A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  The shrill cry of a baby jarred the air. Despite the passage of years Helen shuddered, remembering Nicki’s screams, her own powerlessness to comfort her and the unending sense of failure. She pushed the thoughts down deep where they belonged and knocked on the door.

  The baby stopped crying and a young woman cracked the door open just enough for Helen to glimpse white skin and muddy blonde hair. It was unlikely this was Fiza’s house.

  ‘Hello, I’m Helen from the community garden and—’

  ‘You selling stuff?’

  ‘Ah, no. I’m looking for Fiza. Does she live here or in one of the other units?’

  ‘What’s a Fiza when it’s at home?’

  ‘Fiza’s a woman.’ Helen hesitated then added, ‘She’s from somewhere in Africa.’

  ‘I see African kids at Tranquillity.’ At Helen’s confusion she added, ‘It’s the park at the bottom of the street. I take Milo there.’

  Helen didn’t know if Milo was a dog or the baby and thought it probably best not to ask. ‘Thanks. I’ll try the park. Sorry to trouble you.’

  ‘Wait.’ The door opened a little wider and Helen noticed the young woman looked barely twenty. ‘Does this garden grow organic food? I don’t like giving Milo stuff full of pesticides but organic’s really expensive.’

  Helen remembered the cigarette butts in the pot plant and wondered if she thought eating organic food would offset the fact she was filling her lungs with smoke. ‘I grow my own vegetables and try to only use garlic spray and pyrethrum.’

  The girl gave her a blank look. ‘So not chemicals?’

  ‘They’re natural pesticides.’

  ‘Cool. You said community. I’m part of the community so that means I can get free food there, right?’

  Helen opened her mouth to say, ‘It doesn’t work that way,’ and immediately thought of the Liparis’ bed she needed to harvest. With her hours at the café and the new garden project, she was fast running short on time.

  ‘If you help me harvest for the farmers’ market, you can keep some of the veggies.’

  The girl’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s, instantly wary. ‘You want me to work all day for you and then you’ll pay me in vegetables? That’s not even legal!’

  Helen tried not to sigh. She knew this type of person all too well—they believed the world was against them and they deserved everything for nothing. ‘That’s not what I’m suggesting. It’s more like you exchange one hour of your time for some vegetables.’

  ‘Why?’

  Spare me. ‘Because I need some help and you want some homegrown vegetables.’

  ‘Organic.’

  Helen was fast regretting her offer. ‘Yes, well, close to organic. I don’t have an actual certificate because I’m not a commercial grower.’

  The baby, who looked like he was close to one, lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder and beamed a toothy smile.

  ‘If I come, so does Milo.’

  Helen couldn’t decide if the girl was being defensive or antagonistic. Not that it mattered when the result was much the same—difficult.

  ‘Does he sleep in the pram?’ she asked.

  ‘No! He’s got a cot.’

  She counted to five. ‘I meant, does he fall asleep in a pram or a stroller? If he does, walk down at his nap time and park him under one of the trees. That way you’ll have time to garden.’

  ‘I’m not coming for crap like radishes or any weird stuff.’

  The Liparis grew fennel and celeriac. Helen thought longingly of Fiza’s and the Hazara women’s enthusiasm for the garden. Did she really need the prickly angst of this belligerent teenager who, despite her claims to want organic food, probably ate white bread and drank sugar-laden soft drinks?

  Tell her it’s only weird stuff. ‘What vegetables do you eat?’

  ‘Potatoes, carrots and pumpkin. But only butternut pumpkin.’

  Helen thought of her own plot. ‘Any green veg? Cabbage, broccoli?’

  The girl screwed up her mouth. ‘I like peas.’

  ‘Peas aren’t quite ready yet, but I can promise you potatoes and carrots.’ Her patience level drained to barely there. ‘It’s up to you if you come or not. The garden’s on Riverfarm Road.’

  ‘I know! I walk past it heaps. Milo likes looking at the mural and that funny-looking metal thing.’

