Clare looked around. What was it she was supposed to see? ‘It wouldn’t take much to clear out those weeds and start growing vegetables again,’ she said. ‘Is that what you mean?’
Tom shook his head. He retrieved the end of the hose from under a yellow daisy bush and turned on the tap. The faint waft of chemicals replaced the fragrance of Bougainvillea on the breeze. Tom took a cigarette lighter from his pocket. He gripped the garden hose and held it at arm’s length. Then, holding the lighter beneath the arc of water escaping from the nozzle, he flicked it on. Clare couldn’t believe what she was seeing. A tongue of fire flashed from the end of the hose. It erupted like dragon’s breath right before her eyes. The impossible flame, liquid and sinuous, licked along the water arc, transforming it into a burning bow. ‘No way,’ she said. The unnatural spectre flared steadily in the late-afternoon sunshine. It was more than a minute later when Clare told Tom to turn it off.
‘How is that even possible?’ asked Clare.
‘The bore’s contaminated with natural gas, mainly methane. Two years ago, Pyramid fracked half the wells on Quimby Downs.’
‘Fracked?’ asked Clare.
‘Hydraulic fracturing. It’s used to speed up the flow of coal seam gas from underground. They pump a mixture of water, sand and chemicals at high pressure into the gas-bearing formation below the water table, fracturing the strata. It causes little earthquakes that open up pathways for gas to flow out of the rock and into a well . . . or a bore.’
‘But I went to Pyramid’s office in Dalby,’ said Clare, still overwhelmed by what she’d seen. ‘They insisted that less than four percent of their wells had been fracked.’
‘That may be true,’ said Tom. ‘Who knows? But Pete’s wells were.’
‘They said it was safe.’ Clare cringed. How foolish and naïve she must sound.
‘For Christ’s sake, Clare. They’re drilling straight through the aquifers of the Great Artesian Basin. They’re injecting millions of litres of water and hundreds of tons of chemicals each time. They say these sites are sealed, but the pressure’s staggering. There’ve been cases where fracking has split concrete bore casings and even sheared right through them. Who knows where the fucking gas and chemicals go?’ He kicked the tap, frustration evident in his rigid shoulders and clenched jaw.
Clare put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’
Tom shook his head, as if to chase away the anger. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said. ‘Have that picnic.’
Late afternoon was drifting into evening. They sat in Quimby’s lovely old dining room, eating strawberries and drinking warm champagne. Clare took in the pressed metal ceilings, the carved fireplace surround, the intricate shutters gracing wide casement windows. There was no air of decay; it was more like the homestead was waiting, waiting for its family to come home. Clare ran admiring fingers across the table’s polished surface, making a wavy line in the dust. ‘Handmade,’ said Tom. ‘Like just about everything else at Quimby. The top’s carved from a single slab of Hoop pine. You’d never get a tree that size these days.’ Clare topped up her glass. ‘Let’s go sit on the comfy chairs.’
Tom nodded and they moved to the lounge room, sitting side by side on the couch. ‘Tell me what happened here,’ she said.
Tom poured himself the last of the wine. ‘Not long after the wells arrived, Pete noticed an odd taste to the water. When he filled the sink to wash dishes it fizzed like Alka-Seltzer and smelled funny. He didn’t want to drink it, of course, so he complained to Pyramid. The company came and confirmed the contamination, and then, you know what they did? Installed methane alarms in and outside of his house – a red light warning him not to go inside.’
‘Shit, Tom, you mean there’s gas in the house?’
‘The alarms have never gone off,’ said Tom. ‘The house is safe enough. I checked the meters when we came in.’
‘They’re still here?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If the alarms weren’t here, we wouldn’t be here either.’
‘Pete could sue.’
‘No, he can’t. Pyramid gave him a bucket of money and had him sign a confidentiality clause. They trucked clean water to Quimby Downs and monitored the alarms. According to the terms of their agreement, that amounts to making good the damage. Fact is, there’s no way to fix this. When it rains here, gas bubbles up through the puddles. And yet when Pete left, they said it was his choice.’
‘So this beautiful old homestead just goes to waste?’ asked Clare.
