A week now at Currawong Creek, and she could feel the cares and anxieties of Brisbane slipping from her like an outgrown skin. She yawned and cleared away her dishes. Jack and Samson had already headed out with Grandad, leaving Clare to enjoy a lazy breakfast. No phone, no email, no need to do anything at all in particular. She’d been spending her days playing with Jack, or weeding Grandma’s veggie patch or exploring the house and sheds. Sometimes she simply sat in the garden, reading a book selected from Grandma’s well-thumbed Collection of Modern Classics. Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – the dusty hallway bookshelves were stacked high with all sorts of gems. A copy of Treasure Island that Grandad used to read, putting on a silly pirate voice. Mum’s Golden Treasury of Poetry, its spine mended with tape. A photo album. On the cover was a shot of Clare riding Smudge. Mum stood proudly by her side, holding the pony’s reins. She’d flipped slowly through the old pictures, stroking each page, closing her eyes to help summon memory. Here at Currawong, the past wasn’t gone. The present was crowded with it.
Clare found Jack and her grandfather seated on picnic chairs by the dam, throwing bread to a gaggle of grey geese, and drinking lemonade. The day was picture-perfect. Water sparkling like diamonds. The sun sailed in a blue sky between islands of cotton wool clouds. The morning air had a special clarity that seemed to bring the Bunya Mountains close enough to touch.
A lone horse in the adjacent paddock trotted over to the fence to say hello. He was of a monstrous size, with an arched crest and a proud, high-stepping gait. ‘Is that a stallion?’ asked Clare. ‘He looks a bit like Rastus.’ Jack moved towards the fence and Clare protectively blocked his way.
Grandad nodded. ‘Well picked,’ he said. ‘That’s Goliath. Last stallion standing at Currawong Creek. Same bloodlines as Rastus and just as gentle. He’ll do your boy no harm.’
‘Aren’t some stallions dangerous?’ asked Clare.
Grandad stood up stiffly and went over to stroke the horse’s nose. ‘Any stallion worth his salt is bound to be high-couraged,’ he said. ‘But Goliath hasn’t a mean bone in his body. He’d do almost anything for me without the slightest argument.’
Jack darted past Clare, ran straight to the fence and joined in patting the horse. ‘The lad’s not scared,’ he said, trying to reassure Clare. ‘He’s got the knack, you see. Not everybody does. I’ve seen grown men try to hide their fear of stallions with a show of bravado, a loud voice, and perhaps a whip for defence. They may trick others, they may even trick themselves, but they’ll never deceive a horse. That stallion decides that since the man has no confidence in himself, there must be something wrong with the man, and stallions don’t suffer fools lightly. That’s when they get dangerous.’ Clare edged forwards and willed herself to be brave. Goliath nuzzled her cheek with utmost gentleness and Grandad beamed.
Back at the dam, two yabbies sat in the bucket. She’d forgotten how beautiful they were – flawless satin shells, dappled with soft beige, and brandishing electric blue claws. Jack was entranced by the little crayfish. He’d been at Currawong for just a week, but his attention span already seemed to have stretched. Grandad took Jack’s hand and moved him a little way down the bank, then threw a baited string in the water. ‘Hold this,’ he said. Jack did as he was asked. Amazing. Samson sat down next to him, ears cocked forward, watching the rippled surface as intently as any human yabby hunter. Grandad returned to Clare wearing a thoughtful expression. ‘What’s the lad’s story?’
It was a relief to pour it all out. Not just about Jack, but everything else that had happened since the day Taylor Brown had turned up in her office. How could she have predicted the profound effect Jack’s arrival would have had on her life?
‘That’s some story,’ he said. ‘Did he break your heart, this Adam feller?’
Clare was floored by the question. A broken heart was such an old-fashioned, sentimental concept.
‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose he did.’
Grandad leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘He never deserved you then, love. I can promise you that. You’re well out of it.’
How good it was to be affirmed like that? Since Dad died, there was nobody who really cared enough to say such things. Clare suddenly missed her mother. She turned and wrapped her arms around her grandfather’s bony shoulders.
He held her very tight for a moment, then pointed to Jack. ‘The pup’s been a help there?’
Clare nodded. ‘Without Samson I probably would have given up on Jack in a week. You have no idea what he’s been like because, for some reason, he’s all of a sudden on his best behaviour. But the kid was expelled from kindergarten for god’s sake.’
Her grandfather chuckled. ‘It wasn’t funny,’ said Clare.
He moved to Jack’s line and, with infinite slowness, began to haul it in. ‘No, I guess it wasn’t.’
A little kingfisher landed on the pump house to their left. It was a colourful bird, with a cobalt blue back, buff-orange breast and violet streaks along its flanks. In a flash it dived into the dam at their feet, and carried away the squirming yabby off Grandad’s string. ‘Good luck to you,’ Harry said. ‘At least the little snappers will make someone a good supper.’ He rebaited the line, and threw it back into the water. ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d ask Tom about the lad. Tom’s got a certificate in equine therapy, or some such thing. Worked with kids back home in the Hunter Valley.’
‘Really?’ said Clare. ‘He doesn’t seem very responsible. I don’t want Jack getting hurt.’
‘I’m telling you, love, Tom ran groups at Riding For The Disabled. Worked wonders on those children apparently.’
Really? Clare considered her grandfather’s words. Tom might be a blockhead, but he did have a way with Jack.
‘It won’t hurt you to talk to him,’ urged Grandad.
‘I will,’ she said, cutting herself a piece of string. ‘Just as soon as he’s back from his rounds.’ She checked the watch Grandad had given her. It was her grandmother’s and she loved it. Plus, it was the only way to tell the time now her iPhone was defunct. Still early. She held up the string to check its length. Grandad gave it an approving nod.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘I just need some bait.’