Clare rushed into the bathroom with a towel and clean clothes for Jack. Tom was back, sitting on the edge of the ancient, clawed bath, helping Jack to build a bubble tower. The little boy was giggling and squealing as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Tom stood and gave Clare a swift kiss. ‘Talk to you later.’ Clare nodded absently, still in a daze, barely registering Tom’s lips against hers, the burn of them. She hoisted Jack from the tub and wrapped him in a towel. Please let the clock on the wall be fast. It couldn’t be one o’clock already. She hadn’t told Jack about his mother’s visit yet.
It hadn’t helped that she’d been on the phone to Kim Maguire for half the morning. Clare had rung her the minute she’d found Jack. She’d meant it to be a brief call, informing Kim of the good news. She’d hoped recriminations could wait. No such luck.
‘What happened today is completely unacceptable,’ Kim had said. There was an air of exaggerated outrage about her words, but Clare could hardly disagree. ‘I’m writing a full incident report, as we speak.’
You’ll enjoy that, thought Clare. People like Kim were much more at home filing forms than dealing with people face to face.
‘And I have a great many questions,’ said Kim.
Clare had spent a humiliating half hour admitting her neglect, only to discover that Kim’s concern was more for herself, than for Jack. ‘You betrayed my faith in you in a major way, Clare. You exposed the department, and potentially exposed me, to a law suit.’
Should Clare argue? Should she point out that Jack was back home and had suffered no harm? Should she advise Kim that as she’d placed the child in Clare’s care – and after conducting a proper assessment, however brief – there was no breach of any duty of care that could sustain a legal action? Not like when Kim had tried to place Jack at Brighthaven. That was a textbook case of failure to protect.
But Clare had known how to play this game. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Kim,’ she’d said. ‘You bent over backwards to accommodate me, rushed through the kinship assessment. You’ve been so wonderful, and then I go and cause you all this grief.’
Kim sounded mollified. ‘Can you tell me what steps you’ll take to ensure John doesn’t wander away again?’ As Clare talked about childproof gate locks and not allowing Jack outside unsupervised she pictured Kim ticking off the boxes. Kim asked if there was a garage door that allowed access to the street. She’d clearly forgotten that they were talking about a country property, where you couldn’t even see the street from the house. She’d also forgotten that Clare had a dirty, tired, frightened little boy to deal with, one who was currently rocking on her lap. ‘Well goodbye, Clare.’ At last. ‘Thank god you found the child before his mother arrived.’
That was one thing, at least, that they’d both agreed on.
The dogs were barking now, signalling a visitor. She glanced out the window, in time to see Taylor emerge form a dinged-up Holden station wagon. Surely that thing wasn’t roadworthy? Tom greeted Taylor, and waylaid her with conversation. Good, that would buy her some time. Clare finished dressing Jack and sat down on the bathroom floor beside him. ‘Listen to me, Jacky. We have a visitor . . . Mummy’s here.’
The little boy stopped trying to climb back into the bath and just stared, his eyes large. Why on earth hadn’t she told him this earlier, given him some time to get used to the idea? Clare ran through the possible reactions she’d been warned to expect. For some reason, the one reaction she wasn’t prepared for was one of unbridled joy. Jack ran from the room. Clare scribbled Grandad’s landline and mobile numbers on a piece of paper and followed the boy outside.
Jack was already wrapped in his mother’s arms. The four dogs romped around them, but Taylor didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed. Clare took a closer look. She looked much healthier than the first time they’d met. Her long chestnut hair was clean and brushed. Her face, once so pale, was flushed pink with pleasure. Her limbs were a little rounder, her face a little fuller . . . her eyes, still hard, but so much brighter. And right now those eyes glowed with unmistakable love and pride as she gazed at her little son. She looked up as Clare approached, without seeming to recognise her.
‘I’m Clare,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘We met at my office.’
‘So sorry my kid ran off on you,’ said Taylor, turning on a smile. ‘He can be a such little bugger like that.’
Clare was stunned. It was an absurd apology. Clare was the one who’d lost Jack. It had all been her fault. Nevertheless, the girl sounded perfectly genuine, heartfelt even. But there was something much more confusing. How the hell did Taylor know about Jack’s disappearance in the first place?
