A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Vivian looked up the hill and shaded her eyes. ‘Who’s that?’

  Helen instantly recognised the gait of the man who was fast approaching. ‘Bob Murphy.’

  ‘Name’s familiar.’

  ‘He’s a retired farmer, widower, member of the garden and a chronic helper.’

  ‘He’s got the grazier look.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Polished RMs, moleskins, checked shirt, Akubra hat. Any money?’

  For some reason, the question grated. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘It’s always worth knowing that sort of thing.’

  Bob lifted his hat. ‘Morning, ladies.’

  Helen did the introductions and Vivian asked Bob where in the district he’d farmed. At his reply, she said, ‘So you know Beckley Downs?’

  Bob nodded. ‘The Inchleys were our northern neighbours for thirty years.’

  ‘Then we must have met at one of Gus’s Nats’ fundraisers.’

  ‘Gus loves a party.’ Bob turned to Helen. ‘I picked up your mail on my way past.’ He handed her an envelope printed with the shire’s logo.

  She thought about her normally empty letterbox. ‘I never get mail.’

  ‘Then I guess today’s your lucky day.’

  All Helen’s correspondence with the shire was done by email so she had no idea what this could be about. While Bob answered another of Vivian’s questions, she ran her thumb under the seal and pulled out the letter.

  Dear Mrs Demetriou,

  In regard to the recent house inspection of 17 Riverfarm Road, Boolanga: unfortunately the cottage has deteriorated over the last twelve months to the point where its condition is now considered hazardous. For your own safety, you are advised to vacate the property within seven days.

  The past rose up like a spectre before Helen, laughed, then slapped her hard.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Bob asked, his blue gaze watching intently.

  ‘No.’ She pushed the letter at him with shaking hands. ‘I’m being kicked out of the cottage.’

  ‘What?!’ Vivian plucked the letter out of Bob’s hand before he could read it.

  ‘It says the cottage is uninhabitable. It’s in better condition than when I moved in!’

  ‘This is outrageous,’ Vivian said. ‘Especially the paragraph about your caretaker role.’

  ‘What?’ Helen’s panic swam to the surface. ‘I didn’t read past vacate the property within seven days.’

  Vivian’s fuchsia nail pointed to the third paragraph. ‘It says there’s no longer a need for a caretaker and funds are being redirected.’

  ‘But that’s crazy! Especially given the vandalism. It would have been worse if I hadn’t interrupted them.’ Helen’s mind raced. ‘Shouldn’t something like this be discussed at a council meeting?’

  ‘Exactly. Mind you, every department’s been asked to find areas where costs can be cut, but this looks like someone in Parks has gone overboard.’

  ‘It has to be a misunderstanding. I’ll go and talk to—who signed the letter? Linda?’ Helen asked.

  Vivian checked the page. ‘Elise Toonie.’

  ‘I’ve never dealt with her. Who is she?’

  ‘Not the person to yell at. She’s too far down the food chain.’ Vivian tucked the letter in her handbag. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll do some sniffing about, find out who the moron is behind it and get it sorted. Meanwhile, promise me you won’t worry. Remember, the people who count know you’re far too valuable an asset to lose.’

  Relief steadied Helen. ‘Thanks, Vivian.’

  ‘Any time. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something. Nice to meet you, Bob. Let’s have coffee soon.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Bob said genially.

  As they watched Vivian walk towards the gate, Helen couldn’t stop herself. ‘You and Vivian met over conservative politics?’

  ‘I’ve never met her before in my life.’

  ‘But you just agreed to coffee.’

  ‘She’s convinced we’ve met. Seemed rude to correct her.’

  Helen snorted at his default to manners. ‘You sure you’re not losing your memory?’

  He jammed his hat back on his head looking decidedly—and unusually—grumpy. ‘You don’t believe in stroking a bloke’s ego, do you?’

  Something about the way he said it made her revisit what Vivian had said to her about Geoff Rayson. ‘Apparently, it’s an area where I could improve. In that vein, why are you looking like you stepped out of an RM catalogue?’

  A teasing smile crinkled his face. ‘You think I look like a model, eh?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they’re a lot younger.’ But unsettling warmth was dancing deep in her belly, trying to fan faded memories of desire. ‘Why are you so dressed up?’

  ‘Whose memory is in question now? It’s the excursion to the Australian Botanic Gardens in Shep.’

  ‘What? Tell me you’re not going on that!’

  He shrugged as if it was no big deal. ‘I paid for it before all the brouhaha. Besides, you’re always on at me about not wasting money so—’

  ‘This isn’t funny. You do realise Judith’s probably behind me losing the caretaker’s job?’

  ‘Come on, Helen. Judith might like to think she wields power in the garden, but as we’ve proven, it doesn’t extend much past the cyclone fence.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Well, I am. Just like I’m sure I’m not a traitor to the cause.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘I’m a spy.’ He shot her a wink. ‘I plan to sit up the back of the bus and look like I’m asleep. That’s when you hear all the best gossip.’

  Her laugh surprised her, lightening the tension that had gripped her since she’d read the word vacate. ‘I’m holding you to that, Agent 86.’

  ‘Good one, 99. I’ll report in as soon as I step off the bus.’

  ‘Jade!’

  It was Lachlan, pushing a wheelbarrow towards her, his work shirt creased and stained with what looked like tomato sauce. Jade immediately felt better about her own clothes and the dribble patch Milo had left on her shoulder. Not that she should care about her appearance for Lachlan.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, squirt.’ Lachlan held up his hand to Milo who swatted at it with his dimpled fingers. ‘Did you just wake up?’

