Grandad placed a steaming plate of scrambled eggs before her. Jack was already shovelling great spoonsful into his mouth, while Samson sat beside him, wolfing up the inevitable spills. A knock came at the door. ‘It’ll be Tom,’ said Grandad, with a chuckle. ‘That boy can smell breakfast a mile off.’
Clare ran her fingers hurriedly through her hair. She hadn’t expected to see anybody so early.
Tom came in and sat down beside Jack. Clare looked warily around. Friendly or not, she was still not a great fan of Red, but there was no sign of him. Soon they were all hoeing into the biggest breakfast Clare could remember. Piles of buttered toast. Bacon, tomato and grilled mushrooms the size of her hand.
‘Harry grows them in bags of compost under the house,’ said Tom, taking a second helping. ‘Bloody beautiful, they are.’
Clare imagined how horrified Adam would be at the cholesterol-laden spread and took another slice of bacon.
Tom was playing spider fingers with Jack in between mouthfuls, threatening to pounce whenever the little boy reached for his spoon, generating a storm of giggles.
‘How was the meeting?’ asked Grandad.
‘Got a bit out of hand at the end,’ said Tom. ‘A few blokes turned up that were on Pyramid’s side. Reckoned we were just scaremongering, trying to spoil it for them.’ He reached across for more toast, brushing against Clare’s arm in the process; she was acutely aware of his touch. The warmth of his skin. ‘Pyramid offers compensation starting at five thousand per well per year, and an up-front fee. If you host, say, twenty wells, that’s big money. Can’t blame people for being tempted.’
‘No, I suppose you can’t,’ said Grandad with a sigh. ‘The almighty dollar always wins out in the end, eh?’
‘Maybe,’ said Tom, tousling Jack’s hair, and pushing his chair back from the table. ‘And maybe not. Look at Pete Porter. He makes a good income from his wells, but he’d get rid of them in a heartbeat, given half the chance. Those for it were outnumbered ten to one by the rest of us. It’s not hard to see which way the tide of community opinion’s running.’ He washed up his plate, gave Clare a nod and left.
‘What wells?’ asked Clare.
‘Coal seam gas wells,’ said Grandad. ‘Pyramid Energy reckons the biggest field in Australia lies right under Merriang. They’ve taken out exploration licenses for the whole region.’
‘Natural gas?’ asked Clare.
‘There’s nothing natural about it.’
‘And what, they want to put wells here at Currawong Creek?’
He nodded.
‘Is that what the sign on the gate’s all about?’
‘Yep.’ There was a grim set to his jaw. The subject was apparently closed. ‘Thought I’d take the young fellow yabbying.’ He stood and collected up the empty plates, scraping the scraps into the chook bucket. ‘And don’t worry, love. I remember you’ve got a soft spot for the little snappers. We’ll let them go afterwards. What do you say, Jack? Do you want to catch some yabbies? Maybe we’ll dig out that old aquarium and you can keep a few as pets, just like your mum used to do.’
‘I’m not his mother,’ corrected Clare.
‘Course you’re not,’ said Harry. He took some steak from the fridge and cut a few tiny slivers. ‘My mistake.’ The little boy bounced from his chair and grabbed Harry’s arm. Clare studied him, as he tried to drag her grandfather outside.
Should she let them go? ‘Jack . . .’ She stopped, not wanting to explain while he was listening. ‘He runs away,’ she said at last, ‘and tantrums . . . unless he’s with Samson.’
‘The dog looks after him then?’
She nodded. ‘Grandad . . . Jack can’t speak . . . except he did, once with me, and then again yesterday with Tom.’
Harry looked at her without surprise, his expression matter of fact. ‘I expect the lad will talk when he’s good and ready,’ was all he said, and the pair headed for the door.
‘I’ll join you in a bit,’ she called after them. ‘Watch Jack around the dam, won’t you.’ Clare went to get her laptop. She checked without much hope for internet access. Nothing. Tom must have Wi-Fi. Surely you couldn’t run a modern vet clinic without it?