‘Where’d you find him?’ Taylor had directed that question to Tom. He ruffled Jack’s hair. ‘I wasn’t there. Clare will fill you in.’ With a nod, he left. She tried to make sense of it. Tom. Tom had told Taylor that she’d lost Jack. He’d handed Taylor a powerful weapon to use against her, something even that witch Kim Maguire hadn’t been prepared to do.
‘Come inside,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll make you a coffee, and explain what happened.’ If she could just convince the girl to spend her visit here at Currawong.
‘Nah,’ said Taylor. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She put Jack down and lit a cigarette. ‘We’re going to the circus.’
‘What circus?’
‘Toowoomba, was it? I love Jacky’s hair. It’s long now, isn’t it? He looks like a little girl.’
‘Toowoomba?’ Clare’s mouth went dry. Toowoomba was more than two hours away. ‘You can’t . . .’ started Clare, brain scrambling to find a logical excuse for keeping Jack home.
‘He’s my son,’ said Taylor, eyes narrowing. There was a new edge to her voice. ‘I can take him if I want.’
‘Of course,’ said Clare, forcing herself to smile. ‘It’s been such a long drive, that’s all. I thought you might like a coffee first . . . or maybe a cold drink?’
It wasn’t working. Taylor looked wary now. ‘No thanks,’ she said, avoiding eye contact.
Clare pulled the piece of paper from her pocket and handed it over. ‘You can get me on these numbers,’ she said. ‘My old one won’t work. I lost my mobile.’
‘Same here,’ said Taylor.
‘So . . . you don’t have a phone?’
Taylor shook her head.
‘What if I need to call you?’
‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ She shoved the piece of paper into her pocket, then dropped the smoldering butt of her cigarette and ground it beneath her heel.
Such a filthy habit. Clare bit her tongue, trying to keep track of where the butt lay on the drive, so she could retrieve it later.
‘I’d better go,’ Taylor said.
Clare’s hands tightened into fists. It was intolerable to think this girl could just strap Jack into that deathtrap of a car and drive off. Clare looked to Jack. Maybe he wouldn’t want to go? Maybe he would fight and scream to stay.
‘Bye bye, Clare.’ Jack waved and climbed into the car with heartbreaking alacrity.
Taylor’s eyes lit up. ‘He’s talking? Does he talk much?’
‘More and more each day,’ said Clare.
‘Cool,’ said Taylor. She secured Jack in his seat, then turned back to Clare. Her hard eyes softened. ‘Very cool.’
‘Samsam,’ called Jack. The dog leaped in too and took up his customary position beside Jack, on the cracked linoleum back seat.
Taylor stroked his head. ‘Can we take the dog?’ she asked. ‘That’d be fun. Jacky loves dogs.’
‘No,’ snapped Clare. She dragged her hands through hair, limp with sweat and desperation. Take it easy, she told herself. If you’re not careful, you’ll make things worse. ‘Samson better stay here,’ said Clare. She meant to sound bright and upbeat, but her voice was wavering. ‘They wouldn’t let him into the circus.’ For a moment Taylor looked like she wanted to argue the point. Then she turfed Samson out of the car. Jack whined and began to bang his head. Taylor shoved a Chupa Chup in his mouth then climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘When will you be back?’ Clare asked.
‘See ya,’ said Taylor and turned the key.
‘I need to tell you about his routine.’ Taylor lit up another cigarette. ‘Jack needs to be home by six.’
Taylor wound up her window and took off down the hill, wheels spinning on the gravel. Samson launched off after them and Clare grabbed his collar just in time. The dog howled. Clare choked back a sob. She’d broken the solemn promise she’d made to the little boy less than two hours ago. She’d promised not to lose him again, and yet now, for the second time that day, Jack was gone.
*
Clare sat at the kitchen table with Samson’s head cradled in her lap. All those hours to fill. Minutes crawled by. Clare checked the clock so frequently that sometimes no time seemed to have passed at all. The worst thing was that Taylor had given no indication of when she’d be back – or even if she’d be back. Clare fought back tears. A huge chunk of her seemed to have vanished into a vast black hole, along with the child. This must be how it felt to have your legs amputated, or your house burn down. The shaft of sunlight streaming through the open window dimmed and then disappeared altogether. Clare shivered and hugged herself. Jack didn’t even have his jumper.
