A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  Who was she kidding? That was already a done deal.

  ‘If the shire’s not interested in doing it up, they should sell it to someone who is,’ she said. ‘They could jack it up and move it.’

  ‘I’d rather they didn’t.’

  ‘But it’s a piece of Boolanga’s history that’s fading away.’

  ‘And if they sold it, I’d have nowhere to live and I quite like it here.’ Helen smiled, softening her dry tone. ‘Don’t the garden beds look fantastic? I hope you can see how much your donations have helped. I thought it might be nice to take some photos with you and the women for our new Facebook page.’

  Tara took a steadying breath. ‘About that. We’ve got a bit of a problem.’

  Helen frowned. ‘We do?’

  ‘Yes. When you came to us and asked for donations, we didn’t know this was a refugee garden.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘It clearly is. Every one of those women out there is a refugee.’

  ‘That’s a pretty big statement. Jade’s not. How do you know these women aren’t here on skilled migrant visas?’

  ‘If they were, they’d be working not gardening.’

  ‘Fiza works. You can’t tell someone is a refugee just by looking at them. Believe me, you can get a very warped view of anyone with one quick glance.’

  You never get a second chance to make a first impression. The words rippled the pool of Tara’s beliefs instilled in her by her mother.

  ‘And Jade isn’t a single teenage mother?’ she asked.

  ‘She is a teenage mother, but not for long. Her birthday’s coming up. As for single, she may well have a partner. I don’t know because I haven’t asked her. It’s really none of our business.’

  The words were a rebuke, adding to Tara’s discomfort. But before she’d worked out how to respond, Helen was talking again.

  ‘Yes, these women arrived here with refugee status, but on their fourth anniversary they’ll be conferred with Australian citizenship. This garden is an extension of the community garden and everyone here is a member of our community.’

  ‘Judith says it’s nothing to do with the community garden. That it shouldn’t exist.’

  Helen’s shoulders squared. ‘Judith doesn’t want it to exist, but that’s irrelevant. We have written permission from the shire and Judith has the letter.’

  ‘Either way, you’ve put me in a very difficult position.’

  ‘I don’t see how. It’s not my fault Judith’s been in your ear.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the feud you and Judith have going on. I’m talking about the fact you have Africans gardening here.’

  ‘We currently have one delightful Sudanese family gardening here. And you would have known that if you’d accepted my invitation for a tour the first time we met. Are you saying if you’d known about Fiza, you wouldn’t have helped?’

  Agitation skittered, bumping into Tara’s discomfort at her own mistake. ‘I’m saying that African kids are breaking into our store and stealing. Imagine how I feel knowing our generosity’s helping the people causing us constant stress!’

  ‘Surely if you know who’s breaking into the store, they’ve been arrested by the police.’

  Tara’s arms crossed automatically as if warding off an attack. ‘They haven’t been caught yet. But they will be soon. We’ve installed CCTV. If my husband finds out about this, he’ll have a fit.’

  ‘Will he hurt you?’ Helen asked gently.

  ‘What? No! Of course not.’

  ‘So to avoid an argument about one Sudanese family who are gardening here and are probably not stealing from your store, you’re prepared to disadvantage twenty women who have just generously thanked you.’

  The words sprayed like shot, stinging and accusing. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

  ‘True, but this is your mistake, Tara. If you’d refused to help from the start, I would have been disappointed but I’d have accepted it. But you didn’t. Hoopers’ sponsorship is very much appreciated and will continue to be unless you withdraw it. I’m hoping you’ll take responsibility for your actions in a way that doesn’t prejudice innocent people …’

  It was as if her mother was using Helen to channel her beliefs from the grave. Own your mistakes, Tara. Learn from them.

  ‘… people who’ve already suffered more upheaval in their lives than you’re ever likely to experience.’

  Tara was fast getting sick of the privilege insult. ‘You have no idea what I’ve experienced.’

  ‘That’s quite true,’ Helen said evenly. ‘Just like you don’t know what I’ve experienced. But I’ll tell you one thing we have in common. Neither of us have been forced to flee the country we love and call home to save our lives or those of our children.’

  ‘I’m not racist. I’m not objecting to refugees per se. Just the ones who are breaking the law!’

  ‘No one should be breaking the law. How about this for an idea? Leave the sponsorship in place until you know exactly who is behind the store break-ins.’

  Tara wanted to argue with the logic, but it ran up against the way her mother had raised her and the lesson she was constantly teaching Flynn and Clemmie—be responsible.

  If she took back the stock, she’d have to tell Jon. They’d argue yet again about work, which would spin into the pit of despair that was their marriage. Then there was the issue of what she’d do with the used stock. Also, despite disliking Helen’s frank assessment of her, Tara felt there was something inherently honest about the woman. For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she didn’t want Judith winning this round in what was obviously a power battle between the two women.

  Her phone buzzed and Zac’s name lit up on the screen. Suddenly her decision was easy. After all, what was one more secret in the growing number between her and Jon.

  ‘Fine, but don’t mention the maize crop to Jon.’

  Helen smiled and shot out her hand. ‘Deal.’