He nodded.
‘Tom, that’s terrible.’
He pulled her across to his lap. Clare relaxed against his body, feeling his energy pulse through her. The hairs stood up on the nape of her neck, as Tom kissed her there. His teeth grazed her skin, and she trembled. This felt downright dangerous.
As she sank back into his chest, a loud, imperious neigh sounded from outside. Tom pushed her aside, with a quick apology, and headed for the door.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she heard him say.
Clare followed and looked past him. ‘Oh my lord. Are they doing what I think they’re doing?’
‘Yep,’ said Tom. ‘They sure are.’
‘Shouldn’t we stop them?’
‘If you want to get in the middle of that,’ said Tom with a grin, ‘you’re a braver person than me.’
Chapter 26
It was a truly magnificent sight, Goliath rising in slow motion. There was no doubting his immense strength as he reared on pillar-like hind legs and landed with surprising precision on Fleur’s broad back. The impact of the stallion’s bulk on the much smaller mare was considerable. Fleur staggered forwards a few steps, before managing to steady herself. She braced against the powerful grip of the stallion’s forelegs upon her flanks, and the swift forward thrust of his enormous penis.
Tom glanced at Clare. She stood open-mouthed, transfixed by the spectacle. In a minute, the mating was over. The stallion rested for a moment on top of his mare, then dismounted. Fleur assisted him by stepping forwards and sideways. The pair companionably nibbled each other’s wither, in a gesture of equine, post-coital affection.
‘That was so quick,’ said Clare, with a faint, teasing smile ‘Poor Fleur.’ She touched his arm and smiled, face a little flushed, moist lips parted. That was it. Tom pulled Clare close, sensing in her the same anticipation. He tipped back her head and closed his mouth over hers. Clare’s soft lips moved against his. She tasted of strawberries and smelled of saddle soap. Tom was instantly hard. His breath grew tight and urgent.
Desire made him reckless. Tom pulled her from the porch and down into the garden, ignoring her half-hearted protests. He lowered Clare to the grass, praying he wasn’t rushing things, praying she wouldn’t say no. Tom pinned her down, and stared into her green eyes. His head swam with longing, light-headed, desperate to see her naked and willing beneath him. Where was his brain? He wrenched himself away. Slow down, for god’s sake. ‘Clare . . .’ His voice sounded hoarse. She shushed him with a forefinger to his lips, pulse fast at her soft, white throat. Then she undid the top button of his shirt. Yes. He flung off his clothes and stripped Clare, impatiently, like he was opening a present. Everything about her was more than he had expected: her breasts more luscious, her skin smoother, her waist narrower than in his fantasies. Her beauty stopped him in his tracks.
Clare knelt up and slipped her slim, bare arms around his neck. Tiny golden hairs stood erect on her skin, gleaming in the sunshine. ‘If I were you,’ she said, ‘I’d kiss me.’
He pulled her to him, lips pressing against her mouth as she yielded to his shape. God, she was lovely. He had the strangest sensation of their bodies dissolving, melting into each other. When he entered her, they both cried out, and she arched her back to drive him deeper. The smell of their combined heat mixed with the scent of bruised leaves and crushed earth. It blended with the heady perfume of bougainvillea and jasmine. Here was paradise on earth.
Afterwards, they lay for the longest t
ime, entwined in each other’s arms. He traced the shape of her breast with his finger, astonished by its perfect form. ‘I love you,’ he said.
Clare raised herself on an elbow. ‘What did you say?’
‘I love you.’
‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘Not yet. We barely know each other.’
‘Do you usually have sex with people you barely know?’
She punched him lightly on the arm. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t actually,’ he said. ‘I feel I know you very well. We’ve seen each other every day for weeks now.’ He kissed her. ‘And anyway, haven’t you heard of love at first sight?’
‘You didn’t fall in love with me at first sight. You barely even noticed me. You left me stuck up a tree.’
‘I’m a vet,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken an oath. My patient’s welfare is paramount.’