Grandad came in, hung his hat on the peg by the door, then pulled up a chair opposite. ‘Jack’s mother came for him, then?’
She nodded.
‘When’s he due back?’
‘Tonight sometime,’ said Clare.
Grandad reached across the table for her hand. ‘It’ll be all right, love. The lad will be back home before you know it.’
Clare shook her head. ‘What would you know about it, Grandad? This is killing me.’ She stood and paced the room. For a moment she didn’t realize that she’d translated her mean-spirited thought into words.
Grandad withdrew his hand and slumped a little in his chair. He rubbed his brow as if warding off a headache. ‘You might give me a bit more credit,’ he said. ‘I’ve done my fair share of waiting for people.’
Clare swallowed hard. He was right. Grandad had been waiting for his daughter, her mother for a very long time. Waiting for Ryan . . . waiting for her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sitting back down. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
He extended his hand once more, and this time she took it. ‘I know you didn’t, love. We’re all on tenterhooks. Would you like a cuppa?’
Clare gazed into her grandfather’s worried eyes and felt ashamed. This was hard on him too. She had no monopoly on loving the little boy. Today had been one heart-wrenching drama after another, and yet she’d barely given a thought to how Grandad was.
Clare stood and threw her arms around him, kissing his rough cheek. He smelt comfortingly of horses and sweat. ‘How about I make you one instead.’ She was rewarded with a smile. She loved the way his hollow cheeks filled out when he smiled. He was suddenly a young man again, with a twinkle in his eye. Now Samson licked her hand. His expression was one of almost human concern. Maybe she should stop worrying about Jack and start appreciating what she still had. Grandad and Samson . . . and Tom. But did she really have Tom? He’d betrayed her, blurted out to Jack’s birth mother, of all people, how Clare had lost her son. How she’d let him wander away. There was one good thing, though. Jack was no longer in care on a voluntary basis. She was grateful that Kim had moved so quickly on that front. The state of Queensland was now Jack’s legal guardian and Taylor would be technically kidnapping her son if she failed to return him to Currawong.
Clare made the tea, scalding her hand with steam in the process. A glance out the window showed Tom’s jeep, still parked down the hill outside the surgery. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said, handing Grandad his tea. His smile had vanished, replaced with a look of great weariness. ‘Won’t be long.’ Clare kissed him again, called Samson, and headed out the door.
Despite the sunshine, a cold breeze had blown in from nowhere. Swirling twigs and fallen leaves formed sad little willy-willies, which died as soon as they began. Clare rubbed her goose-bumped arms. Tom wasn’t at the clinic. A closed sign hung on the surgery door and a chain stretched across the car park entrance.
Samson padded restlessly about, whining and sniffing the breeze. She ran to crouch beside him, burying her face in his dark ruff. When Samson had first arrived, back in Brisbane, he’d seemed like such a silly pup: destructive, demanding, annoying. She’d only taken him on out of a sense of duty to her dead father. And now? Now, between the two of them, Samson seemed by far the cleverest and wisest.
The dog pricked his ears. Clare heard it too, the thrum of an approaching car. She checked her watch. Only two o’clock, but perhaps Taylor had changed her mind and was bringing Jack home early. Her heart made a joyful leap and she and Samson ran for the Sunshine gates. But as the vehicle came into view, Clare’s hope died. It was her grandfather’s tray-back truck, with Tom at the wheel. Clare reached him as he got out to open the gate.
‘I want to talk to you.’ Her voice sounded angry but she didn’t care.
Tom nodded. ‘You okay?’
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘I want to know why you told Taylor about my losing Jack?’
‘Righto,’ he said, climbing into the cab. ‘We’ll talk at the house. Want a lift?’ Clare shook her head. Tom leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ Tom nodded, slammed the door shut and took off up the track, with Samson racing along beside. Clare trudged uphill, a growing ball of fury inside her. It was as if he didn’t care at all that Jack was gone, didn’t care that he might never come home. It was as if he didn’t care about her. When she reached the house, Tom was unloading the truck, like nothing was wrong. Jack was gone and he’d gone shopping. Unbelievable.
‘Look out below,’ he said, and turfed a roll of chicken wire to the ground. There were more rolls of wire and some panels of Colorbond fencing.
Grandad came out of the house with his mug of tea, and gave them a wave. ‘Hope you put that stuff on my account, Tom.’
