Currawong Creek

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘They both sound perfect,’ said Clare. ‘You choose.’

  ‘A carriage ride it is then,’ said Grandad.

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you first,’ said Clare. She fetched the gumnuts she’d collected from her Coolabah tree in Brisbane, and spread them on the table. ‘Can I grow these?’

  She watched as he put on his glasses and examined the woody pods. Was it her imagination or had he grown more frail? Yes, he had. It was easier to spot after being away for a few weeks. The skin on his hands looked thin enough to tear with a touch, and his eyes seemed sunken. They retained their old sparkle and warmth, though, and he still had a spring in his step.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Grandad. ‘Black Box? Coolabah . . .?’

  ‘Coolabah,’ she said.

  ‘First thing,’ he said, ‘Stick them in a paper bag under the verandah until the nuts release the seed.’ He picked up a gum nut she’d taken from the ground and rolled it between his fingers. ‘This is a good ’un. Some trees hold their nuts way past the first year. With these older ones, you’re sure the seed is ripe.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Clare. She grabbed a pen and paper.

  ‘Plant the seed in pots with a mixture of peat and sand. Stick them in the fridge for six weeks so they think its winter. Then just take them out and keep them moist. You’ll have a fine crop of Coolabah seedlings before you know it.’

  Clare finished writing then leant over and kissed him. ‘Thanks Grandad. I knew I could count on you.’

  The phone rang and for once Grandad heard it. Clare cleared away the gumnuts and poured herself a cup of tea, idly listening to the conversation. She put down the teapot. Something was wrong, she could hear it in his voice. ‘You buggers will come on my land over my dead body,’ he said, his voice thick with anger. The phone slammed down. It took a few minutes for him to emerge from the hall.

  ‘We’ll have to take a raincheck on that carriage ride. Those Pyramid bastards are on their way.’ His hands closed into fists. ‘Going ahead with some exploratory wells, they said. Reckon they’ve got the paperwork, and I can’t do nothing about.’

  ‘Oh, Grandad,’ said Clare, hand over mouth. ‘I thought we’d put an end to all that.’ A flush of guilt scorched her face. She’d been so caught up in her own problems she’d forgotten about her grandfather’s.

  ‘So did I, love,’ he said. ‘Gordon tabled that report of yours in parliament last week and the vote’s today. He’s crunched the numbers. It’ll be close, but it should get through and if it does, he reckons there’ll be a moratorium on new wells. But if those buggers get their toe in the door before the vote they might just get away with it.’

  ‘The vote’s today? Surely we can stall them for one day?’

  ‘Buggered if I know how. There’s a whole convoy on its way.’

  Clare took his arm and smiled. ‘I wasn’t a student activist for nothing,’ she said. ‘Ring around. See who can get over here straightaway. Ask them to bring chains and padlocks. We’re going to stage a protest.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Grandad, looking more cheerful. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  More than two hundred people turned up, with tractors and cultivators and graders – anything that could block access to the Currawong track. A party atmosphere developed. Women served sandwiches. Someone had brought along balloons for the children. An eclectic collection of farm dogs milled around, some circling each other, stiff-legged, manes up, spoiling for a fight. But one word from an owner was generally enough to stand them down. They soon sorted out a pecking order, and formed a rough pack. Samson and Red, Pongo and Perdita – they all joined in.

  Clare, along with Bronwyn and a few others, sat chained to the Sunshine gates. She was enjoying herself, reliving the student sit-ins of university days. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of civil disobedience,’ she said. Jack and Danny thought it was great fun and demanded to be chained up too.

  ‘Not today,’ said Bronwyn firmly. ‘Maybe next time.’

  Clare laughed. ‘Chaining four-year-olds to fences might be going a bit far.’ Another truck joined the blockade. ‘Let’s hope the press get here before Pyramid does. Otherwise they’ll never get through.’ Vehicles were already parked ten deep.

  ‘It’s about time we put up a fight,’ said one man and doffed his hat to the chained women. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and a shiver of pride ran through her.

  ‘Have you got that radio?’ she asked.