  Helen loved all the art in the garden too. She wished she’d known the artist who’d created so many delightful nooks and crannies and filled them with surprises. Sadly, the woman had died well before Helen had joined, and none of the current committee had an artistic bone in their bodies.

  ‘Can you come tomorrow or Friday?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Helen Demetriou. And you’re …?’

  ‘Jade.’

  Helen wasn’t surprised Jade didn’t offer her surname and she didn’t push for it. She had a hunch Jade wouldn’t show up at the garden. Most of her hoped the hunch proved correct.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Tara watched Flynn and Clementine race across the Dusseldorps’ garden and fling themselves onto the jumping castle. It was Ace’s seventh birthday and this year Beth had gone all out with the entertainment.

  ‘Leaving feels weird, doesn’t it?’ Tara said to Kelly as they walked back to their cars. For years, they’d stayed on at children’s birthday parties, ‘helping’ the hostess by drinking wine and loosely supervising.

  ‘Leaving feels wonderful and even better, Al’s busy tinkering with his precious Valiant. I’m planning to sit in the shade and crack open the book group book. What about you?’

  ‘I thought I might seduce my husband.’

  Kelly laughed. ‘Too funny. As if you’d waste a perfectly good Saturday afternoon when you know he’ll throw a leg over tonight anyway.’

  Tara laughed too, hoping it sounded normal and not strung tight like every muscle in her body. She’d taken a risk with the line about seducing Jon, but it had got her the information she wanted. Kelly and Al were still having regular sex, even if it sounded like Kelly thought it was a bit of a chore.

  ‘You got me,’ she joked. ‘I’m reading Anna Karenina too. Last time Monique chose a book I didn’t finish it and she told me off in front of the group, remember?’

  ‘Oh, she’s “FIGJAM” for sure. What’s the bet she serves Russian food and vodka.’

  ‘As long as it’s honey cake and not pickled herring,’ Tara said.

  She hopped into the car, excitement skipping. With the children out of the house for two hours, this afternoon was perfect for couple time. Jon was hardly going to claim fatigue in the middle of the afternoon. Since the business awards, he’d been less distracted, although he’d gone to bed before her most nights this week to ‘catch up on sleep’. But this morning he’d bounced out of bed before her to hit tennis balls to the kids, so he was all caught up and relaxed.

  At lunchtime she’d asked him if he had any plans for the afternoon.

  ‘Thought I’d mow the lawn and test that new whipper snipper on the daisies down the side of the pool,’ he’d said. ‘They need hacking back.’

  Company reps were always giving Jon demonstration models of tools and equipment. He said it was important to test them before he recommended them to customers, and Tara teased him that his testing was really playing.

  Jon still had the physique of a footballer—solid thighs, broad muscular back, giant hands. No one who met him underestimated the raw power of his body—he could heft huge bags of potting mix and concrete without breaking a sweat—but it was the unexpected delicacy of such big hands wielding pencil pliers or sketching a detailed plan that surprised people. As much as Tara loved watching him flexing muscles big and small, this afternoon she planned to entice him away from the garden and into the spa to work out some different muscles. But first she needed to sow some seeds, or as Jon used to say to her, ‘get your motor running’.

  Opening a text message, she selected his nam
e, pushed away the embarrassed voice in her head and tried sexting him for the first time.

  Are you all hot and sweaty after working so hard?

  It’s not that hot

  He obviously had no idea she was flirting. And why would he? Their texts were normally please buy milk, did you order the mulch? or remember to call your dad.

  Tara tried again. I’m hot and sweaty just thinking about you She added a kiss-blowing emoji.

  She hit send, then shoved her phone deep into her handbag. Denny North was flexing his muscles with a mobile phone blitz and he’d already given her a warning about touching her phone in the car. The children had been goggle-eyed and wasted no time telling Jon, ‘Mummy got into trouble from the policeman.’

  She pointed the car towards home, but didn’t get beyond the railway crossing before losing ten minutes waiting for a freight train to pass. It almost killed her not to peek at her phone.

