Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Let’s go and pack a feast then, eh?’ said Harry. He leaned a little on Clare as the three of them headed up to the house.

  Tom watched them holding hands, Clare’s slim figure framed by the tall old man and the little boy. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Tom didn’t know how or why, but he knew with sudden certainty that these three people would utterly change his life.

  Chapter 18

  ‘The Bunya Mountains are a national park,’ said Tom. ‘No dogs allowed.’

  Clare held her breath. Jack usually panicked at being separated from Samson. But this time, he just hugged the dog goodbye and climbed in the car.

  ‘He finally trusts that Samson will be here when he gets back,’ said Tom.

  During the journey, Jack sat calmly in his seat, and stared out the window. No head banging, no screaming, no hitting himself.

  ‘Look, Jacky,’ said Tom. ‘Kangaroos.’ Sure enough a mob of Forester kangaroos bounded from the roadside scrub, keeping pace with the car.

  ‘Kang-a-roos,’ said Clare, slowly and deliberately. ‘Now you say it.’

  ‘Kang-a-roos, kang-a-roos, kang-a-roos,’ he chanted.

  Clare was at once thrilled and exasperated. ‘Why does he only talk when no one’s watching? It’s like having some magical animal that nobody else can see.’

  ‘We’re not nobody. Neither’s Harry,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll vouch for the kid.’

  ‘But you’re not in Brisbane, are you?’ said Clare. ‘You’re not in Kim Maguire’s office. She’s impossible. It would take a miracle for me to convince that woman that Jack can talk.’

  ‘He’s still got a way to go,’ Tom pointed out. ‘I’ve only heard single words so far.’

  ‘Jack can string a sentence together when he wants to. The first thing he said to me was “Daddy’s dead”.’

  Tom shot her a concerned look. ‘Is he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  They turned into an impressive gateway and drove beneath a wrought-iron arch featuring a pair of prancing ponies. Tom got out to open the gate. It bore a sign identical to the one at Currawong. The yellow triangle proclaiming Warning Notice in bold red letters. The one withdrawing common law rights to enter the place. She’d seen the same notice on just about every paddock gate along the way.

  ‘Those signs are useless,’ said Clare. ‘Freehold titles in Australia provide that all minerals are reserved for the Crown.’

  ‘I’m no lawyer,’ said Tom. ‘So I won’t argue with you. But we’ve got advice that there’s a loophole in the law. The Government must prove there are minerals on your land, and they can’t do that unless you let them in to do the preliminary exploration. It’s worked so far. The coppers in Dalby told me they can come through an open gate regardless of the sign, but can’t open one. That’s why we always keep our gates closed. They can’t even deliver a summons past our signs unless a felony has been committed under the Crimes Act and a warrant issued.’

  ‘What helpful police you have around here,’ said Clare, as they drove between neat post-and-rail paddocks.

  ‘They’re all on our side,’ said Tom. He pulled up in front of a low-slung shed, divided into loose boxes. A pony popped his head over a stable door and Clare did a double-take. It looked so much like Smudge. Jack began banging his head, eager to escape the car. ‘Come on, you two,’ said Tom. ‘There’s work to do.’

  They were greeted by a cheerful middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a neat grey bun. ‘I’m Anne Brady.’ The woman shook Clare’s hand. ‘You’re Harry Macleod’s granddaughter?’

  Clare nodded. ‘This pony,’ she said, going over to its stall. ‘It looks just like one at Currawong when I was little.’

  ‘You’re talking about Smudge,’ said Anne. ‘That’s Sparky, Smudge’s grandson. Been on lease to a lady out Kingaroy way, but apparently her girl’s lost interest.’

  Clare stroked Sparky’s grey velvet nose. Jack ran over and the pony nibbled his hair. The little boy burst into a fit of joyful giggles. His laugh was infectious and soon everybody was smiling. Clare looked around. More ponies were scattered across the green paddocks: mainly greys, but with a sprinkling of blacks and chestnuts.

  ‘See you’ve got yourself one of our signs,’ said Tom.

  ‘My word,’ said Anne. ‘Those Pyramid blokes were over at Bert Jordan’s place last week, having a friendly chit-chat.’