  Noise barrelled through Tingledale—children shrieking, music blaring and numerous conversations tumbling over each other—the usual chaos that occurred when three families with young children got together. Ninety minutes into the evening, Tara was avoiding Rhianna as much as possible yet knowing exactly where she was in the house and who she was with. Added to that stress, she was biting her tongue and sitting on her hands so she didn’t pluck Kelly’s damn phone from her fingers and throw it in the pool.

  And then there was Jon. With a longneck in hand, eyes overly bright and cheeks flushed, he was leaning against the wall chatting to Chris. One leg jiggled and his left thumb constantly rolled over the tips of his fingers as if he was preparing to run away. Like so many things with Jon lately, it made little sense.

  Earlier in the evening, just before their guests arrived, he’d thanked her for organising the gang gathering in the exact same way he’d thanked her for coming to the staff meeting—polite and infuriatingly paternal. In fact the kiss he’d dropped onto her cheek was reminiscent of Ian’s greetings and farewells. It seemed that as long as she was a good little wife making no demands on him—sexual or otherwise—he was happy. It had taken most of her self-restraint not to scream and her thoughts had immediately strayed to Zac. It was taking all of her restraint not to convert her fantasies and her outrageous flirting into something tangible and real. With the way things were between her and Jon, was her restraint even worth the effort?

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Shannon asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Shannon’s gaze flicked between Tara and Jon. ‘Are things between you and Jon okay?’

  Tears of gratitude prickled her eyes at her friend’s perspicacity and her words rushed out on a roll of relief. ‘Things are—’

  The sudden tinkling sound of a spoon on glass silenced the room almost as fast as gunshot. Shannon muttered something about lousy timing and waddled over to stand next to her husband.

  Chris set down the glass and spoon and slid his arm around Shannon’s thick waist,
pulling her in close. ‘Seeing as I have your attention—’

  ‘Chris and his b-b-loody speeches,’ Jon slurred.

  The now-permanent knot in Tara’s gut tightened. Jesus, Jon! Drunk again? Was her husband an alcoholic? More horrifying was the realisation she lacked the energy to care.

  ‘You’re up against Tara’s trifle so get on with it,’ Al called.

  ‘First I want to thank Tar and Jonno for their constant and generous hospitality,’ Chris said. ‘It’s fitting that they’ve inadvertently thrown us a farewell party.’

  Farewell party? Tara glanced around the room, seeking confirmation of Chris’s words, but everyone’s faces were blank.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she said.

  Shannon held up Chris’s hand, her face a combination of pride and delight. ‘Chris has been offered a fellowship. Two years working and studying in New York. I’m being induced on Tuesday and the five of us leave in three weeks!’

  ‘I’m making a table and chairs for the Thadley family,’ Chris said. ‘They’re huge supporters of the arts in the city.’

  ‘The city?’ Jon pushed himself off the wall and, with a sloppy action, threw an arm over Chris’s shoulders. ‘L-listen to him. He s-sounds like a New Yorker w-wanker already.’

  Tara battled shock at the unexpected news and her fury at Jon’s drunkenness. She finally found her voice. ‘Oh my God! That’s amazing! Congratulations. What an opportunity!’

  She hugged Chris and Shannon. But not even her happiness for them could alter the reality that her best friend was leaving her alone with two women who judged her, and in a marriage with a barely beating pulse. Standing back and watching the others give their congratulations, loneliness tightened around Tara, caging her like a net. Her chest heaved and her legs twitched, fighting the sensation of being dragged fast towards a deep black hole.

  She knew the only way to avoid it and survive was to call Zac and run.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Helen wielded a highlighter on yet another article in The Standard that was against the housing project. Once again, the rag that declared itself the ‘voice of Boolanga’ was making tenuous links between Australian values and the town’s social problems.

  An ache burned under her ribs. She was still reeling from the revealing conversation with Tara Hooper. In the same breath, the woman had declared she wasn’t racist yet threatened to withdraw sponsorship of the garden. What devastated Helen the most was that the Hoopers were young. What hope did Boolanga have when its future leaders’ views were so entrenched?

  Where did this fear of anyone different come from? Why were young black men judged more harshly than their white counterparts? Two hundred years of white colonisation, Helen. Racism had arrived with the First Fleet.

  She poured her outrage into another letter to the editor.

  You write about this nebulous thing ‘Australian values’. Do we as a nation truly believe in values that exclude the homeless, the unemployed and people of colour? If we do, then those values you hold so dearly are the root cause of the social problems you say you don’t want in this town.

  After The Standard had published her earlier letters, Helen had received a dozen emails from people she didn’t know telling her in no uncertain terms that Boolanga needed progress not socialism. The milder ones said if she loved communism so much she should go and live in China. Others were so brutally offensive she’d reflexively hit the delete key, needing the horrifying words gone.

  This week, the emails had risen exponentially. Initially, she’d replied to the polite ones, offering up an alternative point of view in the hope of changing their minds. When it became obvious her replies encouraged more vitriolic responses, she’d stopped.

  How had these strangers even got her email address? The shire had strict privacy rules about sharing information, and the only other people who had her email address were Con and the members of the garden. None of them had any reason to give out her details.

  Judith and Sharon do.