  A group of teenage boys ambled past and before she’d consciously thought about it, her right forefinger was pressing the door lock button. Thankful for the protection of tinted windows, she studied the boys. In typical adolescent fashion they varied in height from short to extremely tall, but most of them lacked adult male heft. They wore jeans, T-shirts and runners, although one wore shorts. Apart from their dark skin, they looked like most of the teenagers in town. Were these the boys causing Jon and the other traders so many headaches? Increasing the cost of their insurance policy? Distracting Jon from his family?

  The railway bells finally stopped ringing and Tara crossed the line, driving the short distance to Tingledale. The first time she and Jon had seen the old Federation house with its distinctive steep pitched roof, ornate fretwork and wide verandas, they’d fallen in love. The massive renovation they’d undertaken had only strengthened their affection and pride in their home.

  As she approached the turn-off, Jon’s muffled text tune played in her handbag. She almost pulled over to read it, but decided to savour the anticipation. Everything was in place for a magical afternoon. She was wearing her bathers under her clothes, and she’d set up snacks and cold drinks in the outdoor kitchen’s fridge. All she needed to do was hit the button on the spa then find Jon.

  She turned into the long drive and her buoyant mood flatlined. Her father-in-law’s car was parked behind Jon’s.

  Goddamn it, Ian! Why today?

  It wasn’t that she disliked Jon’s father—although his drinking bothered her—but they’d seen him on Thursday for the weekly roast. He was much easier to entertain when the children were home and she couldn’t fathom why he was here—he usually played bowls on Saturday afternoons.

  She parked and checked her phone. Dad’s here. Sorry. Raincheck xx

  Jon wanted a raincheck! Hope soared and Tara recalibrated her plans. She’d give Ian a cup of tea and a slice of fruitcake, cut a hunk for him to take home, then shuttle him out the door. That still gave her and Jon plenty of time before she had to collect the kids.

  Opening the car door, her ears were assaulted by the deep vroom of a two-stroke engine and the squeal of a saw against wood. Her heart sank—the combination of Ian and the chainsaw was the opposite of quick.

  She unlatched the side gate and walked down to the bottom of their large native garden, deafened by the noise. Jon was three-quarters of the way up the big gum, wearing a safety harness, a hard hat, safety goggles and ear protection. Ian, also wearing a hard hat, was gesticulating wildly and Chris Hegarty stood by his ute in the adjacent paddock, interest keen on his face.

  When Jon rested the saw, she called out, ‘Hi,’ trying hard to hide her annoyance.

  ‘Hello, love.’ Ian moved in for a quick kiss. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. Jon said you were in town for the afternoon.’

  She glanced up at her husband who was still wearing earmuffs. If he read the WTF question on her face, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he smiled and gave her a wave as if he was exactly where she’d expected to find him.

  A few weeks earlier they’d discussed lopping this limb off the widow-maker. As much as she loved river red gums, they were unpredictable, often dropping branches on deathly still days. She’d never forgive herself if it fell and killed someone, but Jon hadn’t mentioned taking it down today. Chagrin on Flynn’s behalf needled her—their son would have loved watching this.

  Jon pulled the ripcord on the chainsaw, the roar reducing hearing to impossible. Tara considered staying to watch, but the blokey atmosphere drove her inside.

  Ignoring the clean washing calling to be sorted and the overdue giftware order for the store, she picked up Anna Karenina. Flipping past twenty pages of introductory text, she mused on the first line about happy families being all the same but unhappy families being miserable each in their own way. She reassured herself that she and Jon weren’t miserable—they just needed time together to reconnect. Feeling reassured, she settled in to read about the Oblonsky family’s troubles.

  Eventually, it was the extended silence that roused her from the book and propelled her off the couch. She found the men gathered in the outdoor entertaining area, chatting, drinking beer and demolishing the platter of nibbles she’d prepared for her and Jon to enjoy from the sensual warmth of the spa.

