Chapter 33
Jack was a natural. He sat tall in the saddle while Sparky circled at the trot on a lunge rein. A broad grin split the little boy’s face as soon as he spotted Clare. ‘I can trot,’ he yelled, startling Sparky into a canter. Jack squealed with delight, sitting his pony with ease, keeping an eye on Clare to make sure she was watching.
‘Slow him down,’ said Tom.
Jack’s expression became determined. He sat down hard, struggling to gather the reins in his tiny fists. Sparky broke back into a fast trot and the boy bobbed up and down in time with the rhythm of his pony’s hammering hooves.
‘Tom,’ called Clare.
He flashed her a swift, proud smile, then turned back to his pupil. ‘Walk on.’ But instead of the easy transition Clare expected, Sparky swung towards Tom and came to an abrupt halt, throwing the little boy onto his neck. Jack clung on like a monkey, winding his fingers into the pony’s flowing silver mane. For a moment Clare’s heart was in her mouth. But then Jack regained his balance, grinned like a Cheshire cat and turned his grip into a great, big hug. Sparky tossed his head and Clare remembered to breathe again. There was no doubting Jack’s guts and his courage made her brave. Sharing her news with Tom would help too. What was it Grandad always said? A trouble shared is a trouble halved.
Tom lifted Jack down and the little boy ran to her, eyes shining. ‘Did you see me?’ he said. ‘I galloped.’
‘Cantered,’ said Tom, leading Sparky over. He looked at Clare as if she might scold him for it. ‘The canter was a bit of an accident.’
Clare lifted Jack’s helmet from his head and smoothed a stray lock of hair. ‘Yes, I saw you. You were fantastic, and so was Sparky . . . and so were you, Tom.’ Jack hugged her leg for a moment, and then tried to climb back into the saddle.
‘No, that’s all for now,’ said Tom, hoisting the boy off the pony. ‘Come and help me unsaddle him.’
Force of habit made Clare brace for the tantrum that used to so often follow the word no. The yelling and hitting. The small taut body hurling itself to the ground. But instead, Jack calmly positioned himself at Sparky’s near shoulder and took charge of the reins like Tom had shown him. ‘Walk on,’ said Jack, and led his pony off towards the stable. Tom walked by his side and Clare trailed after them. She longed to tell Tom about Taylor’s custody grab. Ached to vent about her outright lies. But it was impossible with Jack there.
‘I need to take Jacky to the house now,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll come back. There’s something I want to tell you.’
‘No way,’ said Tom. ‘Feeding and grooming Sparky is as important a part of Jack’s therapy as riding. More important, actually. It cements the bond between them.’
‘Just this once,’ she said. ‘I really need to talk to you.’
Tom’s phone rang and Clare groaned. ‘So you’ve got both feet but no head,’ he said. ‘Which way are the hoofs flexed? Do they point down or up? . . . Down? Good, it’s not a breech birth then.’ He took Sparky’s reins from Jack and handed them to Clare with an apologetic shrug. ‘In the meantime make the mare stand and walk. This will help the foal slide back into the womb and make it easier to reposition.’ Clare combed Sparky’s mane with her fingers. ‘She’s up? . . . Good work. Wash and lubricate your arm anyway, in case I’m not there in time. If she goes down and starts straining again before I arrive, you’ll have to help her with directions from me over the phone. Okay? Hopefully it won’t come to that.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Clare. ‘You’ve got to go.’
‘The life of a country vet,’ called Tom over his shoulder as he sprinted down the hill.
‘Well, Jacky.’ The little boy hurled himself at her. ‘I guess it’s just you and me, kid.’
It wasn’t until after dinner that Clare finally found herself alone with Tom. All day she’d struggled alone to cope with the idea that Taylor might soon reclaim Jack. Clare had toyed with telling Bronwyn in the morning. She’d almost confided in Grandad on countless occasions during the afternoon, but each time she’d bitten her tongue. How would she bear Bronwyn’s sympathy or her grandfather’s very own real grief at the thought of losing the little boy? It was Tom she needed, Tom who’d understand. So instead she’d waited, each second seeming to take an hour.
