by Fiona Lowe
Fiza’s smile returned. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Is that chook poo?’ Jade peered into the bag. She’d read it was loaded with nitrogen so it was good for the garden.
‘Better! Worm castings. They’re full of bacteria and fungi, protozoa and nematodes.’
Fiza’s brow furrowed. ‘I am a nurse. This is good bacteria like inside us?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’ Lachlan’s face lit up with enthusiasm and his hands moved as he talked. ‘It converts the inorganic forms of nutrients in the soil to organic ones so the plants can use them. It means stronger plants, so they’re more resistant to disease. We’re getting good results with all sorts of crops so it’s worth a shot with your maize.’
‘So I just dig it into the soil?’
‘Yep. And I’d keep the tent over them until the seedlings have doubled in size and they’ve lost their yellow tinge.’
Jade thought he was expecting a lot from worm poo. ‘You sound confident.’
‘It’s good stuff.’
‘What if it doesn’t work?’
‘Steady. No negativity around the plants.’ But his face crinkled in a smile.
Jade snorted. ‘Fiza, you better sing some African songs to your maize. You know, trick them into thinking they’re in Sudan.’
‘A wimohweh, a wimohweh …’ Lachlan broke into ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’.
Embarrassment for him filled Jade. ‘I thought you didn’t want to traumatise the plants.’
He laughed, but didn’t look embarrassed or pissed off. ‘It’s that or “Circle of Life”. I could ask the choir to come down. We sang “Ipharadisi” last year, although I think it’s a South African freedom song.’
‘Ipharadisi is Paradise in Zulu,’ Fiza said.
‘A long way from Sudan, right?’
Jade was gaping at Lachlan. ‘You’re in a choir?’
‘Yeah. The Boolanga Blokes. It’s a bit of fun and we raise some money for local charities.’ He swung his attention back to Fiza. ‘Do you need a hand spreading the pellets?’
‘You are very kind, but I would like to do this myself.’
Jade would have let Lachlan help. ‘Why?’
‘For my father,’ Fiza said quietly.
Jade’s gut squirmed. She had learned by sixteen that trying to impress her father wasn’t worth it. When she was thirteen, she’d won the essay prize at school and had wanted her father to know. Wanted him to be proud of her. She’d sent an email to the address Charlene had on her phone, but he’d never replied. For three years she sent him her high school reports, and then one Christmas he sent her ten bucks and a card saying You got your brains from me.
In year ten, Charlene had hassled her to work as many hours as she could, which meant less time for school. Jade’s marks had dropped and then her teachers—especially Mrs Kastrati—hassled her to work harder, but they were easier to ignore than Charlene. That report was the first one she didn’t send to her father. And he hadn’t asked about it, which had hurt more than the teachers’ comments of a disappointing year and needs to apply herself to reach her full potential.
The last time she sent her father anything was when Milo was born. The email had bounced and the text message said undeliverable. At least having no way of contacting him saved her from more disappointment when he turned out to be as useless a grandfather as a father.
‘Fair enough, Fiza,’ Lachlan was saying. ‘I get it—it’s your project. But if you don’t mind, I’ll keep an eye on them. I reckon by this time next week we’ll have much happier plants.’
‘I hope so,’ Fiza said.
‘Catch you later,’ Jade told her, and turned the pram down the hill. Lachlan fell into step beside her.
‘Your peas sprouted?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Should be soon, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
Say something else. But all her words seemed to have fallen out of her head. All she could think about was the fact her T-shirt was smeared in dirt and she hadn’t washed her hair.
So? You’re not trying to impress him. The thought unsettled her and she suddenly wanted to leave.
‘I have to go.’
‘To Helen’s meeting?’
‘Yes,’ she said distractedly, not aware they’d reached the cottage. ‘What?’
‘Hello, you two.’ Bob handed them some papers. ‘Thanks for coming. Helen’s got some examples but feel free to do it in your own words.’
‘What’s this?’ Jade scanned the paper. ‘You want me to write a letter about houses for old women?’