  Did they hate the refugee women so much it prevented them from seeing the bigger picture?

  Helen’s phone rang and Vivian’s voice echoed down the line, sounding like she was speaking underwater. ‘Great letter in the paper again this week, Helen.’

  ‘Thanks, but not everyone’s in favour.’

  ‘You mean the five letters against that Granski printed? Remember I warned you that would happen.’

  ‘I’ve received some negative emails about the tiny houses. People can be pretty blunt.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Don’t let a few morons get you down. I’ve been in local politics for a decade and if it’s taught me anything, it’s the need to focus on the positives. Your point of view’s getting airplay and that’s what we need.’

  It was true. Despite the letters from Bob, Lachlan and Roxy—Cinta, Tracey, Agape and Sue hadn’t wanted to write—the paper had only printed Helen’s. The comment Jade wrote on The Standard’s Facebook page had been referenced in the print edition of Saturday’s paper, but it was buried in a forest of negative comments.

  Helen was glad Jade had set up a Facebook account for her, even if the process had been fraught with much sighing and arguing from them both. She was still embarrassed that Fran at the library had suggested next time they should book a meeting room if they were going to ‘engage in robust discussion’.

  ‘Robust discussion?’ Jade had looked blank. ‘We’re having a fight.’

  Fran smiled. ‘No, you’re disagreeing and debating your points of view. It’s only a fight if you put each other down. Why don’t you combine your opinions and make a banner you both like using Canva?’

  Helen had watched, genuinely impressed, as Jade took the artist’s impression of the village from Helen’s submission, then chose a photo of lush green spring vegetables in the garden, and used them to create the perfect banner for the Boolanga Needs A Sustainable Tiny Housing Village page. It was slowly gaining likes and Helen had posted the emails she’d written to The Standard on the page too.

  She was about to tell Vivian about the Facebook page when the deputy mayor said, ‘What did you think about the mayor’s press release on Riverfarm?’

  ‘Full of mixed messages. If he wanted to put out The Standard’s fire, it didn’t work.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m wondering if he wants to put it out. Since he bought Ainslea Park, he’s changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There was a brief silence as if Vivian was struggling to put her feelings into words. ‘Geoff was always keen to hear both sides of the story, but lately—’

  This time the silence was different. ‘You still there, Vivian?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I’m on Chinaman’s Creek Road. The reception’s a bit hit-and-miss.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything after “but lately”.’

  ‘I’m starting to wonder if Geoff’s more interested in the prestige and business opportunities being mayor offers him rather than the public service aspect.’

  ‘Do you think he leaked the tiny houses submission to The Standard?’

  ‘Maybe … I’d like … think that … want … staffer … Granski.’

  ‘What? You’re breaking up.’

  ‘Sor—’ The call died.

  ‘Damn it!’ Helen pressed the faded red button on her phone, then rubbed the spot under her sternum that burned each time she thought about the project’s future. A few weeks earlier they’d been so confident. Damn Geoff Rayson for doing a backflip.

  Prestige and business opportunities? She recalled Vivian’s comment the day The Standard leaked the submission—something about wealthy international horse-racing people. Today was the second time Vivian had implied Geoff was putting his own business interests ahead of the shire. It was time to do some digging.

  Helen walked to the library and did an internet search. Vivian was correct—it was public knowledge that a sheik from the UAE had visited Ainslea Park.

  She logged into her
Facebook account and brought up the page. Jade had told her that to ‘get traction’ she needed to add a photo to each post. Fortunately, Jade had taken plenty of the garden and the adjacent land. Helen chose a photo of Sally Atkins’s two old hacks grazing—not exactly racehorses but needs must—and started typing.

  Rumours are flying around Boolanga that the delegation from the UAE who visited Ainslea Park have their eyes on more than just horseflesh. Riverfarm has always been part of this community. Be far more concerned about foreign ownership than a community-based housing project.

  She checked her spelling and punctuation and hit send.

  Jade was on her way to the supermarket when her phone pinged. Corey! Hope and relief made her check it immediately. Her body cramped with disappointment. There was no text notification. No message saying I’ll be home on Milo’s birthday.

  ‘I think Daddy’s planning a surprise,’ she told Milo. But the words hung in the warm air like empty promises.

  Her phone continued pinging and it took her a second to work out what was going on. The device had automatically connected to the library’s wifi when she’d walked past and she was still in range.

  She opened the Facebook app. Holy shit. There were five hundred likes on the tiny housing page she’d set up for Helen. Yesterday when she’d checked, there’d been twenty-five—mostly friends of Bob and Lachlan. She scrolled down and saw Helen had posted something without her help. Pride shot through her that she’d taught Helen how to do it.

  There were heaps of comments on the post, but only three said they supported the housing project and they were from Lachlan, Bob and Fran at the library. The rest wrote about multinational companies and global cowboys raping Australia. There was a lot of swearing about overseas ownership of cultural icons and Jade thought they’d all missed the point of the post. Then she noticed the post had been shared twenty times, including by a right-wing page calling themselves Reclaim Australia.

  A new comment came through from Cohousing Australia offering their support. Jade clicked like and walked to the garden.