Clare went outside to see what new gift had arrived. But it wasn’t a gift. It was Pete Porter, Grandad’s old friend from Quimby Downs. A thin, middle-aged woman helped him from the car. ‘I’m Faye,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Pete’s daughter. Apparently Pete’s staying here for a few days? Hope you’re expecting him. I didn’t like imposing like this on Christmas day, but he insisted on coming.’
‘Will you stop fussing, Faye,’ said Pete. ‘I organised it with Harry last week.’
Faye shot Clare a helpless glance. ‘Your medicine’s all packed. You will take it on time, won’t you? Perhaps if I give it to Clare, she could help you?’
Pete shuffled over to his daughter, and rested his hands on her shoulders. His back might be bent, but it was clear that in his youth he’d been a tall man. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ He kissed Faye’s cheek. ‘It’ll do you good to have a break from me.’ He pulled out his wallet and handed her a bank card. ‘Take a trip to the Gold Coast on me, do some shopping, live a little.’
She managed a wan smile. ‘You sure you’ll be all right?’
He kissed her again. ‘I’m sure.’
Faye threw her arms around him. ‘I love you, Dad.’
‘Not as much as I love you,’ he said. She pulled back and wiped away a tear. ‘Now, now, love. That’ll do. You’re the best daughter a man could be blessed with,’ he said. ‘You go and have some fun, for Chrissake.’
‘Well, goodbye,’ Faye said.
‘Goodbye,’ said Clare. ‘And try not to worry. We’ll look after him.’ Pete watched his daughter drive away with an expression of immense satisfaction. Harry put a drink in his friend’s hand and said, ‘Who’s up for a game of backyard cricket?’
‘Me, me,’ called Jack.
‘Righto,’ said Grandad. ‘The kid has terrific aim,’ he told Pete. ‘Hits the wicket just about every time.’
Clare winced. Jack was a good shot all right. Ever since he’d scored that bullseye with the stapler in the centre of Kim’s forehead, Clare had learned to duck when he was angry. It was heartening that the boy’s talent for braining people had finally found a sporting outlet. After the game, Sid and Pete and her grandfather sat out on the verandah, beers in hand. Grandad was twisting a new cracker for Jack’s whip. Clare came back into the kitchen, where Tom was making himself a meal of leftovers. ‘They’re all smoking,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe it. Pete’s got lung cancer.’
‘I suppose he doesn’t think things can get much worse then.’ Tom opened his arms and she melted into him. ‘He’s staying?’ Clare nodded. ‘That’s it then,’ he said. ‘With Taylor, and Sid and now Pete, it’s a full house. I’ll be bunking down in the surgery tonight.’
He didn’t sound like he minded, and neither did she. Their future stretched invitingly before them. They had all the time in the world.
After dinner, Clare had a closer look at her presents. She put on the outfit Ronnie had sent her. All carefully coordinated, skirt and top, jacket, bag, shoes and jewellery: Not that she had any use for high heels in Merriang. Tom was more admiring of the saddle Grandad had given her, his finger tracing its intricate stitching and embossed pigskin seat. She inspected the gold heart-shaped locket from Tom. It contained a picture of Jack with her grandfather. Clare squeezed the lid shut. It felt cool and solid in her hand and was the best present of all.
She jumped up and wandered around the crowded, festive homestead, taking snapshots with her heart. It had been a truly magical day, a day when Currawong had turned into a real life Shangri-La. What about tomorrow?
Chapter 42
Tom shivered and pulled the covers up to his chin. For a moment he couldn’t place where he was. One thing was certain though, he’d had a night of it. His head was sore, his back was sore and his tongue was furry. He opened his eyes a crack. The sharp light of summer poured in the window. Of course, a blow-up mattress in the corner of the surgery, his home for the past week. Not so blow-up any more. His spine lay hard against the floorboards. Why couldn’t he feel his legs? He propped up on his elbows. Red lay spread-eagled over the end of the mattress, taking up half the room. ‘You’ve got me confused with that pushover, Taylor Brown.’ He kicked at Red, who smiled and wagged his tail as if to say, Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean it. ‘Get out of here,’ yelled Tom. A second kick convinced the dog he was serious.