‘One day, God willing, you’ll be older, Jade.’
‘Yeah, but …’ She thought about how she struggled to pay her own rent. ‘What about affordable housing for single mothers?’
‘You’re right, that’s important too.’ Helen walked out of the cottage and set down a jug of water and some glasses. ‘But your Centrelink payment’s been indexed. The dole is the same as it was twenty-five years ago. It’s impossible for an unemployed single woman to afford the rent to live on her own, and when you’re over fifty-five it’s almost impossible to get a job.’
Jade put down the paper. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t get how a letter’s going to work.’
‘Unlike that filthy rag of a paper, we’ll tell the real story.’ Helen handed her a pen and paper. ‘You write it and I’ll post it.’
Jade laughed. ‘Snail mail? Who even does that? Email’s old school now. You should start a Facebook page.’
Bob nodded. ‘She’s got a point, Helen. All the pollies are on Twitter.’
‘What about an online petition?’ Lachlan said.
‘There’s nothing to petition yet. What I want is to correct the misinformation being peddled by Granski.’
‘Might be worth doing it both ways,’ Lachlan suggested. ‘If you start a Facebook page, I’m happy to invite the blokes at choir and the tennis club. Well, the ones with a social conscience anyway.’
Jade snuck a sideways glance at Lachlan. He was what, twenty-five? Definitely less than thirty anyway, a bloke and working in what Jade assumed was a good job. Why did he care about homeless women? He probably didn’t even know any. But he was offering to help Helen, who’d yelled at him and Bob the other day. Jade didn’t get it, but that didn’t stop a twist of envy that he had friends he could ask to help. The only person she knew who might be interested was Fran at the library and she wasn’t a friend.
‘I don’t even have Facebook,’ Helen was saying. ‘Or a smartphone.’
‘You don’t need a smartphone. I’ll set it up on your computer,’ Jade heard herself saying before fully thinking it through.
‘Good on you, Jade.’ Bob smiled encouragingly.
‘My laptop’s a dinosaur and I don’t have the internet,’ Helen said.
‘I’ll do it at the library.’
‘Just setting it up won’t be enough. You’ll need to show me how to work it too.’
‘I s’pose I can do that.’
‘Don’t put yourself out on my account.’
‘I won’t.’
Even though teaching a super-grumpy Helen would be a pain in the arse, it wasn’t enough to dent the rush of exhilaration spinning through her. For the first time, Jade knew more about something than Helen. It felt fantastic.
CHAPTER
16
‘Thanks for your help, but what if I’ve got it wrong?’ The young bloke’s hand rested on the box. ‘She’s fussy.’
Tara had just sold him a state-of-the-art mixer with ten attachments that made it everything from a food processer to an ice cream maker and a meat grinder.
‘Unless she wants a different colour, I think you’re safe. But keep the receipt. If she doesn’t like it, send her in and I’ll personally help her find exactly what she wants.’
When he’d walked away from the counter Tara eagerly checked her phone for a message from Zac about a possible afternoon run. Nothing. Her butterflies flatlined. She was staring at th
e screen, willing a text to appear, when the device vibrated in her hand, making her jump.
‘Tara Hooper.’
‘Tara, it’s Sam. Jon needs you at the store. Now!’
Tara bristled at the bookkeeper’s critical tone. ‘I’m here. I’ve been serving customers for the last hour.’
‘Come to the timber yard office immediately.’
Before Tara could ask why Jon had asked Samantha Murchison to call her instead of finding her himself, the line went dead. Was this a new low in their relationship?
Irritated, she exited through the garden section, marched to the portable office in the timber yard and tugged open the heavy door. A white-faced Jon sat on a chair with his head tipped back. Samantha’s face was almost as pale as his and her gloved fingertips pressed a wad of bloodied gauze against his forehead.
‘Oh, God!’ Love for Jon surged to the surface, trouncing Tara’s frustrations.
‘Here.’ Samantha stepped away smartly. ‘I don’t do blood.’