Through the window, she saw her grandfather make his way across the yard, bucket in hand, while Jack and Samson chased each other in a wide arc around him. Pongo and Perdita trotted ahead. Apparently the same names had been used for different dogs in the family for fifty years. Ever since Grandma read Dodie Smith’s classic novel, 101 Dalmatians, there’d been a Perdita and Pongo at Currawong. Tradition played no part in the life Clare knew in Brisbane. She was oddly appreciative of finding it out here at the family farm.
Clare packed up her laptop and made her way down the drive to the clinic. Just a couple of cars. A short girl with three border collies stood by the surgery door, along with a red-faced man sporting a comb-over. He was holding two buckets labelled Henry’s Honey.
‘Hello,’ said Clare.
‘Hello,’ said the girl shyly. The man just nodded a greeting. Clare waited nearby, shifting from foot to foot. The man shot the odd glance her way, as if he didn’t quite approve of her being there. Suddenly the door swung open. Tom turned the little sign in the window from Closed to Open, then stared past the others to Clare. He smiled, crinkling the little laugh lines at the corner of his lips. ‘Here you go,’ said the man, offering the buckets.
Tom looked puzzled. ‘What’s this, Henry?’
‘Thought it might do as a trade, for a bit off my bill,’ he said and marched inside, followed by the girl, the border collies and finally Clare. The room was still a mess from the previous day. Shelves were once more in place against the walls, but their contents had been jammed back in haphazard piles. Stacks of books, brochures and journals spilled from the reception desk, almost burying the ancient computer. The dogs roamed about the room, poking curious noses under cupboards and onto shelves. Their girl made no attempt to control them. Instead she waited patiently beside a sign saying All dogs to be on a leash. Maybe the snake wasn’t entirely to blame for yesterday’s mayhem after all. It could just be the natural state of affairs around here. Clare moved closer to the desk and discovered a wireless modem behind a box of horse worming paste. Good, that solved her communications problem.
‘What am I supposed to do with all this honey?’ asked Tom,
‘There’s loads you can do with honey, besides eat it,’ said Henry. ‘Use it as a facial, hair conditioner, antiseptic, and my missus swears by it for treating rough elbows.’ He turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t think . . .’
Henry held up his hand. ‘No need to thank me, Doc,’ and with that he ducked out the door. An old gentleman arrived next, with a bald cockatoo wearing a little knitted jumper. Clare wondered if he was going to try and trade it as well.
‘The If I Could Talk to the Animals tune rang out, and Tom answered his phone. Who did he think he was? Dr Doolittle? She shook her head in disgust. How on earth did the clinic even function? She’d never seen anything so unprofessional in her life. Perhaps it would be better to come back later.
As Clare turned to go, she felt a hand on her arm. ‘Can I help you?’
She looked up into Tom’s clear blue eyes. Summer sky blue.
‘I was wondering . . . I want to get online.’
Tom still held her arm. His hand was rough-skinned like a farmer, and long-fingered like an artist. ‘Be my guest,’ he said and disappeared into the consulting room with the collie girl. The cocky spread its bald wings and said, ‘Hello stranger.’ Clare laughed and said hello back. It answered her with a wolf whistle and a little dance.
‘Buddy’s always been a flirt,’ the old man said fondly. The bird nuzzled his cheek.
Tom emerged from the consulting room, followed by the girl and her dogs. ‘All up to date now,’ he said. ‘That C5 vaccination covers Canine Cough as well, so they’ll be right to go into kennels in a couple of weeks.’
‘Can I have two tick collars as well, please?’ asked the girl.
Tom looked around at the cluttered shelves. ‘Now where’d I put them?’
Clare spotted a box labelled Excel Tick Control Collars behind a stack of dog toys. She retrieved the box and placed it in a more prominent position, then took out two packets and handed them over. Tom looked impressed. The girl paid the account and he turned his attention to Mr Cockatoo man.