Tom linked his hands behind his head, and fell back with a sigh on his pillow. New Year’s Day and he’d be back in his own bed tonight. Sid was giving Taylor a lift to Toowoomba this morning, where she’d catch a train to start her new life. He checked his watch. Past nine, they’d have already left. He hauled himself to his feet, drained a glass of water and gazed out the window. The coming year held some nasty surprises, what with Harry’s illness and the spectre of gas wells at Currawong. But it also held the promise of a glorious future with Clare and Jack. He weighed up the odds. They were in his favour.
What was that noise? The door opened a fraction. Clare. She slipped into the room and pulled her oversize T-shirt over her head. Naked except for underpants, her face flushed with desire. He was instantly hard. Wordlessly she locked the door and joined him on the floor.
Afterwards she lay with her head cradled in his arm. ‘Marry me,’ he said.
She sat up, a shocked expression on her lovely face. ‘Is this Taylor’s idea?’
He pulled her to him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but it’s a good one.’ They wrestled together on the floor, laughing and kissing until he was hard all over again. The second time surpassed the first. Clare could joke all she liked, but she’d say yes in the end. It was written in the stars. ‘Come on,’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘Let’s get up to the house, or we’ll miss breakfast.’
‘So Taylor’s gone,’ said Tom, finishing his cold toast.
‘Sid took off with her at seven o’clock this morning,’ said Clare. ‘I thought she’d never get up in time. She almost missed her lift.’
‘She’s not a morning person,’ said Tom.
Clare laughed. ‘I’ve come to love Taylor, don’t get me wrong. But I think she’s almost more trouble than Jack.’
Tom poured himself another cuppa. ‘Pete still here?’
She nodded. ‘Hasn’t he given Grandad a new lease of life? They’re like two naughty schoolboys.’
Grandad came in the back door, followed by Jack and all four dogs. ‘Keep this lot here, will you? Me and Pete are heading over to Quimby. He wants to take a look around.’
‘Would you like me or Tom to come along?’ asked Clare.
‘No thanks, mother hen,’ he said. ‘Us old blokes can take care of ourselves.’
He wrapped her in a hug that took her breath away. Grandad was becoming more sentimental every day. She drew in his scent, warm and familiar, the smell of the earth. How she loved him.
‘You two have fun,’ she said. What would it be like for Pete, seeing his old home again? The gracious homestead that he’d built with his own two hands, falling into disrepair. The grounds and garden, fast returning to the wild. Surely it would tear him in two? She was struck by an overwhelming urge to go with them, in spite of any protests.
It seemed her grandfather could read minds. ‘You’re not coming.’ His voice had taken on a commanding tone, and suddenly she was a child again. He looked her up and down, a satisfied expression on his face. ‘You coming back like you did, love, and bringing little Jack . . . it’s been a blessing. There’s much of your mother in you,’ he said, ‘and of your grandmother. I see the resemblance each time I lay eyes on you.’
The mention of Mum was so unexpected it made Clare miss her. ‘If you should speak to your mother . . . if you should speak to Patty, tell her how much I love her. How much Grandma and I always loved her. Tell Ryan that, too.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Now go before you make me cry.’
‘In a minute.’ He sat down and patted his knee. Jacky was there in a flash. ‘Now you be good for C
lare,’ he said. ‘And look after that pony while Pete and I are gone, and Babe the pig too.’ The boy nodded gravely and something seemed to pass between them. Samson trotted over and put his head on Jack’s knee. ‘Keep an eye on my boy for me,’ he told the dog, fondling his ears.
Pete tooted the horn of the truck. ‘Will you be back for lunch?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Grandad.
‘What will you do for all that time?’
Grandad shushed her, with a finger to his lips. ‘Secret men’s business.’
Clare laughed, but Samson erupted into a frantic flurry of barking. He stood in the doorway, forefeet spread, barring the way.
‘Here now,’ said Tom. He slipped a leash on the agitated animal and pulled him aside. Grandad put on his hat, took one last, lingering look around the kitchen and was gone.
What was it, she wondered, that was bothering Samson? Was it the same, indefinable thing that was bothering her?
