Currawong Creek

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The phone rang as they were almost out the front door.

‘For you.’ Debbie held her hand over the receiver and whispered, ‘It’s Adam.’

Oh no ‒ the ballet. It took Clare a second to choose a white lie. ‘Adam, sorry, my phone’s been off.’ Clare took a deep breath. ‘I’m sick, Adam … yes, a pretty high temperature … it just came on so quickly. Apologise to your sister for me, won’t you? Perhaps Heather could go instead? … Yes, I know you don’t need me to organise your social life … No, don’t come round. I want an early night.’ She could see Kim through the window, holding the car seat and looking cross. ‘Got to run.’

Clare ended the call. She’d almost added I love you but had thought better of it. Letting Adam down like she had, then lying to him? These weren’t especially loving things to do. And anyway, they were at that awkward stage of their relationship. Clare ignored the little voice that suggested the awkward stage was lasting a long time. Adam told her that he loved her in the heat of the night, but the phrase hadn’t yet passed his lips when the sun was up. Clare had once tested the water with a lunchtime I love you and had been met with stony silence. She’d almost died of embarrassment.

With a relieved wave to Debbie, she and Jack were out the door. Kim helped her fit the car seat and hurried off. Clare struggled to strap the wriggling boy in. He slapped her in the face. ‘Ow,’ she said. ‘Stop that.’ This was already harder than she thought it would be.

A few minutes later, they were climbing the stairs to her flat. Clare unlocked the door and Jack trailed in after her. At least he’d let go of her leg. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

Jack marched into the kitchenette. He dropped his bag of toys, opened the fridge and began pulling out the contents. Bread, cheese, chocolate, carrots, half a tomato, lemons. He tipped over a milk carton. The liquid dripped onto the grey slate floor. He took a few bites from the cheese, a few bites from the chocolate and then dropped them in favour of bowling lemons along the tiles.

‘Jack, no.’ Clare retrieved the carton and dabbed at the white puddle with a sponge from the sink. Jack bowled a lemon at her legs. Clare caught it, put it on a high shelf and collected the others. When she tried to wrest the last piece of fruit from Jack’s grasp, he screamed and hurled it at her face. Clare dodged just in time. If her reflexes hadn’t been so swift, she would have had a black eye. It left her shaken. ‘You’ll make quite a wicket keeper one day.’

Jack ran into the minimalist, open-plan lounge room, bounced off the treadmill in the corner, then flung himself down on the white Georgetti couch. Not so white any more, not since Samson. She groaned. Samson. She’d forgotten all about him. She’d have to ring doggy day care. Maybe Helga could drop him off?

Clare sat down and the little boy hid his head under Samson’s old blanket. ‘Jack?’ She lifted the corner. ‘Jack?’ He peered back at her, his expression blank. Pale skin, red tired-looking eyes. She picked up the remote and turned on the television, flicking through until she found a children’s channel. Strange cartoon animals appeared out of magic balls, shooting fire and water and battling each other.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Jack, look, it’s a Pokémon. It’s Tepig.’ Sure enough, an animated version of the funny orange pig was running around on the screen. Jack peeped out from under the blanket. ‘Do you want some milk?’

He nodded.

Clare pushed the glazed coffee table against the couch. She went into the kitchen and picked up his bag of toys before pouring a glass of milk. Skim. It was all she had in the fridge. That and Chablis. Clare took Jack the drink and the bag of Pokémon. He rewarded her with an uncertain smile, the first since McDonald’s. She pulled up a chair next to him. He drank down the milk, curled up and promptly fell asleep. With a great, relieved sigh, Clare pulled Samson’s blanket up to his chin. She sneaked back to the kitchen, poured herself a generous amount of wine and sat down to think. The fog of emotion was clearing, allowing a little more clarity of thought. The enormity of what she’d done was finally hitting home and it was giving her a headache.

Her phone rang. Clare scrambled to retrieve it from her handbag before the jazzy tune woke Jack. It was Helga, director of doggy day-care, a veritable Valkyrie when it came to defending the rights of her canine charges ‒ sometimes even from their misguided owners. This was, apparently, one of those times. ‘Samson is still waiting to be collected, Clare. May I remind you that this is becoming an all too regular occurrence.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clare. ‘Could you perhaps keep him overnight?’

‘A dog is a living, breathing, emotional being, Clare. Not some object that you can keep in the cupboard until you feel like playing with him.’

Clare’s cheeks burned. ‘Sorry. I’m not really set up for a dog.’ She regretted the remark as soon as it had passed her lips, although it was true enough. Managing a German shepherd puppy in an upmarket, second-floor apartment was difficult to say the least.

‘Then why did you get one?’

‘Samson was my father’s dog. I only took him on a month ago, when Dad died suddenly.’

There was a long pause before Helga spoke. ‘My condolences,’ she said. ‘You should consider rehoming him.’

‘No!’ Clare’s raised voice caused Jack to stir in his sleep. ‘Dad loved that dog. He’d never forgive me.’

‘Don’t sacrifice Samson on the altar of your guilt,’ said Helga. ‘Puppies who spend too long in kennels can suffer long-term damage. Aggression, separation anxiety, depression – an inability to properly bond. Particularly with a dog as large and strong as Samson, the risk must not be overlooked.’

‘I’ll do better, I promise,’ said Clare. ‘But I honestly can’t come and get him tonight. Could you … could you perhaps drop him off?’

Another long pause. ‘Will I see Samson at obedience school this week?’ asked Helga. ‘You missed last Sunday’s session.’

That was blackmail. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. We’ll be there.’

‘Very well, Clare. I’ll drop him off around seven.’

‘Thank you, Helga.’ Clare switched off her phone. Adam was out for the night so he wouldn’t ring. In any case, the last thing she wanted was to talk to anybody. Clare pulled a stool up to the breakfast bar, sat down and drained her wine glass. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ward off the growing ache in her skull. It had been a very long Friday and the weekend wasn’t panning out quite like she’d planned.