‘Jack’s lucky to have you,’ Tom said.
Clare wasn’t good at receiving praise. Instead of accepting the compliment, she was inclined to argue the point.
‘Lucky? Since I’ve had him he’s been kicked out of child care, almost been lost, been locked alone in a car and now I’m sending him into yards with giant horses.’
‘Been locked alone in a car?’ asked Tom. ‘When?’
Clare finished her wine and asked for another one. Tom went to the bar and returned with a Riesling and a beer. He was drinking light. She launched into the falling-out-of-the-tree story.
Tom looked genuinely horrified. ‘I had no idea.’
‘That was the problem,’ she said.
They both burst out laughing. A droplet of beer shone on his lower lip and she wanted to dab it away. He wiped a finger around his dessert bowl like a kid and sucked it. ‘Is your waiting room always so chaotic?’ she asked.
‘Afraid so,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no experience at all running my own practice. Used to work for a big clinic in the Hunter Valley. They took care of everything, but I wanted to go out on my own. Merriang was all I could afford, but at least it’s a start. There’s plenty of work.’
‘Well, you can’t go on like you’re going,’ she said boldly. ‘The place is a total shemozzle.’
He spread his arms wide. ‘Guilty as charged, your Honour.’
Clare sipped her wine. ‘Why did you ask me if I thought Jack might not be autistic?’
‘He doesn’t fit the profile,’ said Tom. ‘He makes good eye contact, he listens, he can focus on a task. He can certainly form attachments, at least with animals. Look at him and Samson.’
‘He head bangs,’ said Clare. ‘He bites, he rages, he can’t make friends, he won’t talk.’
‘Ah,’ said Tom, brandishing his beer. ‘Won’t is the operative word here, not can’t, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked very handsome when his eyes lit up like that. Full of life, pulsing with energy. She wanted to kiss him. ‘Have you heard of selective mutism?’ Clare shook her head. ‘It’s an anxiety disorder, different to autism. Kids can talk, but for some reason they don’t.’
‘Wouldn’t the paediatricians and psychologists have picked that up?’ said Clare.
‘Apparently not. They say he has no language, right?’ She nodded. ‘But we know that’s not true. You, me, Harry . . . we’ve all heard him talk. What does his mother say?’
‘Taylor used to say that he could speak, but it seems like nobody believed her. They put her on a higher welfare payment because of Jack’s disability, so I think she just gave up trying to convince people.’
‘Maybe. The problem can worsen until the kid never speaks to anyone at all, even to close family members. Whatever the case, Jack’s been misdiagnosed, pure and simple.’
It all made perfect sense. ‘What causes selective mutism?’ asked Clare. ‘And how come you know so much about it?’
‘Lots of things can cause it,’ said Tom. ‘But from what you’ve told me about Jack, trauma’s the most likely culprit. You say he’s been in care before?’
‘More than once,’ said Clare, ‘and he’s only four years old.’
‘That could do it. Separation trauma suffered over and over again. A teenage mother with addiction problems, and he’s probably suffered at the hands of her boyfriends as well. You said there’d been domestic violence, right?’ She nodded. ‘It’s a wonder he can speak at all.’
All the pieces seemed to fit. How could so many professionals have got it wrong for so long? ‘And the other part of my question. How come you know about this?
‘A crash course in child psychology as part of my EFL diploma.’
‘You’ve no idea how good it feels to hear all this,’ she said.
The Riesling and the relief and the proximity to Tom all combined in a thoroughly delicious way. Clare relaxed into the evening. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine. She told stories about Jack and Samson in Brisbane that made him laugh. They swapped jokes. Tom opened about his life. Never married. No kids. Divorced parents. A sister somewhere. His hand rested near hers on the table, close enough that she could almost feel it.
He reached across and covered her fingers with his own. An aching tug of desire ambushed her. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. ‘Clare, I was wondering . . .’
She wanted him to take her to bed, then and there. She wanted him beside her, wanted his unfamiliar flesh to erase all trace of Adam. His eyes locked onto hers, and he gently stroked her wrist with his thumb. The sensation was electric. ‘If Harry doesn’t mind . . .’
‘Yes?’ she urged. ‘Go on.’