  Jon crossed the deck, meeting her by the door. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Reading.’

  ‘Nice.’ His smile was warm and wide. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘I have to leave in ten to pick up the kids.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  Chris ambled over. ‘Shan’s picking them up. It’s the least we can do when you’re giving us that beautiful wood.’

  Chris crafted stunning furniture and back when it was still a hobby, Jon had commissioned him to make their bed as a surprise wedding present. Two years ago, one of Chris’s loveseats had won a Vivid design award and now furniture making was his career and his pieces were sought far beyond Boolanga.

  Tara thought of her heavily pregnant friend and wondered why Chris thought putting Shannon out was helping. ‘But it’s out of her way.’

  Chris’s smile faded to wary and he shot Jon a look. ‘Have I just put my foot in it?’

  ‘Nah, mate.’ Jon slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s all good.’

  Chris didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say anything more and walked back to Ian.

  Jon was grinning like a kid fighting to keep a secret. ‘Shan’s coming because I’ve invited the gang for dinner.’

  Tara stared at him, unable to form a coherent sentence as her mind grappled with the state of the house. The bathrooms needed wiping, the dishwasher was full of dirty dishes and the sink groaned with the overflow.

  She dropped her voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was up a tree when you got home,’ he said easily as if that explained everything.

  She almost asked, ‘Why, when we were supposed to be in the spa and bed all afternoon?’ Except, in her desperate desire to spice things up between them she hadn’t told Jon her plans. She’d wanted the element of surprise and to build the anticipation with the texts so it spilled into desire. Irritation dug in. Damn it! He’d told her he was going to mow the lawn.

  ‘Besides,’ he said reasonably, ‘if I’d told you before now, you wouldn’t have read and enjoyed a break from the kids.’

  ‘But now I have to do everything in less time!’

  ‘No, you don’t. I’ve got it sorted. I’ve pulled meat out of the freezer, there’s heaps of stuff in the garden to make a salad and I asked Rhianna to pick up a cheesecake. Too easy.’

  Too easy, my arse. Jon was the big-picture person and she looked after the minutiae, following behind with a brush and pan. She’d be organising crockery and cutlery, glassware and serviettes for the two courses, not to mention wrangling children high on sugary party food, while he held court at the barbecue.

  ‘And you’re making the salad, right?’

  Sheepishness replaced his brash confid
ence. ‘The bloody cockies shat on me and I need to grab a shower. Sorry.’

  Despite the bird poo, and the way dust stuck to his skin outlining the previous position of his goggles, his eyes sparkled at her. She saw her Jon, happy and relaxed, and her irritation faded.

  ‘I’ll make the salad.’

  ‘Thanks, T.’

  ‘But you owe me.’

  ‘Always.’ He brushed his lips on her cheek and his scent of freshly cut wood interspersed with sweat tickled her nostrils.

  Her hands pressed against the bulk of his arms, the muscles unyielding under the grip of her fingers. She breathed deeply, wishing their soon-to-arrive guests far far away. ‘Promise me it won’t be a late night.’

  Before Jon could answer, the toot of a horn broke the late afternoon air.

  ‘You don’t mind if Gerry comes for a drink, do you, Tar?’ Ian said.

  She hated the phrase ‘you don’t mind’ because it was never asked as a question—it was always delivered as a statement. Gerry wasn’t her favourite person, but she made the mistake of glancing at Jon whose expression said, please don’t rock the boat.

  Gerry was already walking through the gate, his obligatory slab of beer tucked under his arm. ‘You bastards started without me?’

  ‘G’day, Ger. You know Chris?’ Jon relieved Gerry of the beer and offered him a cold one from the fridge. ‘Get this into you. I’m just grabbing a shower. Tara and I will be back in a jiff.’

  Gerry’s grin morphed into a leer. ‘You can wash my back any time you like, Tara.’

  ‘In your dreams, old man,’ Jon said, echoing Tara’s thoughts and enveloping her hand inside his meaty one.