‘Good. Now gather up the rope a bit. That’s how you’re going to lead her.’ The boy was following his instructions to a tee. ‘Now I want you to say “walk on” and then we’re going to go into that big yard, just over there.’

  ‘Walk on.’

  For the next ten minutes Jack led Fleur around the ménage, learning how to change direction, halt her, even to back her up. It was quite a sight, the mighty mare and the tiny boy, acting in concert. It always amazed Tom to see the natural affinity kids had with horses. Clare was taking photos from the wings. In no time Jack had Fleur circling him on a lunging rein: the horse, the whip and the rope, all sides of a perfect triangle.

  ‘Let him jump her,’ called out Harry. ‘Give the lad a real thrill.’

  Tom nodded but Clare was looking worried again. Harry came into the yard and began to set up cavaletti – low jumps made of crossover end pieces and a centre pole. ‘Just the one,’ said Tom. ‘But make it two poles high. Right,’ said Tom, taking the rope from Jack’s hands. ‘You’re going to watch me and then do what I do. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ replied the boy.

  ‘You’re going to step over this and then Fleur’s going to follow you.’ Tom led the mare over the cavaletti and gave the rope back to Jack. ‘Do you think you can do that?’

  Jack nodded and copied Tom, struggling a little to get over the jump. Fleur followed obediently. Everybody clapped, and Jack grinned from ear to ear. Tom swapped the lead rope for a lunge rein. ‘Now what I want you to do is ask Fleur to walk in a circle . . . that’s the way. This whip you’re holding isn’t to hit her with, it just makes your arm longer.’

  Fleur encountered the cavaletti at the perimeter of the circle, and dutifully stepped over it. ‘Great,’ said Tom, a protective hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Now, let’s ask her to trot. Just raise your whip and say “trot on” in a loud voice.’

  ‘Trot on,’ said Jack.

  ‘A bit louder.’

  ‘Trot on!’

  The mare broke into a cadenced trot. This time, when she came to the jump she gathered herself as if in slow motion, rose up on her powerful hindquarters and made a great leap, towering over not just Jack, but Tom as well. It was a truly magnificent sight. The ground trembled at her landing, and Jack’s eyes were saucer-wide. There was a look of pure joy and astonishment on his face. Cheers rose from the sidelines.

  ‘Well done,’ Tom said. ‘That was fantastic, but it’s enough for one day. I want you to lower the whip and ask Fleur to stand up.’

  ‘Stand up,’ said Jack, and the great mare came to a graceful halt. She swung around to face them, ears pricked as if asking, what now?

  ‘Go and say thank you. Tell her she’s a good girl.’

  ‘I’ve got carrots,’ called Clare, slipping through the rails. ‘Offer them on the flat of your hand. That’s right.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Jack. ‘Good girl.’

  Fleur lowered her head, graciously taking the titbit with gentle lips. Jack threw his arms as far as they could reach around her neck in a fierce hug. Tom patted the little boy on the back. This had gone better than he could have imagined. He’d even impressed himself.

  ‘I’m speechless,’ said Clare. ‘How was that even possible?’

  ‘I tell you, this stuff really works,’ said Tom. ‘There’s nothing better than to bring a child like this together with a horse like that and just watch the magic happen.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ said Clare. ‘That was truly amazing.’

  Tom thought quickly. What did he have to lose? ‘Let me take you to dinner at the pub tonight,’ he said. ‘That’s if Harry’s okay to watch Jack?’

  ‘Go on, you two,’ Harry said. ‘
I’m happy to mind the lad.’

  What a break. Harry approved. It would have been a major obstacle otherwise.

  Clare took her time answering. ‘Okay, you’re on.’ She held his gaze for a long moment.

  Tom grinned, picked another blade of grass and threaded it between his fingers. On first meeting Clare had seemed so uptight. She’d reminded him of the professional girls he’d met back in Sydney, caught up in their appearance and their careers; searching for their next step up the ladder. Not his type at all. But he’d misjudged her. This girl had a heart, taking on a little kid like Jack. That set her apart for a start. And of course, the fact that she was drop dead gorgeous didn’t hurt any.

  Harry was looking at him. Tom turned his head, and tried to stop thinking about what Clare’s skin might feel like. Better not rush this. He’d made that mistake before. Clare was all class, and Harry’s granddaughter to boot. Take it slow, he told himself. Take it slow. ‘Pick you up around seven,’ he said. She nodded and Tom led Fleur away, impatient for the evening to come.

  Clare finished her rather gelatinous chocolate mousse and took a deep, contented breath. She’d almost had too much to drink. It was a bad habit she’d got into. Lawyers drank a lot; it was embedded in the culture. Wine with lunch, beers after work, a tokay or two in chambers. Adam always seemed to be swigging back scotch, and he kept a case of sparkling wine at his place just for her. She couldn’t remember a time she’d been to bed with him when she was completely sober. But she didn’t want to think about Adam now. Her grandfather barely drank. She’d been aiming for an alcohol-free few weeks, but the temptation had been too much and she was already onto her third wine. Tom was becoming more fascinating by the minute.

  ‘Have you considered the possibility that Jack’s not autistic?’ asked Tom.

  Her mouth went dry. Finally somebody agreed with her. She told Tom about the string of professionals confirming the boy’s autism. She told him how, at the beginning, she’d disbelieved the diagnosis. She told him about the nightmare few weeks with Jack in Brisbane, and how she was beginning to believe she’d imagined Jack’s first few words. She told him about Taylor Brown and her addiction, and about the stolen bull terrier puppy and how she knew that Taylor really loved Jack, but that she didn’t want him back.