‘Could you help out for a few hours in the clinic tomorrow?’
Clare slumped a little, and offered him a weak smile.
‘Oh,’ she found herself saying. ‘Okay.’ She felt heat climbing her cheeks, and the night spiralled around her a little. How drunk was she exactly? How had she read him so wrong?
Tom’s phone rang
‘Harry,’ he said. ‘Jack’s acting up. Suppose we’d better go.’
She nodded, hoping her disappointment didn’t show. There was nothing in Tom’s voice to match the path his thumb had made across her wrist.
Chapter 14
Clare looked at the time and groaned. She must have forgotten to set her alarm, and it was later than she thought. She dragged herself from bed and into the shower. Why had she ever agreed to help Tom out today? Why had she drunk so much, might be a better question? Last night Tom had seemed irresistible. The beer goggles effect no doubt. Still, she’d promised, and it was just this once.
In the kitchen Grandad presented her with an omelette. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t have time.’ Clare drained her mug of tea and downed a couple of headache tablets. She waved goodbye to Grandad, and to Jack, who was dipping toast soldiers into his soft-boiled egg. ‘Good luck, love,’ said Grandad.
Clare walked down to the clinic while lazy kookaburras chortled a belated dawn chorus. A car was parked out front. She opened the door and cautiously edged inside, on the look-out for snakes and biting dogs.
Tom emerged from the consulting room in faded blue scrubs. Maybe they were a size too small, maybe they’d shrunk, but for whatever reason they were too tight a fit. They emphasised his thin hips and broad shoulders. They emphasised the bulge at his crotch.
A young woman in a revealing halter-neck was standing at the counter, holding a shivering teacup Chihuahua. ‘What can I do for you, Dallas?’ he said.
‘Tiny has a rash.’ The little dog dived in between the woman’s ample breasts and peeked out nervously. ‘Would you take a look, Tom?’ She made no effort to extract her pet. ‘Don’t be scared. He won’t bite.’
What an outrageous flirt the woman was. Tom was looking everywhere except at Tiny.
Clare stepped forward. ‘Here, let me help,’ she said. Clare removed the Chihuahua and presented it to Tom, answering his grin with her own.
‘Who are you?’ asked the woman.
‘This is Clare,’ said Tom. ‘She’s helping out in the surgery.’
The woman turned and looked Clare up and down. Tom mouthed a silent thank you behind her back and examined the dog. ‘It looks like flea dermatitis,’ he said, parting the little dog’s fur. ‘I can give you a spot on treatment for that.’
The door opened and a man came in with a pair of kelpies.
‘Never mind,’ said Dallas, snatching Tiny from Tom’s arms. ‘I’ll buy it at the produce store. They won’t charge me through the nose.’ She swept out as a fat woman came in with a little pink pig, and set it down on the floor. It proceeded to run around the room squealing, pursued by the barking kelpies. The piglet sought refuge under a cupboard.
Tom looked perplexed. ‘Is it sick, Martha?’
‘Not at all, Doc. It’s in lieu of payment.’ she said. ‘What with milk prices down, we’re a bit short this month. Thought a nice piglet might do the trick instead. He’ll grow into
a fine, fat porker for you.’
Clare helped the man haul off the kelpies, while Tom retrieved the piglet. ‘Thanks, Martha, but . . .’
‘No worries, Tom,’ said Martha. It was hard to hear over the screaming pig and barking dogs.
Another man came in with two bleating lambs. Tom gave Clare a helpless look.
She took a deep breath and pushed her way through the throng to stand behind the counter. She’d seen Debbie take control of an unruly waiting room back in Fortitude Valley plenty of times. How hard could it be?
‘Everyone with animals requiring treatment, please take a seat.’ Tom gave her an encouraging smile and tried to hand the piglet back to Martha, who dodged and frowned.
‘From now on,’ Clare added, ‘this clinic will be conducted on a cash or account basis only.’
Everybody started talking at once. ‘Is this true, Tom?’ . . . ‘Who is this woman?’ . . . ‘But you took six geese from Bob Barker just last week.’
‘Quiet!’ yelled Tom. ‘She’s absolutely right. As of today, terms of trade are strictly cash or account.’