Sid arrived in the afternoon to check out the new foals, and then disappeared to the pub with Grandad. Clare fed Jack his dinner, listening for Tom’s footstep on the porch. He arrived in time to read Christopher Robin to Jack, while she washed up. At last the little boy was asleep, and there they were, out on the verandah, with beers in their hands. It had been a dreary day, a gloomy one, but for a single, magnificent moment, the sun flared bright on the horizon. It rimmed the dark clouds in dramatic crimson. In almost the same moment it mellowed and lost its hold on the sky. Stray rosy rays slanted across the ancient Bunya range, like they must have done for aeons past. Clare usually loved this mysterious interlude between night and day, this transition point between worlds. But tonight it unnerved her, with its promise of imminent change. What she really wanted was for nothing to change, nothing at all.
Tom put down his drink. His expression was intense and searching. ‘I can tell something’s wrong. Spill.’ That was all it took to release the torrent. Clare launched into her story, blurting it out in a great stream-of-consciousness flood of emotion that left her hollow and exhausted.
‘Come here.’ His voice was low and commanding and his arms opened wide. This was it, what she’d waited for, what she’d longed for during all that grey, slow day. The moment of release, the moment when, together, they’d hatch a plan to keep Jack. Clare sat on his lap, in his arms, a lonely, needy child herself, letting the tears wrack her body until they were spent. Tom’s firm, warm presence calmed her. He swept a damp lock of hair from her face and she managed a smile. He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Clare,’ he whispered. ‘Everything will be all right.’ His words were salve to an open wound.
‘I suppose next you’re going to tell me to stay positive.’
‘I might,’ he said, stroking her brow. ‘If it helps.’
‘Go on then,’ she said interlacing her fingers with his. ‘Tell me how the power of positive thinking will help us.’
‘Well . . .’ he said. Why was his tone suddenly tentative? She wanted strength and certainty from him, not hesitation. ‘This might be the best thing, in the long run.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ she said. ‘You might think an early hearing will give us more security, but it won’t. The best thing would be for Taylor not to challenge at all and let the original twelve month order run its course.’
‘Best for who?’ he asked. ‘Just exactly who would that be best for?’
The hair on the back of her neck bristled. Clare untwined her fingers and sat up. She couldn’t quite grasp the point he was making. ‘Best for Jack, of course. What are you getting at?’
‘Don’t you mean best for you?’
She struggled to understand him, to twist his words into some recognisable form.
‘Surely,’ said Tom, ‘what’s best for Jack is to be with his mother.’
With infinite slowness she disengaged her body from his. ‘Say that again?’
He tried to fold her to him but she was unbending as glass. Even her heart felt brittle and hard, as if it might shatter at the next beat.
He drained the last drop of his beer. ‘If Taylor gets back on track, why shouldn’t she have her child?’
‘How long have you got?’ said Clare, still not sure she’d heard him right. ‘Taylor shouldn’t have her child because if she is back on track, which I highly doubt, it’s only been for about five minutes. Because in these last few months of stability, Jack has improved in extraordinary leaps and bounds, and doesn’t deserve to be thrown back into chaos. How would it be for him to lose his grip on all this progress, and slip back into mutism and violence and self-harm? Because he’s not a toy that belongs to Taylor. He’s a real live little boy. Because she can’t keep having turns
with him, while his childhood and any chance of a normal life slip away.’
‘But if she really changes,’ said Tom. He couldn’t even look at her.
‘Do you know what happened at Danny’s party last week? Somebody spilled the sugar bowl, and guess what Jack did?’ Her pulse was hammering. ‘He took a straw, made a line of sugar on the table, and tried to snort it.’
‘But if she gets clean, and goes to those parenting classes and seeks counselling.’ He stood and paced the verandah. ‘If she finds a safe place to live and gets Jack some sort of therapy . . .’
The pain in Clare’s chest spread through her body. ‘He’s already got a safe place to live,’ she said. ‘And as for therapy, where’s he going to find anything that comes close to Currawong? To Grandad and the animals . . . to you? That’s the therapy Jack needs and you damn well know it. For God’s sake, Tom. Jack found his father dead from an overdose when he was only two years old. What sort of mother is Taylor to let that happen?’