As soon as she moved her hand, blood gushed down Jon’s forehead, dripping off his eyebrow and onto his thigh. The sight pierced Tara’s shock and she darted forward, snapping on a pair of gloves from the open first-aid kit. Jon flinched at the pressure of her fingers on the gauze.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Some moron didn’t stack the F-seventeen properly. I came around the corner and slammed straight into it.’
‘Did you black out?’
‘Don’t think so.’
Tara eased the gauze away, trying to estimate the depth of the wound before the blood squirted like a geyser, obscuring everything. She just had enough time to glimpse jagged skin edges and a flash of white before blood pooled again.
‘You need stitches.’
The fact Jon didn’t argue worried her.
He was unsteady on his feet and needed her help walking to the car. Although she was strong, she was slight and his height and weight threatened to knock her off balance.
During the short drive he was unusually quiet and each time his eyes fluttered closed she panicked he’d blacked out. She kept up a line of patter trying to keep him awake.
‘At least your timing was perfect. Any earlier and I might not have sold the eight-hundred-dollar mixer.’
He didn’t even manage a smile.
Their doctor was on holidays and the locum, like so many doctors in the country, had a heavy accent that was challenging to understand. But he asked all the important questions and sewed like a tailor so Tara relaxed.
Despite the chasm of coolness stretching between them, here in the treatment room it seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip her hand into Jon’s. He didn’t object. In fact his thumb moved jerkily back and forth, caressing her skin while the doctor stitched his scalp. It was as close as they’d been in months and she blinked fast to stop tears from falling.
When the doctor left to get the tetanus injection, Jon squeezed her hand. ‘Sorry.’
‘This isn’t your fault.’
‘No.’ A long breath shuddered out of him. ‘I love you, T.’
‘I love you too.’ She did, but recently he was hard to like.
His troubled gaze sought hers. ‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’
His need for reassurance dug in under the wobbly foundations of their current relationship. The problem was, she couldn’t tell if it was shoring them up or destabilising them.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. Zac. Familiar tingles swirled across her skin. Guilt chased them.
‘I want us to be okay, Jon. I really do.’
‘So do I.’
Did this mean he was prepared to do something about their sex life? ‘I want things to be like they used to be, don’t you?’
His expression smoothed into an unreadable mask. Her heart sank. Keep going. It’s too important to let this slide.
‘Ask the doctor about the drop in your sex drive.’
Horror streaked across his face. ‘No way!’
How could he ask her to confirm they were okay as a couple when clearly they hadn’t been for months, yet not want to do something about fixing their biggest problem? She knew he wouldn’t make an appointment off his own bat to discuss his erectile dysfunction and they’d just end up having another argument. Everything would be her fault. Again.
‘But you’re right here. Please.’
The doctor returned holding a syringe. After jabbing Jon in the arm and thrusting a page of printed instructions at Tara, he said, ‘Anything else today?’
‘All good,’ Jon said as Tara said, ‘Actually, yes.’
The doctor glanced between them, clearly confused. Jon’s previously impassive expression twisted into anger.
Tara looked away, holding her nerve as guilt bounced off frustration, neatly dodging anything connected to betrayal. If Jon truly loved her and wanted things to improve, this was the solution. If he couldn’t see that, she’d step up for them both and to hell with embarrassment. And, God! Why was he even embarrassed? Women had to expose their private parts for breast checks, pap tests and childbirth. Jon’s problem didn’t even need an examination.
She cleared her throat. ‘Recently, my husband’s had some trouble with …’ Sweat beaded on her forehead. This was harder than she thought. ‘Things in bed have been … We need a prescription for Viagra,’ she finished quickly.
Jon was breathing hard and he’d knotted his hands in his lap. The doctor stared at his shoes and Tara’s heart raced as hard as if she’d just sprinted a hundred metres. For a moment, taut silence stretched between the three of them, then the doctor tapped on his iPad. A printer across the room whirred into action.
Relief surged through Tara, justifying the excruciating encounter.
Jon heaved, the sound violent, and vomited onto the floor.