  Bronwyn handed over a big, battery-powered Sangean. ‘I’ve set it to the broadcast of parliament.’ The modulated voice of an ABC announcer rang clear in the still air. News on the hour of bomb blasts and earthquakes and rebellion in faraway places. Then the droning voice of MPs debating some bill about tariffs.

  ‘Parliament’s sitting late tonight,’ said Clare. ‘It could be ages before we know.’

  The sound of a distant motor stopped the general chatter. Not a loud motor. Certainly not trucks in convoy. A car rounded the bend. ‘They’re from the paper,’ said someone. Good. This was all going according to plan. A young man and woman got out.

  ‘How do you reckon they’ll spin it?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Bronwyn. ‘That reporter’ – she pointed to a pretty woman conducting interviews – ‘Her parents are here. I think we can bank on good press.’

  Clare smiled for the photographer.

  Now a new, more menacing sound, the rumble of heavy vehicles. Once more the chatter stopped, and heads turned as one. Truck after truck crested the horizon. It was an army. ‘Action stations,’ shouted an earnest young man. He looked vaguely familiar. She had it, the artist, local president of Shut the Gate, minus the dreadlocks. An uneasy calm settled on the crowd as they waited for the trucks to come.

  Ten minutes later, the lead vehicle grumbled around the corner. It bore gold emblazoned Pyramid Energy logos and looked brand new. ‘That’s the first bulldust that bumper’s seen,’ someone said. Grandad threaded his way through the throng to meet the convoy, flanked by two burly farmers.

  Clare was too far away to hear, but if she peered sideways, she could see what was going on. One thing was certain. It was a heated exchange. Wild arm gestures, muted yells, the threatening revving of engines. Gas company trucks were lined up along Clydesdale Way, blocking the road, unable to turn into the track. Dogs, attracted by the noise, charged back from the gully where they’d been chasing rabbits. Petty differences forgotten, they were united now, against a common enemy. They rushed at the strangers as one barking, snarling pack. It was a terrifying sight. The Pyramid Energy man leaped into the cabin, losing his hat in the process. Red seized the hat, ripped it to shreds and settled down to eat it.

  The man handed Grandad some papers through the window and Grandad tore them up. Twenty minutes of shouting later, and the man gave up. He reversed from the track. Three barricade vehicles instantly took his spot. Now the drive was completely blocked, allowing the trucks nowhere to turn round. They had no choice but to rumble off along the Clydesdale Way.

  A cheer rang out. Clare caught a movement down on the road. Tom’s jeep was approaching the rear of the convoy. It squeezed through on the inside, and barrelled past, nosing into the Currawong track. The barricade parted to let him through. Clare scrambled to her feet. ‘I’m here.’

  Tom sprinted towards her, weaving through the vehicles with a proud grin on his face. Clare stood attached to the gate, laughing and waiting for him. Tom looked her up and down as she pulled against her chains. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ he said.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Clare, rattling the links. ‘Now, who’s got a key?’

  The crowd took their country time going home. Those that didn’t wander up to the homestead then and there, promised to return when the sun went down. The sweet scent of victory lay heavy in the air.

  Tom had discovered a case of beer under the house, and Clare and Bronwyn were trying to fit a few more cans into the drinks fridge. ‘That�
�s it,’ said Clare, straightening up. ‘There’s no more room.’

  A man came in with a bag of ice and tipped it into the concrete laundry trough. ‘Problem solved,’ he said. ‘You two shoot through. I’ll finish here.’

  Clare thanked him and they headed for the kitchen, where celebrations were in full swing. Where was Grandad? Ah, there he was, deep in conversation with a man she didn’t know, a man bent with age . . . a man who appeared to be crying. Bronwyn followed her gaze. ‘That’s Pete Porter,’ she said. ‘He lost Quimby Downs to the wells five years ago. If only we knew then what we know now, we might have been able to help him.’

  ‘I’ve seen that homestead,’ said Clare. ‘It’s gorgeous, such a waste.’

  ‘Even if they clean up the gas leaks, he’ll never live there again,’ whispered Bronwyn. ‘I’m friends with his daughter. She says he has lung cancer.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Clare. ‘I wonder if Grandad knows?’