‘Paddy, if you’d like to come this way . . .’ but the man shook his head.
‘I’ll not be dragging this out,’ he said in a thick Irish brogue. ‘Do you have the results back?’
Tom nodded.
‘And you wouldn’t go beating around the bush with me, would you now?’
Tom’s expression softened. ‘I think we both knew, Paddy, but the test confirmed it. Buddy has PFBD . . . Psittacine Beak and Feather Disease.’
The old man scratched the bird’s neck and it bounced with pleasure. ‘There’s no cure, is there now?’ Tom shook his head. The man’s face had crumpled alarmingly. ‘My wife, Betty, bless her heart, found Buddy here as a wee nestling, the week after we lost our son Patrick to the pneumonia. In the middle of our back paddock, he was, with never a tree in sight. I think a crow must have dropped him, but Betty said he’d fallen from heaven. She nursed him day and night, till he was well. I used to tease her, tell her she loved that bird more than me.’ The bird bobbed his head and called out, ‘Betty, Betty, Betty.’ They all smiled. ‘That was forty years ago now, if it was a day.’ Clare was enthralled. ‘Betty was a church-going woman, so she was. One morning she told me that God had spoken to her in a dream. “I will lend you this magic bird,” he’d said to her, “for you to love while he lives and mourn for when he dies.” She always said the Lord gave us Buddy to comfort us after Patrick.’
It dawned on Clare that something awful was about to happen. She felt the prickle of tears behind her nose. ‘And comfort us he did, for all those years, and then kept me company when I lost Betty. He’s been a great joy, Buddy has . . . my truest friend.’
‘I can give you a cream . . .’ began Tom.
Paddy shook his head. ‘No, no . . . he wants to fly, you see. He tries so hard, I can’t bear to see him always being disappointed . . . and he’ll get sicker, won’t he? I’ve read enough to know.’
Tom nodded and followed Paddy into the consulting room. Clare gulped and tried to compose herself. Thank goodness there were no other clients. The silence screamed as she waited for Tom to finish, waited for it to be over. At last they emerged. Paddy carried a small bundle wrapped in a towel. Clare began to cry. The old man stopped and looked at her. ‘Thanks for your tears, lass,’ he said solemnly, and then he was gone.
‘Hey, now,’ said Tom, laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘I thought you were a tough city lawyer. It was the kindest thing.’
‘There’s nothing kind about taking away a lonely old man’s best friend,’ managed Clare between sobs.
‘No,’ Tom said. ‘I suppose not.’ He switched on the electric kettle in the corner and poured her a cup of coffee.
‘Stay and use the internet.’ Tom grabbed what looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag from behind the counter. ‘You’ve got the place to yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ Clare waved him goodbye and tried to pull herself together, but the old man’s face haunted her. He must be utterly bereft. Now she was alone, Clare could no longer sniff back the tears. She laid her head on the desk and wept like a child.
When she was finally spent, Clare washed her face at the sink and peered in the mirror. Swollen, bloodshot eyes peered back. She looked as bad as she felt. Clare gulped down the cold coffee and unpacked her laptop. No emails from work. That felt very strange. In fact, there were hardly any emails at all, at least nothing personal. Clare checked Facebook. She hadn’t been on the site for a long while and wasn’t up to date with anything. She’d been so preoccupied lately. Between Dad’s illness, her work and Adam, she’d allowed friendships to take a back seat. The embarrassing truth was that nobody seemed to have missed her.
She pushed aside the emptiness of that thought, made another coffee and Googled coal seam gas on the Darling Downs. Dozens of websites popped up and she combed through the opposing views. It was a hot-button issue, no two ways about it, but Clare’s legal training obliged her to put aside the hype and concentrate on facts. The first fact required no research. Under Queensland law, all resources below ground were the property of the state. Providing miners had the correct permits, farmers could not refuse them access to private land, no matter how many High Court decisions they quoted on their gates.
