A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  Helen filled in the gaps. Fiza’s lack of success in the rental market was probably due to the combination of price with an overlay of racism. There were plenty of houses for rent in Boolanga, but increasingly more and more were geared towards tourist rentals. Even the old weatherboards, once the backbone of the rental market for locals, were being thrown up on Airbnb, leaving little in the way of affordable housing.

  ‘May I come to the garden?’ Fiza managed to combine reticence with determination.

  Helen smiled, recognising some of herself in the other woman’s manner. ‘Sure. I have to go to a meeting soon, but can you come back at three? I’ll show you around and explain everything then. Get you to fill in some forms—’

  ‘Forms?’ Wariness replaced Fiza’s eager anticipation.

  Helen wondered how many forms Fiza must have been required to complete to come to Australia. ‘It’s just your phone number and your address to prove you live in town.’

  ‘We have been in Serenity Street for five months.’

  Helen understood why Fiza wanted to move. ‘Would you like to take home some carrots? Green beans?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve got plenty.’

  Helen dug up some carrots and encouraged Fiza to pick double the amount of her initial bean harvest.

  ‘Thank you, Helen. I will come at three o’clock.’

  ‘Great. See you then.’

  The committee members were now drifting into the garden, heading straight to the ‘kitchen’. It was really just a shelter with a barbecue, wood-fired pizza oven, running cold water, a sink, power and a kettle. Someone would have brought lamingtons or a plate of Anzacs for afternoon tea and the members would be keen not to miss out.

  ‘Afternoon, Helen.’ Bob Murphy swung off his pushbike and leaned it up against the fence. His border collie sat, panting from his run. ‘I’ve been tinkering with the mower and she’s running like a dream. Thought I’d drop her back this time tomorrow?’

  Helen knew that was code for ‘and I’ll stay for a cup of tea’. Bob was a relatively new member and as much as Helen appreciated him taking on the task of keeping the community garden’s mower going, she preferred having cups of tea with people in public settings, not inside her cottage.

  ‘Thanks. If I’m not around, just pop it in shed two.’

  ‘Hello, Bob. Helen,’ Judith, the president, called out, waving a bright red folder and tapping her watch. ‘We’re ready to start.’

  Helen stifled a sigh. She wasn’t a huge fan of the monthly committee meeting. Often it took far too long to achieve very little.

  A smile creased the grey stubble on Bob’s weather-worn face and he winked at her, acknowledging Judith’s obsession with meeting protocol.

  Helen ignored the gesture for two reasons. As the caretaker of the community garden, she couldn’t be seen to side with anyone. As a woman, she had no desire to give any man even a hint of being interested.

  She joined the committee around the large wooden table and scanned the agenda. Thankfully, it looked straightforward.

  ‘I did the equipment audit,’ Bob said. ‘A fair bit needs replacing, and a few things are a tetanus hazard and should be thrown out.’

  Judith looked at Helen. ‘Will the shire pay for replacement tools?’

  ‘They gave us a large grant last year for the water tanks, but I’ll run it past Messina and Vivian. Unlike some of the councillors, they’re very supportive of the garden.’

  ‘We could always apply for a Saturday sausage sizzle at Hoopers,’ Bob said. ‘That’d raise a few hundred dollars. I’ve made my own snags for years. Happy to make a batch using the herbs from the garden. Might be an extra selling point.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Helen said. ‘That’s certainly an idea worth considering. We could also sell some produce. Since we installed the watering system, almost every plot is groaning. I’ve been offering my lettuces, carrots and coriander to all and sundry, but everyone’s in the same boat. I think it’s time to formalise a plan for surplus food.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Dot said.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ Bob asked.

  Helen was torn between her two passions—helping those in need and raising necessary funds for the garden. ‘Donating it to the food bank. Having a stall at the farmers’ market. Or both.’

  Judith pursed her lips. ‘The garden’s not a collective. People have different reasons for having a plot.’

  Helen couldn’t deny that. Initially, her plot had been all about survival. Not that anyone in Boolanga knew that. Homelessness made people uncomfortable, including herself, so it was easier to pretend it had never happened.