  They joined Tom out on the twilight verandah, watching the children play chasey in the dusk. ‘Where’s the radio?’ said Clare. ‘Surely there’ll be news by now.’ Bronwyn ducked inside for it. Parliament had finished and the political roundup begun. The illness of the Member for Morton, Craig Jones, and the refusal of the Opposition to grant the Government a pair, has caused an unexpected result in parliament today. The move for an immediate moratorium on coal seam gas exploration has failed. Instead the matter will be referred to a parliamentary joint committee. It could take many months for this body to bring down its findings. In the interim, mining companies can continue their activities unhindered.

  No! Clare’s throat closed. The day had seemed such a success. The community had rallied so fiercely. Had it all been for nothing? Would all their hearts break?

  Clare slipped inside to find Grandad. He sat at the kitchen table with Pete Porter and a couple of other old rabblerousers, laughing and drinking and telling stories. Tom’s reassuring form pressed against her back, his steady arms encircled her and she turned to meet his gaze. In that bittersweet moment they reached an understanding. They wouldn’t tell him, not yet. Let him have his celebration.

  But they weren’t the only ones listening to the radio. A hush rippled through the crowd as the result filtered through. Her chest ached as Grandad received the news.

  After a moment of raw disbelief, of sheer sorrow, he composed himself and become strangely philosophical. He raised his eyes to meet hers. They were full of concern.

  ‘Never mind, love,’ he told her, patting her hand. ‘Things will work out.’

  Wasn’t that just like Grandad? Putting everyone else’s feelings ahead of his own. Clare didn’t known know what to say. They’d played their last card. It was too awful to think Currawong might end up like Quimby Downs: poisoned and polluted, a paradise lost. Tears welled up and she hung her head.

  ‘Clare?’ She turned to her grandfather and forced a smile. He studied her face. ‘I said never mind. Don’t you trust your old grandad?’

  She kneeled beside his chair and laid her head against him, like a child. ‘I trust you, Grandad. I trust you more than anyone else in the world.’

  ‘There’s my girl,’ he said, stroking her hair with gnarled fingers. ‘It’s almost Christmas. I plan on making our first one together one to remember. What do you say? Will you help me?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course I will,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’d do anything for you.’

  He smiled. ‘Then cheer up. We’re not finished yet.’

  It was a forlorn hope. Clare’s stomach clenched with sadness, with the pain of disappointing him.

  She took hold of his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

  ‘You did your best,’ he said. ‘What do you have to be sorry for?’

  Her body felt cold. The room and the people receded into a fog until the world consisted only of her and Grandad. ‘I’m sorry for Grandma, for Smudge . . . for not being around these last sixteen years.’

  A soft look of comprehension crept over his face. ‘Listen to me. Mary and I, we knew how your dad felt after our Patty left him. You were just a child, Clare. You and Ryan. None of it’s your fault.’

  ‘I wasn’t a child forever,’ she said. ‘And I still didn’t come.’

  His eyes crinkled into the kindest smile. It spread over his face, into his eyes and spilled across the room. ‘Forgiven and forgotten,’ he said, kissing her fingers. ‘That’s water under the bridge, you hear?’ Clare nodded, feeling lighter. His words had shifted a heavy, guilty stone from her heart.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you do deserve,’ he said, sounding suddenly stern. ‘You deserve to forgive yourself.’

  Chapter 41

  The lethargy of Christmas afternoon had claimed them all. Taylor lay on the couch with Red on her lap. The heeler had taken a shine to her and vice versa. That dog was nothing but a big sook. He reclined on his back, between the girl’s knees, eyes closed in bliss as she rubbed his tummy. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he cute?’ Taylor must have found Clare’s old box of dolls beneath the house. Red now wore a frilly, buttercup-yellow bonnet, tied firmly under his chin. Tom laughed and took a picture. Such a perfect day. Clare wished it might never end.

  As an added bonus, there’d been the thrill of a phone call from Ryan. What a pleasure to hear his voice. At Clare’s insistence Grandad had filled him in on the Pyramid problem. They’d talked for ages. Ryan had seemed genuinely angry, and keen to help if he could. He’d promised to visit sometime. It was good to feel like they were, in some small way, part of a united force again.