‘No way, Harry. This lot’s on me.’
Clare couldn’t believe it. Now they were both acting like nothing was wrong. She wanted to scream. Tom maneuvered the steel panels to the edge of the truck. She hadn’t seen him in a singlet before, and the strength of his arms and upper body was on display. If she hadn’t been so furious, she would have been impressed. ‘I asked you why you told Taylor about me losing Jack.’
Tom straightened his back and wiped his brow. ‘I assumed she already knew . . . that you’d told her.’
‘And give her ammunition to use against me?’ said Clare, itching for an argument. ‘Why the hell would I do that?’
‘Firstly,’ he said, in a measured voice, ‘I didn’t know it was a fight . . . and secondly, I thought you’d told her because she’s his mother and has a right to know what happens to her kid.’
‘He’s got a point, love,’ Grandad said.
Clare shook her head in disbelief. Tom was one thing, but her grandfather? Whose side was he on?
Tom went back to work as if the matter was closed.
For the first time, Clare focused on what was being unloaded from the truck. A tall chain-link gate, about two-metres high. The sort you might find in a factory fence or a dog run. Beneath the gate lay dozens of tall pine posts. Grandad emerged from the cart shed with a posthole digger and long-handled shovel. Tom jumped off the truck and kicked a roll of tall wire mesh towards the sagging, garden fence.
For a few moments she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing, and then it hit her. While she’d been moping around, imagining worst-case scenarios, blaming everybody else and feeling sorry for herself, they’d been planning to build a fence. A fence to keep Jack safe. Such a simple thing. Such a simple, loving practical thing to do. It left her completely overwhelmed. Tom caught her eye, and smiled. Clare smiled back and threw herself into the work at hand. No more simmering in an emotional stew. It felt so much better to be doing something constructive. Nobody talked much. Tom took a few calls from clients, but after determining they weren’t emergencies, he postponed their appointments or asked them to go elsewhere. By the time Grandad declared afternoon smoko, the new fence was half-finished.
An unfamiliar car turned into the gate, and for a moment Clare’s heart leapt with hope. ‘That’s just my mate, love,’ said Grandad, looking almost guilty. ‘Come to lend a hand.’
It took a little while to place the visitor. It was Sid, the wiry old whip man with the bushy white beard – the saddler from the Cobb & Co Museum at Toowoomba.
She might not have recognised him straightaway, but Sid knew her. ‘I should have known your boy had something to do with Harry. He had too keen an eye for them whips.’
Sid pulled some cold beers from an esky and handed them around. Clare took one, letting the bitter bubbles slide down her throat, letting the tension drain away. A high wind had swept the curtain of cloud from the Bunyas, framing their timeless peaks with a backdrop of infinite blue. An eagle soaring high overhead somehow put things into perspective. Eagles had hunted these same hills for thousands of years. One person’s problems didn’t amount to very much in the grand scheme of things.
Clare sat down in the sun, her back against the cart shed. Her arms ached and her shirt was damp with sweat, but the beer tasted good and things suddenly didn’t seem so dire after all. Not sitting out here in the sunshine, watching gangly foals play hide and seek around their patient mothers. Sid was telling some story about driving an eight-horse hitch back in the forties, while Grandad shook his head. ‘You’re dreaming,’ he said. ‘That was never more than a six-horse outfit.’ Then Grandad’s phone rang and, for once, he heard it. Everybody froze. Clare held her breath while he fumbled a little in answering it. ‘I’ll just get her for you . . . Taylor,’ he mouthed.
‘Hello?’ said Clare. Don’t ask if everything’s all right. Don’t act worried.
‘My car’s buggered,’ said Taylor. ‘Me and Jack won’t be back till tomorrow.’
Clare’s stomach dropped like a lift with a broken cable. ‘Are you both okay?’
‘Yeah,’ said Taylor, sounding uncertain. Clare could hear a child screaming in the background. ‘Jack’s being a little turd, that’s all.’
‘Where are you?’ asked Clare. ‘I’m coming to get you.’
‘Nah, don’t worry.’ The screaming stopped. ‘We’ll be right.’
‘I’d better come,’ urged Clare. ‘You don’t have permission for overnight access. Jack’s on a guardianship order. The department might issue a warrant.’