  ‘That’s true,’ she said to Judith, ‘but the garden’s a community and communities work together.’

  ‘We do work together. We have a mowing roster and working bees—’

  ‘And rotting vegetables in some plots when people have more produce than they can use or give away to family. Isn’t it better to donate it to the food bank?’

  ‘I have a big family so I never have leftovers,’ said Vin.

  ‘Obviously, any food donations would be voluntary,’ Helen said.

  ‘Best to minute that, Sharon,’ said Judith. ‘We never quite know with Helen.’

  Helen didn’t react. She was used to this sort of slap from Judith and refused to be deterred. ‘The Liparis have resigned due to ill health and are currently in Shepparton. Are there any objections to me harvesting their plot for the next farmers’ market and generally tidying it up?’

  There was a mumble of ‘no’, ‘that’s fine’, and ‘tidy is good’, before Judith said, ‘Any monies raised will go towards new tools.’

  ‘Of course. And I’ll put a poster on the noticeboard offering people the opportunity to donate surplus food to the stall. Anyone like to join me on the day?’

  ‘Be happy to,’ Bob said.

  ‘Thanks.’ But Helen would prefer it if someone else came along too. ‘Anyone else? Any time you can offer between eight and eleven would be appreciated and very welcome.’

  ‘Bit short notice, Helen,’ Sharon said.

  ‘Busy day, Saturdays. Got the grandkiddies and their sport,’ Vin said.

  Dot was staring off into the distance and didn’t reply.

  ‘Sorry, Helen. Commitments,’ Judith added.

  ‘No worries. Maybe next time?’

  ‘Before you go planning this as an ongoing event, it’s something that should be discussed with the general membership. Minute that, Sharon, for the next AGM.’

  Helen clenched her jaw. The AGM was months away and this was Judith’s way of sidestepping any issue she didn’t agree with, hoping time would bury it.

  ‘I’m happy to pilot it for three months and write a detailed report for the AGM,’ she offered.

  Judith winced, clearly torn between her love of a report and the fact it might come back to bite her. ‘If you want to take it on, Helen, that’s up to you, but there are no guarantees it will be ongoing.’

  ‘It might be a good way of highlighting the existence of the garden to the community,’ Bob said.

  ‘Good idea,’ Dot agreed.

  ‘We’ve got a couple of empty plots that need gardeners,’ Bob added.

  A seed of hope sprouted in Helen’s chest. Although she didn’t know enough about Bob to predict how he’d react to what she was about to suggest, she needed allies if her plans for the garden had a hope of coming to fruition. Not that Dot wasn’t an ally, but Helen needed practical rather than in-principle allegiance.

  ‘And talking about community, our garden’s no longer truly representative of Boolanga’s community,’ she said.

  Vin groaned. ‘What are you on about now, Helen?’

  ‘It’s a pretty white, able-bodied garden.’

  ‘You saying we need to build some raised beds so the nursing home set can get their hands in the soil?’ Enthusiasm lit up Bob’s eyes. ‘That’s something I could get behind.’

  �
��It’s one idea,’ Helen said. ‘So is reaching out into different parts of the community. Like to Fiza, who wants to take over plot seventeen.’

  ‘Who’s Fiza when he’s at home?’ Vin asked.

  ‘Fiza is a she and she lives in Serenity Street.’

  Vin’s bushy brows pulled down at the mention of the address. ‘So she’s one of them refugees.’

  ‘It isn’t only refugees who live in Serenity Street, Vin,’ Dot said.

  Helen threw her a grateful glance.

  ‘Where’s she from?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Melbourne. She’s been in Boolanga five months.’

  Judith tsked. ‘I mean originally.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ It was the truth, but had Helen known, it wouldn’t have changed her reply. ‘Not that it matters. She lives in Boolanga and is keen to have her own plot and grow vegetables, so she well and truly meets the criteria for membership.’

  ‘Is she a towel head?’ Vin asked.

  Helen’s hands fisted in her lap. ‘I don’t understand your question.’

  ‘I think Vin’s asking if she’s Muslum, right, Vin,’ Dot said.