‘This is our first family ride together,’ said Clare. She loved saying the word family. She loved how it sounded. She loved that that’s what they were now. Tom rode Martini, a pale blue-roan filly, sweet-natured and pretty as a picture. According to Grandad, she was a rare throwback to the Queensland stallion Hillend Macgregor, a champion during the war. Not that it meant anything to Clare. Maybe she should study the Currawong bloodlines? Yes, she should learn more about breeding these magnificent horses, carry on the family tradition, so to speak.
Martini was only a green-broke two-year-old, but already she stood sixteen hands high: a gentle giant with the heart of a lamb. Little Sparky had a crush on her. Tom barely needed to hold the pony’s lead rope, he followed so faithfully at Martini’s huge heels. Jack sat his pony with assurance, listening to Tom’s occasional instructions, his tiny tongue extending slightly from his lips in concentration.
Clare stroked Fleur’s dappled neck, and the mare snorted in pleasure. Jack’s aptitude never ceased to amaze her. Had it really only been five months since they’d first met in her office? Hard to reconcile the memory of that traumatised child with this smiling, confident little boy. ‘Canter, canter, canter,’ he yelled. Tom touched his heels to Martini’s sides and she broke into a lumbering, yet graceful, trot. Fleur followed suit and Sparky was forced to canter in order to keep up with the two-time pace of the heavy horses. Jack’s grin was a joy to see.
A currawong arrowed across the perfect arch of the cloudless summer sky. Here, in this high corner paddock, they were well and truly in the foothills of the Bunyas. To the left, lay groves of brigalow: elegant wattles boasting high, silvery canopies. No breeze stirred their branches. Scattered patches of bright green vines showed in the gullies, remnants of subtropical rainforest that had occupied the brigalow lands millions of years ago. Swathes of pale-gold summer grass bent beneath the horses’ drumming hooves, only to spring back up behind them. Soon this heavenly hillside might be lost, a bombsite of roads and wells and wastewater dams, all carved into the rich black soil. Her grief, her grandfather’s grief, cast a shadow over the golden morning.
They paused at the crest of the ridge. So silent. Spread before them, peaceful paddocks of grazing Clydesdales, Currawong’s main herd. Goliath wheeled and reared low, acknowledging the horses on the hill. She looked to the north. In the distance, Quimby Downs stood bathed in sunlight. Clare caught her breath. What a magnificent sight.
It was then she heard it. A faint boom, a distant explosion. Thunder? But the sky was a flawless blue. Her imagination? There was the sound of faraway barking. The horses pricked their ears and held their heads on high, gazing in the direction of Quimby Downs. Clare glanced at Tom. His eyes were narrowed. ‘Look,’ he said. Flickers of bright flame flowered around the distant homestead and a thin pillar of smoke rose in the still air. Tom leaped from his horse, scooped up Jack and somehow remounted with the child in his arms. ‘Come on,’ he said, and thundered back to Currawong with Clare in swift pursuit.
Clare sat out on the verandah. A subdued Jack played at her feet, lining up his Matchbox cars in neat, obsessive rows. Samson stood chained to the rail, statue still, his gaze fixed to the north.
A second fire truck hurtled down the road, then another. A police car followed soon after. She fingered her phone. Why didn’t someone ring? Harry was her grandfather, after all. She had more right to know than anybody. Samson raised his nose and howled to the heavens, the most mournful sound. Why couldn’t the bloody dog shut up?
It was another half hour before the phone finally rang and Tom’s shaky voice came on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Clare,’ he said. ‘Harry and Pete . . . they’re dead, both of them.’
Jack was her saviour, all that dreadful morning. Staying strong for the children, such a cliché, such a fundamental truth. Giving the little boy a bath, making his lunch, going through the motions. It kept her sane until Bronwyn arrived with Danny, freeing Clare to take the short trip to Quimby Downs.
Tom met her at the gate. They embraced for the longest time, gathering strength for whatever was next. ‘What happened?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tom. ‘I just don’t know.’
The homestead was gone, razed to the ground, a smouldering ruin of timber and tin. The outbuildings were gone too. Behind the house, a fire still burned with a steady flame, cordoned off with crime scene tape. The earth all around was blackened in a ten-metre wide circle. That must be where they died. Clare headed towards the spot and was waylaid by two police men. She identified herself, feeling numb and oddly composed ‘‘If it’s any comfort, they would have died instantly,’ said one of the officers.