In the pale porch light Tom’s jaw set into a hard line. ‘I’m sorry, Clare, but the bottom line is that kids should be with their families. Bringing a child into your home doesn’t make you a mother, any more than standing in a stable makes you a horse. How would you feel if somebody took your child?’
Clare backed towards the door. Why was he saying this?
‘I love you, Clare,’ Tom said, looking lost. ‘More than anything. If Jack goes home to Taylor, we’ll get through it.’
He loved her, did he? The warmth of the night was suddenly oppressive. The mocking laughter of a late-calling Kookaburra was aimed straight at her heart. You stupid, gullible fool, it cackled. Clare wanted to wring the bird’s neck.
She ran through the darkening house to her room. Tom’s footsteps followed. They echoed after her on the floorboards, and she dared not turn around, dared not look into his face. She reached her room, slammed the door and sat down shaking on the bed. Knock, knock . . . Knock, knock. His tap came soft and insistent. Knock, knock . . . Knock, knock. Harder this time.
‘Honey . . . Let me in.’ The doorknob began to rotate.
Clare sprang up and wrenched open the door. ‘Fuck off, Tom,’ she hissed. ‘Just fuck the hell off.’ She banged the door shut, and flung herself on her bed, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. That was the sort of unguarded emotional response that had got her into trouble in the first place. Instead she bit her lip until it bled, and knuckled away a few mutinous tears. In the acute silence, she listened for the sound of retreating footsteps. It took an agonising few minutes but, finally, she heard it. Tom was gone, and that’s exactly how it was going to stay.
For a long time Clare lay where she fell. She buried her face in the pillow of the high feather bed, twirling threads of pink candlewick between her fingers. She loved Currawong’s old beds. They were soft like clouds. It enraged her to think that Tom would sleep in one that night. He didn’t deserve it. She fought back a sob. Just as well Grandad wasn’t home. It would be so tempting to tell him about Tom and she didn’t want to do that when she was angry. Grandad wasn’t well and he’d need Tom now that she was leaving Currawong.
Building a life in the country with Tom had been an impossible romantic dream, nothing more. Her place was in Brisbane, where her hard-won career awaited her. Thank heavens she hadn’t burned her bridges with Paul Dunbar. Thank heavens she hadn’t thrown away her future on a schoolgirl crush. She tried to sit up but the deep, sinking mattress held her fast, held her like a trap.
Clare struggled to her feet as Sid’s car pulled to a stop in the yard. Grandad was home. She couldn’t tell him, not yet, but she had to confide in someone. If she kept this heartache to herself she’d burst. Not Bronwyn; there was no way she’d hear a bad word spoken about Tom and that went for most of the town. No, she needed someone who wouldn’t take sides, someone who’d experienced their own share of disappointment lately. Someone who would relate to the sort of betrayal that Taylor and Tom had heaped upon her. Of course . . . she needed to talk to Ronnie.
Saturday morning, and they were all gathered in the kitchen. Grandad wore a face Clare hadn’t seen before. The face of a stoic, of a man who could endure any hardship without complaint. Was that the expression he’d worn at Grandma’s funeral? Clare hated seeing it there, hated to think that she’d put that look on his face.
Jack was dragging their bags back down the hall. ‘Stop it,’ she said, her voice raised more than a notch. She wanted to scream. Jack screamed instead, and hurled something at her head. A smooth river stone he always kept in his pocket. She ducked just in time. Even Samson was misbehaving. He’d been ratty all morning, picking fights with the peaceable Dalmatians and refusing to come when called. Right now he was skulking under the table, lips parted in a sour snarl whenever Red approached. Clare didn’t relish the idea of sharing a long car trip with either of them.
Tom stood by the door, hat in hand. Clare avoided his gaze. Another look at his anguished, handsome face and all her resolve might crumble away. Since her announcement yesterday, Tom had campaigned fiercely to make her change her mind about leaving. He’d been unrelenting. He wanted her, he said. He needed her, he loved her. His life would be empty without her. How sweet these words would have sounded just a few days ago. But now? Now they were like needles in her heart. Tom stubbornly refused to say the only thing that mattered.