Coal seam gas, she discovered, was just natural gas – mainly methane – extracted from coal seams deep below the ground. It was a low carbon energy source, producing half the greenhouse gas emissions of coal. As Tom had mentioned that morning, there was an upfront advance to landholders with wells, followed by annual payments. Companies were legally obliged to make good any damage caused and surrounding land could still be used for cropping and grazing.
For the first time, Clare considered how Grandad might be travelling financially. From what she remembered, his Clydesdales used to give demonstrations at agricultural shows and were hired out for gypsy caravan holidays. He sold yearlings, stood stallions at stud, broke in horses to harness and ran a few steers. How much of that, she wondered, was he still capable of? He was old now. His back remained straight, but he was thin and so much frailer than she remembered. In some lights there was an odd translucency to his skin, as if his tan disguised an underlying pallor. The property too, showed signs of wear. Sagging fences. Stands of lantana, and other weeds Clare couldn’t identify. The old house could use a coat of paint. It might well be worth having a few ugly gas plants at Currawong Creek if it meant Grandad could take it easy.
The phone rang. Clare hesitated for a moment, then answered it.
‘Thank goodness Doc’s finally come to his senses and hired somebody,’ said the caller. ‘You’ve got a job in front of you, my girl, trying to organise that one. Anyway, let him know Mrs Potts has an egg-bound budgie, will you?’
Clare took down the message. ‘When can you bring it in?’
‘Oh, I don’t drive, dear. Doctor Tom comes to me. It’s so much easier that way.’
Easier for who? thought Clare, but dutifully noted the woman’s phone number. She packed up her laptop and escaped the clinic before the phone could ring again.
Clare walked back up to the house, but it was empty. How was Jack getting on, she wondered? Maybe she shouldn’t have let him go off like that with Grandad. She went to find them, heading down through the veggie patch towards the dam. Past the old tyre swing in the garden. Her mother used to tell her wonderful stories while pushing her on that swing. Stories of strong independent princesses. Princesses who won battles and slayed dragons, without a Prince Charming in sight. Past the stack of old bricks that Ryan had piled up by the tool shed long ago. She couldn’t believe it was still there. He’d named it The Stone Table. They’d used it to play The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe games. He’d been Aslan and she’d been Jadis, the evil White Witch. They’d re-enacted scenes from the book. She’d regularly tried to sacrifice him on the bricks, with varying degrees of success. Past their old cubby. It wasn’t in too bad a shape. Maybe she’d fix it up for Jack.
Clare detoured down a grassy track that led to Currawong Creek. It opened onto a familiar expanse of winding water, more of a river really. Here were the red gums, bunya pines and reedy shallows of memory. This was the scene she’d remembered back at Koala Park. Back on that awful day when she’d lost Jack and they’d retreated from the reserve in disgrace.
The sound of laughter drew her back up the path. Grandad, Jack and the dogs were returning from the dam. ‘The yabbies weren’t biting, but we haven’t come back empty-handed. Show her, Jack.’ Jack proudly showed Clare their bucket. It was filled with enormous eggs. ‘I finally found their nest, with the help of your shepherd pup,’ said Grandad, fondling Samson’s head. ‘There’ll be goose egg omelettes for breakfast tomorrow.’
They put the eggs away and sat out on the verandah with cups of tea. Samson was helping Jack collect sticks. The little boy assessed each one carefully, then either discarded it or added it to his pile. ‘What’s the difference?’ Clare said. ‘They’re all the same. A stick’s a stick.’
‘To you maybe,’ said Grandad. He nodded when Jack balanced another stick on his pile, as if he agreed with the choice. A breeze blew out of nowhere and Grandad turned his head to meet it, staring into the distance and sniffing the wind. ‘Storm on the way.’ Clare studied his weathered face in profile. They’d lost so much time. In some ways Grandad was as big a mystery to her as Jack was.