‘What happened?’ asked Clare.
‘We think gas seeped from the domestic well and exploded inside the pump house. There’s no putting out that fire now.’ They all stared at the unearthly flames, burning bright on the scorched ground, as if by magic. ‘I understand there’s a history of methane contamination at Quimby Downs?’ the officer said. ‘Did your grandfather smoke?’
Her first instinct was to say no, but that would be wrong. He’d been smoking lately. He’d even given up trying to hide it. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He smoked, and so did his friend Pete.’
The officer nodded and made a note. ‘Maybe they lit up in the pump shed,’ he said to his colleague.
‘The homestead,’ said Clare. ‘What happened to the homestead?’
‘My guess is the wind blew burning embers into the roof,’ said the officer.
Clare was in a daze. She recalled the vertical plume of smoke, rising straight as an arrow to heaven. There was no wind that morning. Secret men’s business. ‘Oh, Grandad,’ she whispered. ‘Whatever have you done?’
Chapter 43
‘If only Grandad could see this,’ said Clare, waving the newspaper in Tom’s face.
‘Who’s to say he can’t?’
Clare gave him a swift kiss. ‘Listen.’
The deaths of Darling Downs farmers Harry Macleod and Pete Porter in a gas explosion have shocked Queensland, and galvanised a state-wide campaign against the coal seam mining industry. Pyramid Energy stands accused of non-compliance with dozens of environmental and safety regulations. It’s alleged the company bullied owners of contaminated land into signing compensation agreements with unconscionable non-disclosure clauses. Today the State Government announced a suspension of all ongoing activities and permits relating to coal seam gas mining, and a moratorium on new exploration projects.
Tom smiled. ‘Currawong’s safe then.’
‘It gets better.’ Clare smoothed out the creases in the paper with trembling hands.
A bill was introduced into Canberra’s lower house last night, calling for the Great Artesian Basin to be included as an environment of national significance. This would give the Federal Government greater powers to intervene for its protection. The proposal has bipartisan support.’ Clare clasped a hand to her chest. Her mother, Ryan, everyone at the funeral service had prayed for this. Grandad had brought the
family to a common purpose in death.
‘That’s fantastic news,’ said Tom. ‘Unbelievable, fantastic news.’ He handed her the funeral urn. ‘Now let’s get this show on the road.’
Clare waved goodbye to Bronwyn, who was supervising Jack and Danny in the sandpit, and climbed into the jeep. They drove in silence for a bit. ‘Grandad loved Jack.’
‘Yes,’ said Tom.
‘I wish you’d told me he was dying.’
Tom shot her an anguished glance that broke her heart.
‘I’ve forgiven you,’ she said, laying her hand on his knee. ‘You know I have. Do you know what Grandad said to me on New Year’s Eve?’ Tom shook his head. ‘He said that watching Jack blossom had been the greatest gift. He said he wished he could pay that gift forward somehow.’ Tom stayed silent. ‘Maybe I can do it for him,’ said Clare.
‘Go on.’
‘That course in equine therapy,’ she said. ‘I’m going to do it. Let’s turn Currawong into a place of healing for other kids like Jack.’
Tom turned to her with a brilliant smile. ‘Harry would like that just fine.’
Clare approached the entrance to the rainforest walk. Seen from the outside, this bunya pine forest was a forbidding place: ancient trees standing shoulder to shoulder, limbs entwined as if barring the way. A curtain of vines and prickly plants stood bathed in sunlight at the jungle’s edge, protecting the forest, keeping the drying winds and summer heat at bay.
Clare slipped inside. Here domed canopies reached forty metres to the sky, while elephant-like buttresses held fast to the dappled earth. Each tree was a bridge between worlds. It had been this way since time immemorial, a place where all sorts of magical and dangerous things might happen. Her footsteps made no sound on the soft earth as she walked to the waterfall. A seedling sprouted from the stump of a long-dead forest giant. Death and regeneration went hand in hand here.
Currawong Creek Page 28