Tara bypassed the silk lingerie and pulled out an old pair of shortie cotton pyjamas that predated Flynn’s arrival. She thought she’d turned them into rags a long time ago but apparently they’d been missed in a regular clear-out. There was nothing sexy about them. She’d bought them specifically for a camping trip so she could walk to the toilet block without being arrested for indecent exposure. But they were cotton and soft—two things Jon had told her he missed.
Jon’s head had healed fast and his stitches were out. Neither of them had mentioned the Viagra. The prescription had sat for a week with the wound care instructions and the repeat prescription for antibiotics. Tara had crossed her fingers that Jon would take responsibility for it and get it filled, but as each day passed, hope shrivelled. Today she’d caved in, driven to Cobram and got it filled there.
She’d read the instructions—take the tablet between thirty minutes and four hours before intercourse. She’d been tempted to crush one into his dinner but the subterfuge went against the spirit of the endeavour to bring them closer together. So she’d left the packet and the instructions on the ensuite vanity so he’d see them when he took his after-work shower. It had almost killed her not asking him if he’d taken a pill, but his earlier words of ‘too much pressure’ silenced her. He’d shaved, which bolstered her hopes. So did the fact he was now cleaning his teeth instead of being downstairs watching TV or in bed asleep.
She heard the flush of the toilet and his call, ‘Bathroom’s yours.’
By the time she’d pulled on the pyjamas and finished brushing her hair, he was already in bed and reaching for his bedside lamp.
Panic skittered through her. ‘I won’t be long.’
She lifted the toilet lid and was turning to sit when something in the bottom of the bowl caught her eye. Leaning down, she noticed flecks of blue, except the blue toilet cleaner had run out and she was yet to replace it. Suspicion stung like a dart. Her foot hit the pedal on the bathroom bin; nestled under a discarded toothpaste tube and her make-up remover wipes were two empty silver pill foils.
Fury blew through her like a hot northerly, scorching everything in its path.
She stomped out of t
he bathroom and turned on the overhead lights. ‘You flushed them down the toilet?!’
Jon’s arm rose to shield his eyes. ‘I don’t need them.’
‘You do need them! We need them.’
He grunted and pulled the sheet over his head before rolling away from the light.
She sprinted across the room and hauled back the sheet. ‘No! You don’t get to do this. You told me you wanted us to be okay. Well, you caring about our sex life is part of us being okay.’
He sat up jerkily, his face thunderous. ‘And you caring about me is part of us being okay too. I told you I didn’t want those fucking pills but you ignored me. Do you have any idea what will happen if the club finds out about this?’
‘I’m not stupid! I went to Cobram.’
‘Oh, right. Like those fifty kays will protect our privacy. And great going, Tara. You chose the pharmacy where Kelly’s sister works.’
‘No. I deliberately went to the other one.’
‘Yeah, well, if you still went to lunch with the girls instead of bloody marathon training, Kelly would have told you that Belinda changed jobs last week.’
Tara’s heart pounded in a different way. ‘She wasn’t there.’
‘Doesn’t mean she won’t find out. I’ll never forgive you if this gets out.’
‘You’ll never forgive me?’ Her voice spiked on a shriek, all concerns of their privacy vanishing. ‘I’m the one trying to save our marriage. You’re the one making it all about you! I’m so angry right now, I can’t even look at you.’ She grabbed her pillow.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To sleep in the spare room.’
‘Oh, right. And that makes it so easy for us to have sex.’
‘You never want to have sex!’
‘That’s a gross exaggeration.’
‘Fine. Prove me wrong.’ She waved the foil packet at him. ‘You missed one. Take it now.’
‘I’m not having angry sex with you, Tara.’
‘You’ve got half an hour to calm down.’
He grabbed the packet. With shaking hands, he pressed the pill into his palm and swallowed it. ‘Happy?’
A desperate wave of sadness hit her, loosening her knees and depositing deep fatigue and resignation. She hadn’t been happy all year and one small blue pill wasn’t enough to fix her.
