Time had stood still. The cream and green cupboards, the matching enamel stove, the battered timber table top – all just as they had once been. Clare might have been eleven again. The funny thing was that she couldn’t have recalled a single thing about that kitchen if you’d asked her an hour earlier. But now? Now she recognised each tiny detail.
‘Harry,’ yelled Tom, still holding Jack aloft, ‘got something for you.’
Her grandfather emerged from the hallway. Unlike the kitchen, he had changed. The few strands on his head were white now. His clothes hung loose on a skinny frame and the years showed on his lined face. But he still stood tall, unstooped and, when he saw Clare, his smile was as warm as ever.
‘Well, look at you,’ he said, taking her in, not seeming to notice her dishevelled hair and bruised face. ‘My little Clare all grown up and quite a beauty, wouldn’t you say so, Tom?’
For some ridiculous reason, Clare found herself waiting on Tom’s response. She turned her head away a fraction in embarrassment.
‘That I would, Harry,’ came the answer. ‘That I would.’ Clare bit her lip. The man had some hide.
Harry strode over and embraced Clare, holding her for the longest time.
Clare blinked back tears. What a precious sensation, to be encircled in her grandfather’s protective arms; it was a feeling to hold on to. ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he said. She felt a shaft of shame. ‘And I’m sorry about Grandma.’ She wanted to say, ‘I’m sorry for not being here, for not caring enough,’ but the words were like a weight she couldn’t lift.
‘And who have we here?’ asked Harry.
‘This is Jack,’ said Clare. ‘The little boy I was telling you about.’
Comprehension dawned on Tom’s face. ‘So he’s not yours then?’
‘I’m just his temporary foster parent.’
‘I’ll bet that’s quite a story,’ Tom said, his smile broadening. ‘She’s got a dog too, Harry. He’s outside. A black German shepherd pup.’
‘Well, bring him in,’ said her grandfather. ‘The more the merrier.’
Tom put Jack down. ‘I’ll go get him.’ The little boy followed Tom out the door, ignoring Clare’s call. ‘He’s fine with me,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll be back in a jiffy’.
Clare hesitated, then nodded and let Jack go. She was too worn out to argue. Truthfully, it was a relief to abdicate responsibility, even if it was just for a minute, even if it was to that insensitive idiot.
Being alone with her grandfather left Clare a little tongue-tied. It had been easier with Tom there, helping the conversation along, but now she felt the gulf of years between them. What to do? What to say? They were strangers.
Harry put an ancient kettle on the cast iron range and indicated for her to sit. Clare sensed an awkwardness in him too. He fussed about the kitchen while they waited for the others to come back. Clare was on to her second cup of Grandad’s strong, sweet tea, when Samson poked his head in the door. She froze. The blue heeler was right behind him, a deep growl in its throat. She jumped to her feet, tipping over her chair and retreating against the wall.
‘Don’t mind Red,’ said Harry, with a chuckle. ‘He’s daft. Growling’s his way of saying hello.’ Grandad sounded like the daft one. The dog advanced, a snarl on its lips. Clare edged around the wall towards the hallway. Thank god Jack was still outside. Harry gave her a bemused look. ‘And that snarl? . . . That’s just him smiling. People get the wrong idea.’ As if to prove Grandad’s point, the heeler jumped up and licked his hand, still making the rumbling sound. ‘See? He’s like a cat purring.’
Clare began to relax. Had she really got it so wrong? The heeler turned his attention to her now and she steeled herself to stand still. He licked her toes where they poked through her sandals, making her flinch. He looked up and whined. She tried to imagine his bare-toothed snarl as a grin. ‘Hello, boy,’ she said hesitantly, smothering a squeal as the heeler jumped up for a pat.
Grandad was rummaging round in a cupboard. ‘I’ve got biscuits somewhere.’
Samson and Jack tumbled inside and played chasey around the kitchen table. The heeler joined in the fun, growling and snarling and wagging his tail. Clare composed herself and sat down just as Tom came in. He took a seat beside her and watched the game, shaking his head. ‘That sure is one, crazy mixed-up dog.’ He glanced up, laughing, and caught her watching him. She flushed a little, and hoped it didn’t show. ‘Let me take a look at those cuts to your face,’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘What happened, anyway?’ he asked. ‘You come a cropper off a horse or something?’
She nodded. Anything to avoid admitting that she’d climbed a tree to escape his stupid, smiling dog, and had promptly fallen out of it.
Grandad produced a packet of Iced VoVos, offered one to Jack, and shook the rest onto a plate. She took one and examined it. Pink fondant icing atop a wheat biscuit, a strip of strawberry jam running down the middle, and the entire thing dusted with coconut. She turned it over. The back still bore the fancy moulded design that she remembered from childhood. A memory of sharing these same biscuits around this same table hit her so powerfully that Clare half-expected Grandma to walk right in the door.
‘You were right about the python,’ said Tom, helping himself to a biscuit. ‘I just cut three golf balls from her belly. Had a hard time holding her. These two were a big help.’ He stood up and dusted crumbs off his shirt. ‘Better get back to it. You coming to the meeting tonight, Harry?’
‘Planned to,’ said Harry, ‘but I wouldn’t miss the first evening with my granddaughter, not even for the cakes.’