  ‘Bert let them in?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Poor old bugger didn’t know any better. Invited them for a cup of tea even. Very charming people, apparently. Looked like farmers. Wore farmers’ hats and blue shirts.’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring,’ said Tom. ‘Ask him to one of our meetings.’ He headed off with his vet bag towards the yards.

  ‘Neville will help you,’ Anne called out after him. ‘I’m going to stay and talk with Clare.’

  Clare picked some grass and let Jack feed it to the pony. ‘What breed is he?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Sparky’s an Australian pony, same as all the others here.’

  ‘I didn’t know Australia had its own breed of pony,’ said Clare.

  ‘The studbook was founded way back in 1931,’ Anne said. ‘All sorts went into the mix: Timor ponies, Arabians, Welsh mountains – even the odd brumby or two I suspect. We’ve ended up with a quality, homegrown pony with a sweet character all of its own . . . and perfect for children, I might add.’

  Clare admired Sparky’s classic head, his alert ears and large dark eyes. ‘He sure is beautiful.’

  While Tom stomach-tubed the yearlings, and checked their teeth, Anne looked out a box of toys for Jack. ‘I have these for my grandchildren when they visit from Sydney. It doesn’t happen much any more,’ she said with a wistful smile. ‘They’ll have grown out of them by now.’

  Clare sat down with Anne at an outdoor table, while Jack investigated the box with tremendous enthusiasm. ‘Tepig!’ he cried, seizing a figurine. Unbelievable. The child only talked in front of people who expected him to. Clare recognised the toy at once: the piggy body, the tall black ears, the yellow nose. But this was no cheap plastic Happy Meal toy. This was sturdy and as big as a grapefruit, its tail painted permanently purple. The joy on Jack’s face was a delight to see. He soon ferreted out a variety of other Pokémon toys.

  ‘Take the box home with you,’ said Anne.

  ‘I couldn’t—’ began Clare.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of a better place for it.’

  Clare looked into Anne’s generous, smiling eyes, thinking about how long she’d spent climbing the career ladder, where everything came with strings attached, where there was always a quid pro quo. But here was Anne, simply giving, with no expectation of anything in return. It didn’t matter that it was just a carton of secondhand toys; Clare couldn’t have been more moved. Out of the blue, tears stung her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’

  Anne kneeled down on the ground and played with Jack. ‘Pokémon,’ she said, making a procession through the grass with the toys.

  Jack snatched one of them up, ran to Clare and plonked it down on her knee. ‘Pokémon,’ he said, eyes alight. He climbed up and gave her a bear hug, while she kissed his hair. Could this really be the same child she’d first met in Brisbane? Maybe she wasn’t so bad at this mothering caper after all.

  ‘He’s adorable,’ said Anne. ‘Harry never said he had a grandchild.’

  Clare was about to say Jack’s not mine, but a perverse desire kept her silent. A fierce, hopeless desire for Jack to actually be hers. To properly belong. To permanently belong. Tom’s arrival rescued her from having to respond.

  ‘All done,’ he said. ‘The palomino needs his wolf teeth out before you get a bridle near him, though.’ Tom put his bag into the ute.

  Clare strapped Jack into the car seat and placed the carton of toys beside him.

  ‘Score,’ said Tom when he saw Jack’s loot. He and the little boy high-fived each other.

  ‘When did
he learn to do that?’ asked Clare. Jack was certainly full of surprises.

  The Bunya Mountains were an island of distinctive, basalt peaks, the remains of an ancient volcano, cut off from the rest of the Great Dividing Range. They rose abruptly from the surrounding plains, as if dropped intact from some far wilder place. It was a sacred feeling to leave the open farmlands and enter the forest. Like stepping into the stillness of a cathedral from a busy street. Narrow winding roads offered mountain panoramas and breathtaking views across the southern plains. Hoop pines and myrtle dominated the lower slopes, but the vegetation changed as they climbed. Soon dome-shaped bunya pines raised their majestic heads above the sub-tropical rainforest canopy. Sunbursts of golden king orchids graced their trunks. It was overwhelming, Clare discovered, to find herself back in this primeval forest, back in the place she’d so loved as a child.

