Clare fumbled with her car keys and they slipped to the ground. This tiny frustration was almost enough to tip her over the edge. She wanted to weep.
The phone rang. Tom again. Clare didn’t answer it. Instead she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes until it hurt. She had to pull herself together. The hearing was only a week away. She daren’t lose courage now. Jack was depending on it.
Chapter 37
Harry offered Tom a second scoop of curried lamb, but he waved the pot away. ‘You’ve got to eat,’ said Harry, piling up the plate anyway. ‘Christ almighty. Anyone would think it was you with the cancer.’ He took a second pot from the stove and ladled out the sticky rice without asking permission.
The two men ate in silence, growling at the dogs in turn each time they poked their noses through the kitchen door. ‘You have to speak to the lass,’ said Harry at last.
‘I’ve tried ringing,’ said Tom miserably. ‘She won’t answer.’ They both picked at their meal again. ‘You could, Harry,’ he said hopefully. ‘You could talk to her.’
‘Don’t put me in the middle of this. I can’t tell her what she needs to hear.’ Harry took another mouthful, staring belligerently at Tom. ‘You’re the one who needs to grow a backbone.’
Ever since Clare had left, a pall had descended on Currawong. Nothing Tom did gave him pleasure any more. His patients weren’t so bad. At least they left him to get on with the job. It was their owners that he couldn’t abide. He hauled himself from bed each morning, dreading having to make small talk, thrown by the simplest, How are you, Tom? He’d never been one to abide pretence. His natural instinct was to answer the question honestly. How was he? He was gutted, that’s what he was. He missed Clare so badly, it was a constant physical ache. Nothing seemed worthwhile without her. Each day was empty, a matter of just going through the motions.
Inevitably his dreams were of Clare. The unbearable thing was that in these dreams things always worked out. Either she never left or she came back or he rescued her from bears that had shredded her clothes . . . and the dream then turned deliciously X-rated. However weird the scenario, they always ended up living happily ever after.
How appalling then to wake up each morning and, like in a perverse version of Groundhog Day, have to confront his heartache all over again. Consequently he didn’t want to sleep. He watched movies late into the night or played online computer games, building himself a gorgeous avatar lover, who looked suspiciously like Clare. He drank too much bourbon, hoping it might provide a respite from dreaming. It didn’t, but it did provide him with a sore head in the morning. Life had become a living nightmare.
He’d misjudged things badly, he saw that now. Expecting Clare to see things from his point of view, without giving her any basis for doing so. And why the hell should she anyway? Her life wasn’t his life. How could she possibly appreciate the danger of taking a child from his mother, the way he did?
‘Tom,’ said Harry. ‘I reckon it might be easier for you to talk to me, kind of a practice run.’ Tom shook his head.
Harry pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. There was a certain gravity in the air, like something important was about to happen. ‘This is difficult for you, Tom, I can see that.’ Harry stood stiffly and rummaged through the pantry. ‘Here it is.’ He pulled out a velvet-lined display box and placed it on the table. It contained a dusty bottle of whisky. ‘My old dad won this fifty years ago at the Royal Sydney Show. Currawong horses took out every championship in sight that year, including Grand Champion Stallion. First and last time that honour’s gone to a Clydie, I reckon.’ He smiled to himself, like he was remembering. ‘I’ve been keeping it all these years . . . don’t know what for. Whisky ages in the cask, not in the bottle.’ Harry removed the cork and gave it an appreciative sniff.
‘It’s already been opened,’ said Tom. ‘There’s some missing.’
‘That happens with old spirits,’ said Harry. ‘They evaporate. Dad said it was the angels taking their share. Anyway, I reckon this one’s ripe. Fetch some glasses, will you, lad?’
‘What’s going on, Harry?’
‘Just a little talk, lad.’ Harry poured them both a drink. ‘Just a little talk.’ They both took a sip, then another. ‘I knew your father,’ said Harry. ‘He was a hard man, by all accounts. But he was a damn fine vet, almost as good as you are.’
Where was this leading?