‘And who is she?’ asked Martha, pointing an accusing finger.
‘Clare is my new assistant,’ announced Tom, with only the slightest waver in his voice. ‘And what she says, goes.’ Martha glared, but this time she accepted the piglet back when Tom offered it to her.
People looked a little stunned and began filing out. In the end, only the man with the kelpies remained. Tom heaved a great sigh and positioned a chair behind the counter for Clare. ‘You’re a godsend,’ he whispered, before escorting his client into the consulting room.
A steady trickle of patients arrived throughout the morning. A tabby cat needing stitches. A diabetic pug. An angora goat with impacted baby teeth. This was more fun than she’d expected.
When the last client said goodbye, Clare was almost sorry her shift was over.
Tom washed up and made two mugs of coffee. ‘You were magnificent, you do know that?’
‘Was I?’
‘This last month, I’ve been paid in everything from duck eggs to tractor tyres.’ He shook his head. ‘See that painting?’ A framed portrait of a heeler hung above the counter. ‘That’s Red, painted in settlement of an account for an alpaca caesarean.’
A snarl sat on the lips of the dog in the painting.
‘It’s a good likeness,’ she said. ‘He’s smiling.’ Clare sipped her coffee. ‘Why did you do it?’ she asked. ‘Accept payment in kind, I mean?’
Tom laughed and shrugged. ‘Guess I’m a soft touch. Felt sorry for one old codger and word spread like wildfire.’
‘Well, enough’s enough,’ she said. ‘From now on it’s cold, hard cash . . . and don’t give anybody an account who’s not good for it.’
‘Right,’ he said with a boyish smile.
Clare looked at him sideways. Charming, but not very convincing. Tom was too kind for his own good, that was the trouble. She had to admit though, it was kind of refreshing after the dog eat dog world of Brisbane petty crime. Maybe she should work at the surgery for a few more days, help him to stick to his guns.
Chapter 15
Tom poured himself a coffee while Harry plonked a dish of pancakes down in the middle of the kitchen table. ‘Eat up.’ Tom put a pancake on his plate, and another one on Jack’s. Where was Clare? He’d hoped they could walk down to the clinic together.
It was a week now, since Clare had started doing mornings at the surgery. Two hours, that’s all it was, roughly from nine until eleven, but already she’d brought a degree of order to what was formerly chaos.
So far Jack hadn’t been a problem. There was nothing the little boy enjoyed more than spending time with the horses, so Harry took him along on his morning paddock rounds. When Harry was done or Jack had had enough, the pair would come by the clinic. Harry would always take Jack into the room serving as the hospital ward. Here lived the inpatients, and animals recovering from surgery. You never quite knew what you’d discover. Cats and dogs were commonplace, but there were more unusual patients as well. Cleo the scrub python was still there. Being cold-blooded, reptiles were slow to heal, and it would be at least another week before her stitches came out. There was a barn owl with a broken wing, a flying fox with barbed-wire fence injuries and a koala with chlamydia, all waiting for pick up by local wildlife carers. When Jack had finished looking around, Clare would finish up and head back to the house with Jack and Harry.
It had been a wonderful, if frustrating, week. Tom was falling hard for Clare. It seemed he couldn’t properly think about anything else. She moved about the clinic, blonde hair neatly pinned up, exposing the long sweep of her graceful neck, the ridge of her clavicle, the curve of her throat. They’d be discussing the best time for Mrs Madden to bring in her sick peacock, when he was really imagining the taste of her polished skin. He was forever trying to steal little brushes against her. Once he got so distracted by the soft swell of breasts peeking from her open-necked shirt, that he forgot about the syringe he was holding and stabbed himself in the hand. At least he’d be immune to cat flu now.
There’d been no repeat of that night at the pub, when Clare’s smile had been so full of promise. The memory of her hand in his wouldn’t let him go, yet no similar opportunity had since presented itself. The next night Harry had some kind of turn. He insisted he was fine and went about his daily chores the next morning, but Clare didn’t want him to worry about babysitting Jack at night any more.
‘What sort of a turn?’ he asked her.