  ‘Bunya pines are living fossils,’ said Tom. ‘They’re found in geological records dating way before the Jurassic.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘Dinosaurs, Jacky, you like dinosaurs?’ The boy grabbed a toy brontosaurus from the box and marched it up and down his car seat. ‘Well, dinosaurs just like your Bronte were snacking on these kind of trees two hundred million years ago.’ Tom grinned at Clare. ‘It’s hard to get your head around, isn’t it?’

  ‘I had no idea these pines were so old,’ said Clare. Until now they’d been simply a symbol of childhood happiness. Now she felt their significance reaching right through the ages, to long before humans existed, to beyond the dawn of history.

  Jack began to bang his head on the car seat. ‘He needs to wee,’ said Clare.

  Tom found a safe place to pull over. ‘September’s not bunya nut season, but I still wouldn’t hang around. Their cones are bigger than footballs, and you’re a goner if you cop one on the head.’

  Clare already knew that. These mountains had been her grandparents’ favourite picnic spot. They’d always told her and Ryan that it was a magical place. Back then, Clare had believed them.

  She took Jack from the car and looked around. They were deep inside the cool forest here, hidden from sunlight. She gazed up at the ancient trunks, towering forty metres tall. They remained the dark, mysterious trees of childhood fantasy. This was an Enid Blyton enchanted wood, full of portals and blurred boundaries. A reddish-brown wallaby peered at her from among the ferns, as Jack peed against a rock. Its bright eyes regarded her with primal wisdom. She half-expected it to speak in this charmed place. Something was calling to her. As clear as a clarion bell. Call it intuition, call it magic – call it love. She didn’t know what it was, but its impossible message was plain. Stay it said. Stay at Currawong. Stay in the foothills of these magic mountains. With Grandad, with Jack . . . with Tom. Let nothing tear you away.

  Jack took her hand. ‘Clare,’ he said. She shivered as he tugged her towards the car. It was almost as startling as if the wallaby had actually spoken. She laughed out loud, picked up Jack and spun him around and around in excitement. Tom leaned out the window, a curious look on his face.

  ‘Jack said my name,’ called Clare. ‘He said my name.’ Until that moment she hadn’t realised how much she’d longed for that. It was as if Jack had finally claimed her.

  Clare bundled the giggling, wiggling child back into the car, struggling to clip up the straps. Tom leaned over the back seat to help. Sunlight flickered across his face. She caught a glimpse of the shadow of his eyelashes, and then she found herself kissing him, full on the lips. A kiss like she’d never known, all heat and breath and surprise. A wonder kiss. A Tom kiss.

  When she pulled away there was shock and pleasure on his face. With superb comic timing, Jack clapped a hand over his mouth and widened his eyes. It was impossible not to laugh, but when Clare met Tom’s gaze, behind his amusement, she saw exactly what she’d hoped to see. Hunger for more.

  Chapter 19

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ said Clare, debating whether or not to hang up.

  ‘Look, I did the wrong thing and for that I’m sorry. But Veronica just about threw herself at me. I won’t apologise for being flesh and blood.’

  ‘I don’t want you to apologise, Adam. It doesn’t matter any more.’

  Clare sat in the hallway alcove, gazing out the dusty window overlooking the yards. She ran her fingers across the heavy handset of the old phone. Her mother had used this same phone to make urgent, whispered calls to someone on that very last visit to Currawong. Not to her father. She and Ryan had tried to listen in, tiptoeing down the hallway towards her, but a squeak of a floorboard had always given them away.

  ‘When are you coming back to Brisbane?’

  ‘One, it’s none of your business, and two, like I said, it doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Not to you, maybe.’ There was a note of real pain in Adam’s voice. ‘Paul Dunbar dismissed me. I’m no longer his junior.’

  She thought she must have misheard him. ‘Don’t be stupid. You’re his golden boy.’

  ‘Not any more.’ There wasn’t a trace of pretense in his voice.

  She let her fingers slide over the carpet, felt the news in her gut, even after what he’d done. ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ He let the question hang. ‘Congratulations on your appointment, by the way. Paul Dunbar’s reader – quite a coup. Seems Paul’s a bit of a white knight.’