‘I never knew much about your mother, though,’ Harry said.
Tom felt the bile rise in his throat.
‘Why is that, Tom? Is she dead?’
‘No, she’s not dead,’ said Tom at last. ‘But she may as well be.’
Harry lit his cigarette and drew in deeply. ‘I want you to tell me about her. You wouldn’t deny a dying man, would you now, Tom?’
What could he say? He barely had the words. But maybe Harry was right, maybe he should try to find them. Tom raised his glass and took a big swig. The smooth, sweet liquor went down easily. ‘When I was eight years old my folks split up. Me and my older sister Karen went to live with Mum. It was what we wanted, but Dad wouldn’t have it. He got a lawyer and went for sole custody of us both. That lawyer must have made my mother look pretty bad because he won the case. Dad sent us to boarding school. What was the point of taking us off Mum, just so he could send us away? I barely saw either of them after that.’ Tom took another drink.
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Harry. ‘Look at me, lad.’
Tom met the old man’s gaze.
‘Do you know what I think? No? I think you do,’ said Harry. ‘I think you know exactly what I think. You want Jack to live with his mother, because of what happened to you. But Jack’s not you, Tom. You’re not being fair to either him or my granddaughter.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘There’s no maybe about it,’ said Harry. ‘And there’s no maybe about the fact that Clare needs some support right now, whatever that court decides. If you love the girl, and I think you do, she should hear that story for herself.’
‘She won’t take my calls.’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’
‘She won’t listen to me.’
‘That,’ said Harry, ‘is because, up until now, you haven’t said anything worth listening to.’
Chapter 38
Clare waved Jack goodbye, and slipped out the childcare centre door. She collapsed back into the car and Samson laid his giant head on her shoulder. She stroked his muzzle. ‘Why the hell we’re fighting so hard to keep that child is a mystery to me,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should just let Taylor have him. It would serve her right.’ Samson pulled his head away, as if he disapproved.
Jack had been more impossible than ever that morning. Clare had learned long ago that the boy was an emotional barometer. She’d tried to act as if today was a normal day, but she hadn’t fooled him. Consequently it had taken longer than usual to coax him into the car. It had taken even longer to pry him out of it and then there was the painful leaving scene, where he clung to her and yelled at the long-suffering staff at the Pinocchio Centre. On her way out she’d knocked over an entire shelf of books. They’d fallen everywhere. She was all too familiar with that feeling – when things just wouldn’t stop falling.
Clare straightened her back, checked the time and started the car. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep. She was running late already and she still hadn’t dropped off Samson. How on earth did other women manage? Clare shook her head to clear it. She had to pull herself together or she’d be a mess at the hearing. ‘Wish me luck,’ she said to Samson as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Today could be the most important day of our lives.’
*
Clare wasn’t late after all. A high-speed dash through Brisbane’s streets saw her arrive ahead of time. She sat on a chair outside courtroom number seven and observed the hustle and bustle going on around her. She wasn’t used to being on this side of proceedings. She wasn’t used to being out of control. She hate
d waiting around for complete strangers to decide about her life. This must be how it felt for her clients. How it felt for Taylor those other times she’d lost Jack.
Clare kept an eye on the lifts, scanning the faces that emerged. Here came Sarah Chapman, checking her watch. She caught sight of Clare. Normally the two women would have exchanged pleasantries, maybe talked a little about the day’s cases. Today however, Sarah acknowledged Clare with the briefest nod. She checked her watch again, then made a phone call. Good. Taylor wasn’t here. A no-show would almost certainly decide the case in the department’s favour.
To her surprise, Ronnie emerged next from the lift, looking like a fashion plate for the young professional on the ladder to success. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Clare. ‘Do you have something on?’
Ronnie sat down beside her, and crossed her feet in their suede Louboutins. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I have a colleague to support, even if that colleague is demented.’
Clare’s spirits lifted. She reached over and squeezed Ronnie’s perfectly manicured hand. It was good to have a friend by her side.