  ‘Muslim,’ Helen automatically corrected. ‘We talked about gardening not religion. Besides, religion isn’t a membership criteria.’

  During the conversation, Sharon had been riffling through papers and consulting her phone. ‘Sorry, Helen. I’ve already offered the two spare beds to other people.’

  ‘Really? Why wasn’t there an agenda item on new members?’

  Sharon met Helen’s combative gaze with one of her own. ‘They verbally committed yesterday. There wasn’t time to process the paperwork and their membership fees before today’s meeting. They’ll appear on next month’s agenda.’

  ‘Good work, Sharon,’ Judith said. ‘It’s wonderful the garden’s at capacity again. Now, the date of the next meeting …’ She flipped through her diary. ‘The tenth. Who’s for a cuppa and a piece of passionfruit sponge? My chooks are currently laying eggs the perfect size for sponges.’

  ‘Me!’ Dot eagerly got to her feet.

  While people drifted to the kettle and the food, Helen took a moment to calm her seething rage at being snookered by Sharon in an act she couldn’t prove was racism, despite it being written all over it.

  Bob said softly, ‘Sometimes herding cats is easier.’

  ‘You were very quiet. Do you agree with them?’

  His easygoing demeanour faded. ‘I’m disappointed you feel the need to ask.’

  Bloody men and their fragile egos! But as Bob walked away, Helen knew that for the greater good of the garden, she’d have to offer him a cup of tea tomorrow at three after all.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Jade Innes loved her baby in a way that filled her heart to bursting, yet riddled it with empty air pockets—a lot like that cheese rich people bought. Some days, it felt like she was the only person who adored Milo’s gurgling laugh and found it hilarious the way he sucked his toes. That she was the only person who needed to blink away the prickle of tears when he gazed up at her with his huge eyes, the same vivid blue as the little wrens that jumped about in the bush near the community garden. Sometimes it felt like she was the only person who truly loved him.

  Don’t be a stupid cow, she reminded herself sharply. Corey loves Milo.

  The reassuring thought made her smile and took her back to the first time Corey saw their son.

  ‘Fuck. He’s as red as a rabbit after I’ve ripped off its skin.’

  Jade had laughed and cried with happiness and exhaustion. Labour had hurt like nothing on earth, except perhaps her mother’s words. She’d touched their baby’s red and scrawny head, studied his closed eyes and wondered at the spider web of blue veins across his lids.

  The midwife had pursed her lips at Corey—again. It was obvious from the moment they’d checked into the hospital that the woman had a poker up her arse. Old battleaxe.

  Jade didn’t understand why the olds got their knickers in such a twist about her and Corey having a baby. They weren’t kids. And hadn’t everyone been banging on at her since she was sixteen about the responsibilities of being an adult? That and the many ways she was failing at it. Well, she’d shown them what being an adult looked like. Nothing was more responsible than being a mother.

  The midwife had muttered something about kids having kids, but Jade was nineteen and Corey was twenty-two. Plus the midwife didn’t know Corey like Jade knew him. He might sound tough and look it—not all his tattoos were pieces of art created by professionals—but hidden underneath the blotchy ink was a man with a soft and mushy heart. A man who loved her and their son.

  It was Corey who’d named their ‘skinned rabbit’ Milo after his favourite drink—favourite non-alcoholic drink, Jade corrected herself. He’d wanted to call him Jack Daniels.

  Jade believed the father should name his kid. If her mother had let her father name her Barbara after his own mother, perhaps he might have stuck around longer. But even so, naming their kid after whiskey didn’t seem quite right.

  ‘What was your favourite drink when you were a kid?’ she’d asked Corey. She’d realised later it could have been Zooper Dooper or Nesquik. Thankfully, it wasn’t. And Milo was the name of Georgia’s baby in Gossip Girl, which was cool. Also, kids who drank Milo were sporty, weren’t they?

  ‘We could call him Milo Jack-Daniels-Noonan,’ she’d said.

  Corey had grinned. ‘Fuckin’ oath.’ And when the midwife had sniffed, Corey turned his dark blue gaze on her. ‘Me and Jade want some privacy, all right.’