  Even the phone call from Mum hadn’t been as difficult as usual. Clare had given a potted version of the last few months, and her mother had seemed more interested in Clare’s life than usual. Or was it that she herself was being more forthcoming, more ready to share things? When Dad was alive she’d had to pick sides.

  Clare had hung up the phone, and tried to picture her mother in Currawong’s kitchen, sharing in the festivities. Where was she anyway? Why wasn’t she here? Clare had made up her mind to find out. Maybe, in the future, she’d be able to fix the broken bits of her family.

  Grandad caught sight of Red in his bonnet, and roared with laughter. Clare studied his face. For the last ten days he’d gone about his business as if nothing was wrong. If anything, he had more energy than before. How to explain it? Denial, she guessed. He was in denial. The trucks wouldn’t roll into Currawong until January. This brief hiatus, this space between the old year and the new – this was a very special time for them all. A golden time, before the ratbags rolled in to ruin everything.

  Grandad had cooked the traditional dinner himself, in spite of the heat. ‘It’s not dinner,’ Clare had pointed out. ‘Why does everybody call Christmas lunch dinner?’

  ‘Pipe down,’ Grandad had growled. ‘Your grandmother called it dinner, and that’s good enough for me.’ He’d been ably assisted by Tom and also by his old mate Sid who had no living family and was a holiday houseguest. Sid wore a Santa hat, and with his bushy white beard he was a dead ringer for Father Christmas. Roast meat, both beef and lamb, all the veggies, gravy, plum pudding, brandy custard and two trifles, one with wine and one without wine for Jack. Clare wasn’t allowed to do anything but sip champagne. He and Sid called out ‘Ducks on the pond!’ whenever she tried to help with the cooking. It was an old shearer’s catchcry, used when a woman approached that exclusively male domain, the shearing shed. For some reason it now seemed to apply to the kitchen instead.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ warned Clare, when it looked like Tom might join in the shout.

  Taylor had arrived on Christmas Eve like a child in wonderland. Had she ever experienced an old-style family Christmas before? Clare doubted it. Every aspect appeared to be so fresh and new for her and it was a great pleasure to watch. Decorating the tree, wrapping the presents, singing the carols, pulling some early bonbons – she wa
s more wide-eyed than Jack. The pair’s innocent delight had put extra smiles on all their faces.

  Last night Taylor had snuggled down on a mattress in the corner of Jack’s room, refusing to take her son’s bed.

  After light’s out, Clare had heard them giggling and playing and jumping around, like two kids at a sleepover. When all went quiet she’d peeped in. The camp bed had been moved next to Jack’s, and the young mother lay curled up in sleep beside her son. It was a touching scene. Red and Samson stretched out at their feet, the girl’s face so angelic in repose, so much like Jack’s. Clare had smiled before closing the door, thinking Taylor needed fostering almost as much as Jack did. But she’d be off to her new job in a few days’ time, a job which had, in fact, made Jack very proud, just as his mother had hoped. ‘Mummy drives monster trucks,’ he kept saying, spreading his arms wide.

  ‘She’s very clever then, isn’t she?’ Clare would say.

  Jack would nod solemnly and run off to tell someone else.

  Another car arrived. All day, an odd procession of vehicles had been arriving, delivering little and not so little presents for Tom. Beer, biscuits, fruit cakes, honey – these were the common fare. But some gifts were more unusual. One client gave him a box of bullets, another a hand-crafted bridle, another a hat and Drizabone, another a rifle to match the ammunition. And Martha had finally managed to offload that pig.

  Jack had squealed with delight when he saw it. ‘It’s Babe. I love him.’ The little boy locked arms around the animal’s neck. My how that piglet had grown, but Tom hadn’t the heart to say no. They’d put it in the day yard next to Sparky, and the two had become instant friends. Her grandfather had shaken his head. ‘Why’d you have to go and give Jacky that Babe movie, love? I watched it with him last week. How the heck am I going to put that pig on a spit now?’ Red received two dog beds and enough treats to last him for a year. Jack got Matchbox cars, a disturbing arsenal of toy guns, and bags of Christmas lollies, which Taylor helped him demolish.