Clare furrowed her perfect brow for a second. ‘He got up from the table and sort of lost his balance. Said he was seeing double. It was a minute or so before he was right, and then he complained of being tired. It’s not like Grandad to get tired, is it? And I imagine it’s even more unusual for him to complain about it.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Tom said. ‘Harry’s no whinger.’
Since then, Clare had insisted her grandfather have early nights. The old man had argued no end about it, but Tom could see that deep down he was pleased that she cared. Now Clare was no longer free to go out in the evening. He could go to her for dinner, of course, cadge an invitation. But when he’d leased the site for the clinic, Harry had included breakfast in the deal. Tom had been up at the house for his morning meal almost every day for six months now. It might be a bit of a stretch turning up for dinner as well.
Then there were his living arrangements. Tom lodged with Bonnie Black, a widowed young woman in town. Her interfering mother, Blanche, just about lived there too. Tom had moved in to discover that Blanche had appropriated the spacious spare room, and that he’d been relegated to the covered-in verandah
It was fully enclosed with insect screens, but mosquitoes still managed to get in. Tom had patched up any obvious holes. He’d tried everything: repellent, insect spray, mosquito coils left to burn all night. Nothing worked. If anything, his efforts seemed to attract them and he was forced to sleep with a sheet pulled over his head, listening to the frustrated drone of the little bloodsuckers, inches from his ear. Occasionally they dive-bombed him, inserting their proboscis right through the thin linen, and he would be covered with itchy red welts by morning. And on top of that, there were the cane toads. God knows how they got in, but each morning he’d find at least a couple of the ugly creatures somewhere. Once he’d woken up to one beside him on his pillow, like something from the Princess and the Frog fairy tale. But even if he was looking for a prince, he wouldn’t be kissing this frog. The skin of Bufo marinus oozed a poison that irritated skin and burned the eyes. Tom hadn’t heard of deaths in humans, but their venom was potent enough to kill dogs and cats along with any unfortunate wildlife that consumed it. Quolls, goannas, dingos – he’d seen them all succumb to this toxic invader. What would Clare think of waking up next to a cane toad? Even if she was free, and a romantic pub dinner was to lead to something more, there’d be nowhere to take her.
Clare came into the kitchen and sat down be
side him. She reached for the golden syrup with a slim, lightly tanned arm. Her singlet top exposed the delicious curve of neck and shoulder, the sheen of her skin, damp from the kitchen’s clammy heat. He imagined how her breasts might look, minus their flimsy wrapper.
‘If you don’t like my pancakes, just say so,’ said Harry. The old man’s words brought him back to earth with a crunch, and Tom heaped up his plate. ‘Don’t do me any favours,’ snorted Harry. He drained his tea and thumped the mug in the sink. ‘Come on, Jack,’ he said. ‘We’ve got horses to feed.’ The little boy scrambled from his chair and raced out the door after him.
‘What’s got into Harry?’ asked Tom. He had an uneasy suspicion that the old man somehow knew of his daydreams.
‘He hasn’t been sleeping—’ began Clare.
Tom’s phone rang. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Clare. ‘Tom Lord here.’
A new client, Willow Moore, was apparently waiting for him down at the clinic. ‘Minnie’s in labour, and I think a pup’s stuck. She’s been trying for hours, but nothing’s happening,’ said an urgent voice.
‘Be right there,’ Tom said.
Clare pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll go change.’
Tom sprinted down the hill. A tattooed young man dressed like a Goth waited beside an ancient Mini Minor. A tearful teenage girl, dressed all in black and carrying a shoebox, rushed to the clinic door as he approached. Tom fumbled in his haste to turn the key. As soon as he stepped inside he could tell something was wrong. A few pamphlets lay on the floor. A tin of cat food had rolled beneath a shelf and the broom had fallen over. The door to the hospital ward stood wide open. Damn, he must have forgotten to check it last night. He hurried in to see what creature might have escaped. Cleo. The scrub python’s cage was empty, and the box that had contained Ginger, a geriatric guinea pig, was on its side. He’d been in overnight with pneumonia. The prognosis had been poor, even with saline, antibiotics and a steroid injection. Tom searched in vain through the spilt straw. No rodent.
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