Now key players were arriving thick and fast. The department lawyer Grace Carter came over and introduced herself. Grace was a plump, efficient-looking young woman. Until today, they’d only ever talked on the phone.
‘Have you seen the psychologist’s report?’ asked Clare.
Grace nodded. ‘Based on that assessment, today could go either way. She’s given you a glowing carer recommendation, but she’s also given the mother full marks for improving her circumstances. Taylor has safe, supported housing. She’s passed every drug screen, and she’s stuck with the methadone program so faithfully that the doctors have lowered her dose. She’s participated in parenting classes and, as far as we can tell, she’s cut off all contact with the violent boyfriend. Oh, and she’s in counselling.’
Taylor had jumped through every hoop the department had presented her with. There was that grudging admiration again.
‘On the plus side for us, though, is that Jack has now been in care for a cumulative total of eighteen months. Means he’s a candidate for a stability plan.’
Clare nodded. An SP planned for stable, long-term out-of-home care for a child. ‘If only we had one of those,’ said Clare.
Grace whipped a document from her wallet. ‘We do,’ she said. ‘Here’s your copy. You really should have seen this before, but there just wasn’t time. It was only finalised this morning, courtesy of Kim Maguire. I trust there’s nothing in there that you disagree with?’
Clare read the pages. The plan proposed, among other things, that Clare become Jack’s long-term carer, and that he be kept on a guardianship order for now, with a planned transition to permanent care. There was provision for Taylor to have generous access. Clare couldn’t believe it. Kim had really come through for her. Transition to permanent care. The prospect was too good to be true. ‘No, said Clare. ‘There’s absolutely nothing that I disagree with. This is wonderful.’
‘Right,’ said Grace. ‘I was hoping Kim could be here as a witness, but she’s giving evidence in another case. Instead I have a comprehensive affidavit from her for the court. Kim speaks glowingly of you, by the way. But don’t get your hopes up,’ warned Grace, before walking away. ‘We’re still in for an uphill battle, and Magistrate Jackson is known to be sympathetic to birth parents.’
Clare groaned. Not Joe Jackson. She usually cheered when she wound up in his court, but that was when she was acting for the other side. Clare recalled the time she’d won back custody of twin girls for their single mother on her latest release from jail. Even she hadn’t expected to win that one. The three-year-olds had been in a stable, loving placement for two years. Their foster parents had wept at the decision. It made her ashamed now to think about how she’d treated them.
Ronnie helped herself to the document in Clare’s lap. ‘Permanent care?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘Is that really what you want?’
‘Yes,’ said Clare, keeping her eye on the lift. ‘It’s what I want more than anything.’
Clare wasn’t only on the lookout for Taylor. Her grandfather had promised to come. Of course she’d told him not to bother. She’d told him that it was too far for him to drive, especially with those dizzy spells of his, and she’d meant it, but a big part of her still hoped she might see him walk through that door. And then there he was, large as life, clutching his hat, looking out of place in the windowless hall. His bewildered expression transformed into a sunny smile the moment he spotted her.
Clare leaped to her feet. ‘Grandad, you shouldn’t have.’
‘Yes, I should have,’ he said, embracing her.
Clare introduced him to Ronnie, wondering what she’d make of him.
‘How do you do, Mr MacLeod,’ Ronnie said, looking him up and down. ‘I love your style. Pure R. M. Williams. That look’s very in right now.’ She glanced over at Clare. ‘Perhaps you could give your granddaughter some fashion tips.’
Taylor still hadn’t arrived and Clare allowed herself to hope. They were first on the list. If she didn’t show soon, it might well be game over.
Then it happened. The lift door opened, framing two people inside. Clare’s heart faltered. Taylor . . . and Tom. What on earth? She turned, open-mouthed, to her grandfather.
‘Don’t start, love,’ he said. ‘Tom drove me up here.’ Grandad was speaking in the tone that he used for nervous, young horses. ‘He spotted Taylor in the lobby and they got talking.’