Clare laughed. ‘An oath?’ She sat up and pulled on her shirt. ‘I thought the Hippocratic Oath was for doctors.’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘We vets have our own.’ He placed her hand on his heart. ‘Being admitted to the profession of veterinary medicine, I solemnly swear to use my scientific knowledge and skills for the benefit of society through the protection of animal health, the relief of animal suffering . . .’
She moved her hand from his chest and placed it over his mouth. ‘Enough.’
He stopped speaking.
‘Okay, I believe you have an oath, but I don’t believe you love me.’ Clare gathered up the rest of her clothes and retreated to the house. Tom lay back in the grass and stretched, every inch of his body deliciously spent. He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Life had never been sweeter. Clare would come round. It was only a matter of time.
Chapter 27
‘Sit down, Tom.’
It was unprecedented, having lunch with Harry in town like this. It made him nervous. How could the old man know about Tom’s tryst with his granddaughter yesterday? Had Clare told him? What other explanation for this meeting could there be?
He sat at a table by the window of the only café in Merriang, while Harry ordered at the counter. Big bay windows overlooked the creek. Barely a trickle. After last year’s horrendous floods, they’d had an unusually dry winter. Now, more than a month into the wet season and still no real rain. If not for the bores, drilling down into the infinite waters of the Great Artesian Basin, this year’s summer crops would be in big trouble.
A jeep sped down Merriang’s main street, narrowly missing Molly, the café’s tiny terrier. She had a dangerous habit of sunning herself on the road. The jeep hadn’t slowed a whisker. Traffic in sleepy little Merriang wasn’t usually so fast, or so ruthless.
Leila, who owned the shop, rushed outside and scooped the dog up in her arms. ‘Bastards,’ she said, giving Molly a hug. ‘A few seconds later, Doc, and my Molly here might have needed you.’
‘Keep her off the road,’ advised Tom. ‘The traffic’s only going to get worse around here.’ As if to prove his point, a convoy of Pyramid water tankers roared past, heading for the gas fields at Laredo. Tom imagined the vast, hidden aquifers, far beneath his feet. He could almost feel their ebb and flow.
‘Tom,’ said Harry. ‘Tom.’ This time more sharply. ‘Where’s your head, lad?’ The old man sat down opposite. Maybe it was the unkind glare of noonday sun on his face, etching each wrinkle and line into sharp relief. Maybe it was something else altogether. Whatever the reason, Harry looked much older than usual, looked every bit of his seventy-three years.
Leila brought over coffee for Tom and a pot of tea. ‘Pies are on their way.’
‘Can you take them outside please, Leila?’ said Harry, getting to his feet. ‘I could use a smoke.’
Tom couldn’t believe his ears. Whatever had prompted Harry to take up smoking again after thirty years? When Tom quizzed him about it, all he said was, ‘It’s one of life’s pleasures. Surely, at my age, a man’s entitled to his pleasures.’
‘Not if that man wants to live long,’ said Tom. They settled themselves at a table outside in the sun. Harry took out a tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. Tom couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. He was ready to defend his relationship with Clare, if he had to. ‘Quit stalling, Harry. What do you have to say to me here that you couldn’t say back at the house?’
The pies arrived, surrounded by mounds of golden chips, but neither Tom nor Harry touched them. Harry struck a match. He lit the cigarette and leaned back in his chair, enjoying the first long draught. Then he smoked the whole cigarette slowly and without a word. Each puff was taken with such deliberate care that it added a curious import to the occasion. Tom wasn’t going to hurry him again. The old man could take his time.
‘Remember that trip I took to Brisbane last month?’ said Harry at last. ‘Well, it wasn’t to go meet with the bank, like I said. It was for some tests.’ Harry stubbed out his cigarette. ‘There’s something on my brain, Tom. Some kind of tumour.’ Harry read the question on Tom’s face. ‘No, lad, there’s nothing they can do. I can spend the next few months in hospital, sick as a dog, with radiation treatments that won’t work anyway. Or I can stay here, in the place that I’ve loved all my life and enjoy each day I have left with my granddaughter and her boy. Those two coming . . . well, it’s a blessing I never expected before I died. Sometimes I feel my Mary looking down, fairly weeping with joy about them being here.’