  That had been almost a year ago.

  Corey ambled out of the bedroom, all rumpled and sleepy after his post-sex nap. He opened the fridge and stared into the mostly empty space.

  ‘Jeez, Jade. I’m starving.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  Even if she’d known, she couldn’t have shopped. She was out of money until tomorrow when her Centrelink payment arrived.

  ‘Didn’t know I had to make a booking to see you.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  It had been more than two weeks since she’d last seen Corey and she didn’t want anything to spoil his visit. She stepped in behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and absorbed his breadth, taking a moment to remember his weight on her an hour earlier. Loving she had someone else in her life other than Milo. Loving him.

  ‘Guess it has to be baby food then.’ He plucked a jar of pureed apples from the top shelf.

  She dropped her arms, maternal protection warring with a lover’s indulgence. ‘That’s Milo’s dinner.’

  ‘He can eat the pumpkin. You like pumpkin, don’t you, mate?’ He ignored Milo’s protest as an open jar of apple sauce walked straight past him.

  Corey checked his phone while he downed four spoonfuls of the apples, then offered Milo the fifth and final one. Jade opened the pumpkin and served it with the last dry biscuit in the packet and a bottle of milk.

  ‘Macca says he’s got work for me,’ Corey told her.

  ‘What’s it this time?’ Jade didn’t trust Macca or his jobs. They always sounded better than the reality and Corey had lost money on the door-to-door vacuum cleaners.

  ‘Lightbulbs.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  He squinted at his phone. ‘Government’s giving away free low-energy lightbulbs. I get paid for every house I install ’em.’

  The fact it was legit work made her smile. ‘So, the government pays you?’

  ‘Nah. The government pays Macca and he pays me.’

  Like a flame in a draught, her hope flickered and died. Macca’s payments often came in ways other than money. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed Corey sharing the occasional can from a ten pack of Mercury Hard cider, but Milo needed shoes and Country Target didn’t barter.

  ‘Will he though?’ she said.

  ‘Will he what?’

  ‘Pay you.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘It’s n
ot like that company that fleeced him. This time it’s the government paying.’

  Jade heeded the warning and didn’t push it. ‘Great. When do you start?’

  ‘We’re gonna grab dinner at the pub and talk.’

  Since Corey’s unexpected but welcome arrival, Jade had been daydreaming about snuggling up on the couch with him watching Survivor. He loved the show and always spent a large part of the hour telling her how he’d do it better than the contestants. And he would too—he’d been surviving since he was fourteen when his parents kicked him out. He’d done all sorts of things since then—worked in the fruit factory, done some panelbeating—but he preferred farm work and being in the bush. He was a crack shot with a gun—few foxes or rabbits were safe from his sights.

  But if Corey went to the pub to meet Macca, there’d be no watching Survivor together and she’d be home alone with Milo. Again. It had been ages since she’d gone anywhere and if she went to the pub, Corey might shout her a parma.

  ‘Can I come?’

  He stood and pocketed his phone. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know Milo screams blue murder when there’s noise. Besides, me and Macca are talking business.’

  Disappointment pinched and bruised her. ‘Maybe Macca could hire me too?’

  ‘That’ll stuff up ya Centrelink.’

  ‘Not if I do a few hours a week and don’t earn over the limit.’

  ‘And who’d look after the kid?’ Corey crossed his arms. ‘No stranger’s looking after him. There’s pedos and all sorts out there. You had him, you look after him.’

  For the briefest moment, she wanted to hate him. Not only for implying that she’d had a choice to have Milo, but for highlighting she was mostly alone in raising him. But the feeling fizzled as fast as it flared. There was no point letting it catch and burn, yelling at Corey and having everything go to hell. Watching him leave without a guarantee he’d return.

  Right now, things were exactly as they should be—Corey was working and she was looking after Milo. That’s what family did; they worked together, were a team. And the three of them were the only family the other had—it was the bond they shared. They needed to be here not only for each other, but for Milo. Her beautiful baby deserved the childhood she and Corey never came close to living.