Taylor noticed Clare. They eyed each other warily, and then Tom spotted her too. What would he say? What would she say? But she needn’t have worried; he didn’t approach her. Clare felt sick. Her heart ached at the sight of him but still, she couldn’t stop staring. Devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit and tie. The tailored clothes emphasised his height, his square shoulders, his lean hips. Her body responded to him in spite of herself. She folded her arms across her chest. The only thing worse than Tom not being there to support her was him being there to support Taylor.
‘It’s not what you think,’ said her grandfather.
‘Good,’ said Clare as she got to her feet. ‘Because if it’s what I think, Tom’s a dead man.’ She marched down the corridor to compose herself. Sarah called Taylor over and, from where Clare stood, she could hear the barrister’s last-minute instructions to her client. She eavesdropped shamelessly, but Sarah wasn’t giving anything away.
‘You’ll be asked to take the stand,’ said Sarah. ‘You can either swear on the bible or just swear that you’ll tell the truth. Answer all questions honestly. If you don’t understand a question, ask for it to be repeated. If you still don’t understand, ask for the Magistrate to make the question clearer. Address him as Your Honour or Sir. I’ll ask you questions first, then the other lawyer will cross-examine you. Okay?’ Taylor looked scared but she nodded and the case was called.
Grandad stood up. ‘We can’t go in,’ said Clare. ‘You’re not a party and I’m a witness.’ Her grandfather sat back down, and she joined him.
Tom came over. ‘Hello, Clare.’
‘Tom.’
‘Can we talk?’ he asked.
‘Not now,’ she said, powerfully aware of his physical presence. Damn that man. She had to keep her wits about her for the stand.
‘Leave her be, Tom,’ said Grandad.
He gave her one last, longing look, and then sat down a few seats away.
Ronnie’s eyes widened and a knowing smile played on her lips. ‘You weren’t kidding,’ she said. ‘Scrumptious is an understatement.’ She sneaked another peek at Tom. ‘I might pack up and go bush with him myself.’
Clare ignored Ronnie and concentrated on calming down. She could feel Tom, though she couldn’t look at him. For a moment she thought she could smell him too, a kind of warm, open air, animal scent. She forced her mind away from him. Time slowed, along with the beat of her heart. She was intensely present in each moment, like in a meditation. When they called her, she’d be r
eady.
The sound of the clerk saying her name startled her. Surely it wasn’t time yet? It was too soon. With a pat on the back from her grandfather and an unexpected hug from Ronnie, she entered the court. Grace met her on the other side of the door.
‘There’s been a change of plan,’ she whispered. ‘His Honour wants to speak to you.’
What was Grace talking about? Either Clare was giving evidence or she wasn’t. Taylor still stood in the witness box, with a defiant tilt to her chin. She glared at Clare. Whatever this was, it didn’t look pretty.
His Honour Joe Jackson was a cheerful, middle-aged man, with grey hair and fine principles. He was one of the more progressive magistrates on the bench and liked to pursue what he regarded as a social justice agenda. In other words, he was a bit of a sucker for the underdog. That normally suited Clare just fine, but not today.
‘Ms Mitchell,’ he said. ‘Always nice to see you in my court, whatever the circumstances.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to size up the situation. To her surprise, Sarah Chapman looked furious. That had to be good.
‘Ms Brown has a rather novel proposal. If it should prove acceptable to both parties, it would allow for this matter to be settled with a consent order.’
Whatever was he talking about?
‘If you wouldn’t mind reiterating your request?’ he asked Taylor.
Taylor looked at the Magistrate in confusion. ‘Tell us again what you want, Ms Brown,’ said Jackson. ‘We’re all waiting with bated breath.’
Taylor slowly turned her gaze to Clare. Nobody else, just Clare. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was resolute. ‘I love my son,’ she said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. The truth is, though, I haven’t always been the best mother to him. I’ve always tried though. I’ve tried my heart out for that little boy. I’m still trying.’ She stopped.
‘Go on,’ said Jackson, gently. ‘Tell Ms Mitchell what you told me.’
Currawong Creek Page 25