‘Sure you won’t stay, love?’ asked Grandad. ‘Me and Tom’ll be lost without you lot.’ Something passed across Grandad’s face, some sort of shadow. He pulled out a chair and sat down, seeming suddenly frail. Clare braced against the wrench in her guts.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t stay.’
Jack leaped onto Grandad’s knee and glared at her. ‘I won’t go,’ he yelled. ‘I won’t bloody go.’
Grandad hugged him briefly, got to his feet and put the little boy down. ‘Don’t you talk like that,’ he scolded. ‘Clare will bring you back for a visit soon. Won’t you, love?’
She couldn’t bear to look at them. ‘Yes,’ she said, inspecting her shoes. ‘Of course.’
‘Come on then,’ said Grandad, giving Jack a smile. ‘Time to go.’
Tom stepped forward, hoisting the little boy aloft, carrying him to the car and strapping him in. ‘See you, champ.’ Tears glistened in Jack’s eyes like silvery snail trails, pasting his lashes together. Samson took his place on the seat beside him. The little boy had already begun his rhythmic head thumping, eyes shut tight, lost in some other world.
‘Goodbye, love.’ Clare embraced her grandfather, and he stroked her hair. ‘I’m coming to that hearing about Jacky. No arguments. Just tell me when it is.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’ll hear none of your back talk,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m coming, and that’s that.’
Thank you, Grandad.’
When she pulled away, Tom was by her side. On an impulse she extended her hand. He seized it with such force it hurt. His eyes bored into her, as if he could make her stay by sheer force of will. They held each other’s gaze for the longest time. Was there nothing more to say? Would it really end this way?
Tom opened his mouth and closed it several times, like he was struggling to find the right words. She hung on the moment, waiting, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘Bye, Clare.’
‘Bye, Tom.’ Clare swallowed hard and drove away without a backward glance.
Chapter 34
She’d hoped to slip into Fortitude Valley Legal Aid that first morning unnoticed. No such luck. ‘You’re back,’ squealed Debbie, running out from behind reception to give Clare a hug. ‘And you’ve even got yourself a tan,’ she said. ‘It looks so natural.’
‘That’s because it is natural,’ said Clare. She pulled up the short sleeve of her shirt, exposing the white skin.
Debbie looked horrified. ‘I’ll take you to Bronzilicious at lunchtime,’ she said. ‘They’ll even you up, no worries. And there’s a Supa-
Dark tanning-bed special on – buy ten sessions, get ten free. You’d look sick with a proper tan.’
Clare smiled and thanked her for the advice. It was somehow reassuring to discover that Debbie hadn’t changed.
Isaac emerged from the corridor with a fat manila folder under his arm and a familiar frown creasing his broad forehead. He did a double take at the sight of her, and broke into a grin. ‘So you’re back.’
A fresh-faced young man that she didn’t recognise came out of her old office. Isaac introduced him as Davis. Clare inspected her replacement. He looked about fifteen. She must be getting old.
‘I’m back part-time until the end of the year,’ she said, shaking Davis’s hand. Ronnie walked through the glass doors, fabulous in a dark, geo print dress that looked both chic and corporate at the same time. At first, the expression on her flawlessly made-up face was as snooty as ever, but when she saw Clare, it changed to a pleased smile. ‘Let’s do lunch,’ whispered Ronnie.
Clare nodded. ‘You’re on, but right now I want to speak with Roderick.’ And with that she escaped down the hall.
Roderick looked tired. There was nothing unusual about that, but there was something else behind his eyes. Uncertainty maybe? Misgivings?
‘How’s Jack?’ he asked
‘He’s having some trouble adjusting to being back,’ she said. ‘For that matter, so am I.’
He nodded, as if she’d given him the right answer.
‘He’s made such big strides these past few months,’ Clare said.
‘Where is he today?’
‘In a new place. It offers a therapeutic day care program – for kids with emotional problems . . .’ She trailed off. Roderick was studying her face. ‘Jack still doesn’t like it,’ she said, ‘but it’s an improvement on Jolly Jumbucks, and it’s only three days a week.’ Why was he looking at her like that?
‘Well, we can certainly use the help leading up to Christmas,’ he said. ‘Young Davis is good, but he’s green.’
He paused, as if expecting her to say something. But what?
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