  ‘What do you mean, Adam?’ The feeling in her stomach was growing stronger.

  Adam spelled it out. ‘Paul said that, considering the circumstances, it wouldn’t be fair expecting you to work alongside me.’

  So that was it. Her public denunciation of Adam at the Bar Association lunch. Who would have thought Paul would take her side so strongly? She couldn’t help feeling flattered, but she hadn’t meant to cause the collapse of Adam’s brilliant career. Some short-term embarrassment was all she’d hoped for. The Brisbane legal fraternity was a small world and Paul Dunbar was its shining star. Get on the wrong side of him and it could be a long climb back up the ladder.

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ she said. ‘I’m truly sorry. But what do you expect me to do about it?’

  Adam hung silent on the end of the line for the longest time. ‘Nothing,’ he said, his voice softer now. ‘Nothing except listen. The truth is, I still love you, Clare.’

  She drew her breath in, watched the squares of sunlight on the carpet, how the old faded pattern disappeared beneath the glare. This was bullshit. Adam had never once told her he loved her when they’d been together – outside of the bedroom, that was.

  ‘Let me finish, please, Clare. I know I hurt you, and that you probably don’t want me back in your life.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ she said.

  ‘I deserved that,’ said Adam. He’d never sounded contrite before. ‘But my life’s a train wreck right now. I’m asking for your friendship, that’s all For you to keep the lines of communication open. I’ve hit rock bottom, Clare. I really have. I miss you. Your warmth, our walks. Hell, I even miss you dragging me around those weekend farmer’s markets. Where am I supposed to get my organic pomegranate juice from now?’

  She smiled, relenting a little, tracing her finger over the roses on the wallpaper, the way she did when she was a child. A friendship? With Adam?

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. You win . . . friends.’

  He breathed what sounded like a relieved sigh.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked him.

  ‘Go back to corporate law, for now. Even though it’s boring as fuck.’

  ‘At least it’s a job.’

  ‘If you can call it that.’

  Clare didn’t respond. She wasn’t a fan of self-pity.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Adam. ‘I’ll bounce back. I’ll be downing scotch in the Barrister’s Bar before you know it.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Goodbye, Clare . . . and thanks.’

  Chapter 20

/>   Sunday morning and something was up. All through breakfast, Tom had looked like the cat that ate the cream. Clare studied Grandad. To go by the grin on his face, he was in on it as well. Clare helped Jack to another sausage. ‘Okay, you two. What gives?’

  ‘Never you mind, Clare Bear,’ said Grandad. It was the first time he’d used his old pet name for her. Clare felt like she was about ten again. ‘You always were too inquisitive for your own good.’

  Something about the name caught Jack’s fancy. He climbed onto her lap, put his nose against hers and stared into her eyes. ‘Clare Bear, Clare Bear, Clare Bear,’ he chanted in a deep voice that made her laugh. When Jack went back to his seat, he looked around as if searching for something. The little boy lifted the cloth and peered beneath the table. ‘Samsam stole my sausage.’

  They all froze. Clare looked first at Tom, then at Grandad. Their expressions confirmed it: Jack had spoken a complete sentence.

  Tom hurried to a bag that sat on the floor in the corner and pulled out a video camera. He aimed it at the little boy. ‘What did Samson do, Jacky?’

  ‘Samsam stole my sausage.’

  Clare felt the soft swish of Samson’s tail. The dog had been hiding under the table all along.

  Tom took another sausage and placed it right at the edge of the table, then clicked his fingers. Samson’s nose poked from under the cloth and in a flash the sausage was gone. Jack pointed and giggled. Tom kept the camera trained on his face. ‘What did Samson do just then?’ he asked.

  Jack was bobbing up and down with excitement. ‘He stole your sausage.’

  Grandad did the same thing. Once again the sausage disappeared. Jack’s mouth dropped open and his eyes grew large. ‘Samsam stole Grandad’s sausage.’

  Emboldened by the success of his sneak attacks, Samson emerged from underneath the cloth, put his giant paws on the table, and helped himself to the whole plate. Jack was beside himself with delight. ‘Samsam stole everybody’s sausage!’