Chapter 23
Thursday morning. Clare stared at her scrambled eggs with no appetite. She pushed them around her plate, then gazed out the window. The sun shone, but to the north an odd shelf of grey clouds had obscured the Bunya range.
Jack was biting his vegemite toast into the shape of a gun. ‘Bang,’ he said, and shot her. ‘You’re dead.’
‘Have you told the lad yet?’ asked her grandfather. Jack looked up.
She shook her head miserably.
‘Want me to do it, love?’ Grandad asked.
‘No,’ said Clare, her voice sharper than intended. ‘Of course not.’ She hated the look of disapproval on Grandad’s face. Currawong and guilt so often seemed to go hand in hand, even if the guilt was self-inflicted. Jack pushed his plate away and hopped down from the table, still clutching his toast gun.
‘Bang,’ he