‘Righto,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Never know your luck. I might bring you all back a lamington.’ He waved an expansive goodbye and left, with Red trotting at his heels.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Clare. ‘This meeting?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ said Harry. Samson sat at his feet, squirming and smiling as Harry rubbed his ears. ‘How about I find this scoundrel of yours a bone and the lad some toys, eh?’ His face, alight with pleasure, already looked ten years younger.
Why had she left it so long between visits? They’d lost too many years, years that should have been filled with love, and family, and a sense of belonging. All of it sacrificed to her father’s bitterness, and the altar of her own ambition.
Harry emerged a few minutes later with a huge cardboard carton. He put it on the kitchen floor and called Jack over from where he was watching flies buzz at the window. Here was a treasure trove of memories – a wind up jack-in-the-box that used to frighten her, a fleet of hand-carved trucks, a wooden skittle set. Jack began collecting up the Matchbox cars. Samson picked up a worn gollywog in his mouth. It wore a purple dress that she remembered Grandma knitting. Harry took an enormous marrowbone from the fridge and offered it to Samson. ‘This’ll suit you better.’ He rescued the doll, and Samson took the bone into the corner. Clare watched the boy and the dog, both of them relaxed and happy in a way that just didn’t happen back at her apartment – like they’d broken free of something.
Clare gazed around the kitchen. Sixteen years of memories held in its walls and she didn’t know what they were. She could guess. Grandma cooking her famous roasts. Grandad dancing her around the table. Card games and flower pressing. Writing and wrapping all those unopened cards and presents. Grandad taking over the cooking as Grandma got sick. Boiled eggs and cups of tea. Chicken soup and toast. Clare could guess but she didn’t know. She wanted to ask her grandfather about it, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Not when she looked at the door and realised just how long it had been since Grandma had walked through it.
‘Do you ever hear from Mum?’
He gave her a heavy-hearted smile. ‘Not often, love. She’s all caught up in her own world. No time for her old dad.’ Or her children, thought Clare. But who was she to judge? She’d been just as bad, abandoning Harry for all these years . . . and Grandma. That was unforgiveable. She was suddenly horrified to think she’d never see her again, as if the dreadful finality of her grandmother’s death had only just hit home. Guilty tears pricked at her eyes. But all that she could see in Grandad’s eyes was love.
Clare spent a magical afternoon showing Jack around. They pushed each other on the tyre swing in the garden. They played the giant xylophone of Condamine bells in the cart shed until her ears rang. They collected eggs from the chook shed and picked the first broad beans of spring. They climbed on the haystack and practised whip cracking. The little boy was entranced by each activity. ‘That’s a fine stockwhip,’ Grandad said, when he came to find them. Clare told him an edited version of their day at the Cobb & Co museum. It turned out he knew the saddler. ‘I thought it was one of Sid’s.’
Grandad and Jack took the horses some carrots, while Clare returned to the house to make up Ryan’s old bed in the verandah room. When she opened the curtains, spectacular orange trumpets of winter-flowering flame creeper crowded against the rusted flywire.
Childhood memories lay in ambush around every corner. Memories that made her ache with both sadness and happiness.
Later Clare helped Grandad prepare the roast: a plump leg of lamb nestled among potatoes and carrots, pumpkins and parsnips. She could already taste the rich, dark gravy made in the pan. Clare prepared fruit for the pie. The kitchen was redolent with the aroma of hearty country cooking. Quite a contrast to her own, where the microwave was the only appliance to get a regular workout.
After dinner, Clare stood at the bedroom door while Grandad read Jack a tattered copy of Where the Wild Things Are. The little boy dropped off to sleep, clutching his stock whip, before the sun had fully set behind the mountains. She smiled as her grandfather kissed Jack’s cheek and closed the curtains. Samson hopped onto the foot of the bed and turned beseeching brown eyes on Clare.
‘Leave him,’ said Grandad. ‘The lad has a right to his dog.’
He turned out the lamp, and followed Clare back down the hall. She’d only been at Currawong for a few hours, but already the distractions of Brisbane and the pain of her recent breakup seemed a world away. She helped Grandad tidy the kitchen and do the dishes, mulling over the events of the afternoon. Her thoughts kept returning to the remarkable way Jack had responded since he’d been at the farm, and of how he’d actually spoken. If you didn’t know any better, Jack would have almost seemed like a normal little boy today. Grandad pulled an old Scrabble set from a bookshelf. ‘I won’t be quite so easy to beat these days,’ she teased
‘We’ll see,’ he said. The tension between them was slipping away.
To her surprise, Grandad trounced her . . . twice. ‘I’m done,’ she said, standing up. ‘You’re too good for me.’
He gave her a heartfelt hug. ‘It’s a great joy, having you here.’
‘It’s a great joy being here,’ she responded. ‘I’ve missed you, missed this place. Funny thing is, I didn’t even realise how much until today.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Goodnight, Grandad.’
‘Goodnight, love.’
Clare tiptoed down the hall and looked in on Jack. Moonlight streamed through a crack in the curtains, spotlighting his pillow. The little boy looked serene, his features relaxed in sleep. Samson stretched and thumped his tail. ‘Goodnight, you two.’
She slipped into her room, slipped into her old bed. The moon sailed high outside her window, bathing the familiar space in a soft light. The giant bunya pine, standing guard in the yard, cast a reassuring silhouette against the luminous sky. Clare drifted off to sleep, overcome by the strangest notion – the notion that returning to Currawong might be the wisest decision she’d ever made.