Tom was numb from the news. He poured Harry a cup of tea with an unsteady hand. The old man smiled, his eyes so lit up he coaxed a smile from Tom too, despite his shock. ‘Now, Tom, what would you choose? Tell me. Currawong or the hospital?’ Harry took a big bite of his pie.
‘And there’s no chance they’re wrong?’ asked Tom, his breath hardening in his chest.
‘No, mate,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve had my second opinion. More pessimistic than the first. But on the plus side, I’m not in much pain yet. Some headaches . . . they’ll get worse apparently. I get dizzy sometimes. Confused, lose my legs. The steroid tablets help with that, though they make me cranky. Best news is, this tumour could take me one day in my sleep, when I don’t even know it.’ Harry finished his pie. ‘Can’t barely taste a bloody thing any more,’ he grumbled, then used the serviette to wipe his mouth. ‘So, Tom, now you know the score, you can answer my question. Currawong or the hospital?’
What could he say? He was a vet. One of the advantages of being a companion animal, he’d always thought, was the opportunity of a peaceful death before remorseless suffering set in. It was more than most people got. More than Harry would get. His throat was tight with emotion, and for a moment he couldn’t catch any air. Affection for the old man rose up in a warm wave that threatened to wash him away. If Harry had asked him for a decent dose of horse tranquiliser at that very moment, he would have given it to him. ‘How long?’
‘Maybe six months, if I’m lucky.’
Tom had never smoked, but he suddenly wanted one of Harry’s roll-your-owns. ‘Harry,’ said Tom. ‘You have to tell Clare.’
There was no reading Harry’s face, not a flicker of emotion. He rolled another cigarette, lit it and took a bottomless drag, like he was smoking a joint. He expelled it from his lungs in neat smoke rings and cracked a smile. ‘I’d love to show Jack that trick,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But it’s not kosher these days, is it, mate?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No, Harry, it’s not.’ He skolled his coffee. ‘We were talking about Clare.’
‘You’re fond of my granddaughter, aren’t you, Tom? How fond?’
‘I love her,’ he said simply.
Harry looked well satisfied. ‘Give us some time, Tom. The truth will be out in the open soon. Give us this special time together, before the grief sets in. I dare say it’ll be brief enough.’
What could Tom say? Who was he to take something so important away from Harry? And anyway, he was right. Why break Clare’s heart ahead of time? He bit his lip. ‘Okay, Harry. You have your time.’ He reach
ed over and grasped the old man’s hand. ‘Anything you need, it’s yours,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘Anything at all.’
A welcome, familiar twinkle came into Harry’s eye. ‘You going to eat that pie, lad?’
Tom pushed his plate across, and idly took a chip. The food lodged in his throat, choking him. He forced it down.
‘What about Fleur, eh?’ said Harry. He hoed into the flaky pastry. ‘Here I am wasting my time, sending her over to Macca’s horse, when all along, she’s got a thing for Goliath. Or maybe there’s something more than methane in the water over at Quimby, eh Tom?’
Tom gave him a sharp look. Was that a dig at him? He decided to change the subject. ‘Looks like you’ll be getting yourself a little Clydie–Percheron colt next year. Could be nice cross.’
‘You’ll have to look after that little ’un for me, Tom,’ said Harry. ‘I won’t be around to see it.’
Shit. What a fool he was. ‘I’m sorry—’ Tom started to say.
Harry held up his hand. ‘The reality hasn’t sunk in for you yet. God knows, it takes a while. I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. Promise?’
Tom felt the unfamiliar stab of tears behind his eyes. ‘Promise.’
‘There’s something else I’d like from you,’ said Harry. ‘Other than your pie.’ There was that twinkle again. ‘I want you to come and live at Currawong. There’s plenty of room and Clare will need somebody when I go. You are serious about my granddaughter, aren’t you, lad?’
‘I’m going to marry her,’ said Tom.
Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘Does Clare know?’
‘Not yet,’ Tom said with a grin. ‘It’s early days. Wouldn’t want to scare her off.’
Harry nodded approvingly. ‘Take it slow, Tom. Take it slow.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Will you do it then? Will you move into the house?’
‘Just try and stop me.’
Currawong Creek Page 19