‘No, that’s all sorted,’ said Taylor. Now Clare could hear a rhythmic thumping sound. ‘Kim said I’m allowed to keep him.’
That couldn’t be true. Either she’d misheard Taylor or the girl was lying. ‘Where are you?’ This time she couldn’t hide the panic in her voice.
‘I don’t know the name,’ said Taylor. ‘It’s real nice, but.’ There was a loud crash and a cry. ‘Got to go.’ And that was that. Clare longed to crawl down the phone. She ignored the curious expressions of the others, and rang Kim. Damn, an answering machine.
She was about to leave a message when Kim picked up. ‘Clare? I was just about to call. Taylor’s car broke down and won’t be fixed until the morning. I found some funding for her to stay at a motel in Toowoomba.’
‘What motel?’
‘You know better than that, Clare.’
‘Just tell me, and I’ll go get John. What if she doesn’t bring him back?’
‘Apparently Taylor calls him Jack, Clare. From now on, you should use the name favoured by his mother.’ Clare had neither time nor energy to point out the absurdity of this last statement. ‘You don’t have to worry about her bringing the boy back,’ said Kim, reading her mind. ‘Taylor’s doing much better, but she still finds it difficult to parent her son. He’s proved to be quite a handful and she hasn’t coped very well.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I think Taylor’s the one who’s not all right. She’s been glowing in her praise of you though, Clare. Says you’ve done wonders with the child. Says she doesn’t know how you do it. His behaviour at the beginning of the access was apparently impeccable . . . but Taylor said it wore off, and she blames herself. Frankly, I think she’ll be secretly glad to give him back.’
She could have kissed Kim. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘How is it wonderful that Taylor can’t manage her own son?’ asked Kim. ‘She’s made some positive changes in her life and was understandably very hopeful of regaining custody. I’m afraid this access has been a disappointing reality check for her.’
And a welcome reprieve for me, thought Clare. ‘Jack does have some extremely challenging behaviours,’ she said.
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Kim.
‘He’s much less violent now,’ said Clare.
‘Really? You’ve done very well then, and I’ve no doubt she’ll return the boy tomorrow. You’re a braver woman than me. Call if there are any problems.’
Clare handed Grandad the phone, then pressed her palms against her eyes, gathering her thoughts. ‘Well?’ said Grandad. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’
‘Taylor’s car broke down,’ she told them. ‘The department’s putting her and Jack up in a Toowoomba motel overnight and they’ll be back tomorrow. She’s had a lot of trouble handling him, and said some really nice things about me. Apparently, she can’t wait to bring him home!’
Grandad’s face spread into a slow smile. ‘I told you it would work out, didn’t I?’ She gave him a quick kiss. ‘Tom, why don’t you take Clare out somewhere? Help take her mind off things. She’s such a worrier. Takes after her grandmother, I guess.’
‘But we haven’t finished here,’ said Tom.
‘Sid’s the fastest damned fencing contractor in Queensland,’ said Grandad. ‘Between him and me, we’ll be done in no time.’
Tom looked at Clare. All the feelings that had been swamped by the day’s dramas flooded back . . . In her body was a low ache, a longing to be with him, somewhere shady and cool. A longing to feel his touch on her skin again.
‘Go on,’ said Grandad. ‘Off you go.’
‘What will we do?’ Tom asked her. ‘Anything you want.’
‘Let’s go riding,’ said Clare, the desire coming to her seemingly from nowhere.
‘Riding it is, then,’ said Tom. ‘Great idea. How about you ride Sparky and I’ll take Fleur?’
‘Sparky? I’m too big for Sparky,’ she said. ‘I want to ride Fleur.’
‘Well, I certainly can’t ride a pony,’ said Tom. ‘My feet would touch the ground. Are any of your Clydies saddle-broken, Harry?’
‘There’s the stallion, Goliath. Although he hasn’t been ridden in a while.’
‘How’d he be riding out with a mare?’
‘Level headed enough, as long as the mare wasn’t in season. Then you might have a job on your hands.’
‘Goliath?’ said Sid, and slapped his thigh in amusement. ‘You won’t have any problem with your feet touching the ground on that fella. He must stand eighteen hands.’
‘Are you game, Tom?’ Harry asked.
‘My oath,’ he said, and grinned at Clare. ‘We’re going to have a ball.’