  Milo buried his head in Jade’s shoulder, suddenly shy. When Lachlan didn’t say anything, Milo lifted his head, said ‘Boo!’ and laughed before hiding again.

  Jade stared. ‘Did he just say boo?’

  ‘Sounded like it.’ Lachlan grinned. ‘I was playing peek-a-boo with him at your party.’

  Nothing about Lachlan looked embarrassed that he’d just admitted to playing with a baby. ‘Peek-a-boo?’

  ‘You don’t know it?’ When she shook her head, Lachlan covered his eyes with his hand and said, ‘Milo. Ahhhh, boo!’ He dropped his hand. Milo squealed.

  Disbelief clung to Jade’s delight. ‘He’s playing with you. That’s awesome.’

  ‘I’m a sucker for a baby.’

  ‘You can hold him if you want.’ She thrust Milo at him, glad to give her back and hips a break from his weight.

  Lachlan hoisted Milo up on his shoulders, then pointed to the plants in the wheelbarrow. ‘Uncle Bob told me about the morons who wrecked your garden. I was grabbing a pie from the nursery café when I saw these. There’s just enough time to get them established before the summer heat hits.’

  ‘You bought me zinnias and alstroemerias?’ She lurched between stunned surprise at Lachlan’s thoughtfulness, and anger and regret that it wasn’t Corey playing with Milo and being kind.

  ‘I guessed at what you like, so don’t feel you have to keep them. I get it. Flowers are personal. Emotional too.’

  Emotional? Jade was wrestling with her own swinging emotions. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lilacs make my grandmother happy, because when my grandfather proposed to her, he gave her a bu
nch. Dad loved roses. He grew over a hundred and fifty of them and between September and May there were always blooms in the house.’ He grimaced. ‘When Dad died, Mum suddenly hated roses. She’d burst into tears whenever she saw them. She asked me to dig them up and I did it, but I cried the whole time. It felt like Dad was dying all over again.’

  ‘Sorry.’ God, that sounded so lame.

  ‘Thanks.’

  A heavy silence settled between them so she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I wonder what flowers did to Helen? She hates all of them.’

  ‘Apparently, there’s some ancient language of flowers—’

  ‘Floriography.’

  Jade immediately sucked in a breath, realising she’d just shown him up. He’d get snarky like Corey and she braced herself.

  ‘Floriography?’ Lachlan said it as if trying the word on for size. ‘Wow, thanks. I didn’t realise it had a name.’

  Her breath released on a stunned whoosh of relief. ‘No worries. According to Wikipedia, it started in Turkey during the Ottoman Empire—apparently, they were obsessed by tulips. But it was the wacky Victorians who went mental with it. They wrote dictionaries for the meanings of each flower and they used flowers to send coded messages.’

  ‘You’d want to hope your lover had the same dictionary.’

  Jade laughed. ‘Right. If a woman got white roses, they could either mean innocence and purity or piss off, we’re over.’

  ‘What flowers do you like?’

  She smiled. ‘I haven’t met one I didn’t like.’

  Confusion tangled in his moss-green eyes. ‘So you do want the zinnias and the alstroemerias?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She bit her lip and forced herself to apologise. ‘Sorry I sounded ungrateful. It’s just you surprised me. I don’t do so great with surprises.’

  ‘Too many bad ones?’ Although his tone was light, his gaze was intense.

  She shifted uncomfortably, busying herself with the plants. ‘Did you bring some of that worm poo to give these a kickstart?’

  ‘Sure did. I reckon I should talk to my boss about making a donation to the whole garden and getting a sign like Hoopers.’

  ‘Fiza would give you a recommendation. Actually, can you give her some more? She’s moved out of Serenity Street and planted maize at her new place.’

  ‘Too easy. How was she when she saw the damage?’

  ‘Pretty cut up. It didn’t help that the coppers wanted to talk to Amal even though he had an alibi and was nowhere near Tranquillity.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense. If they suspect it was kids from the park, why didn’t they talk to them?’

  ‘They don’t work that way. They prefer people to rat on their mates first, then they talk to them.’

  Lachlan gave her a sideways look and she realised he’d probably never talked to the police outside of a random breath test. She didn’t want him to know that the police had always drifted in and out of her life.

  ‘That’s what happens on the TV anyway.’

  Lachlan laughed. ‘Big fan of crime drama, are you?’

  ‘I prefer documentaries and history stuff. And reading. I love reading. There’s always something to learn. What do you like?’

  ‘Now I know you’re an intellectual, I’m not sure I should tell you.’

  She snorted at his comment, but was secretly pleased. ‘I’m not an intellectual. I haven’t even been to uni.’

  ‘I went to uni with a bunch of blokes whose biggest aim was to write themselves off every weekend.’

  ‘But you went.’ It surprised her how much that hurt.

  ‘You can go too,’ he said quietly.

  She jerked her head towards Milo. ‘You forgetting someone?’

  ‘Nope. My mum studied social work when I was a kid. I remember how proud Dad, my sister and I were when she got her degree. When she crossed the stage in her cap and gown, we stood up and cheered.’

  Jade tried to picture Corey and Milo doing the same thing, but the image wouldn’t come. It was hard enough to imagine herself at uni, let alone graduating.

  ‘What would you study if you had the chance?’ Lachlan asked.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘What are your two favourite things?’

  ‘Books and flowers.’

  He rubbed his jaw. ‘What about a florist who sells books?’

  ‘You been smoking the wacky baccy.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with dreaming, Jade. That’s where the best ideas come from.’

  Was it? Jade let her mind wander to flowers and books. Different baskets of flowers for each genre of books. Roses for romance—that was easy. Waratahs, bottlebrush and kangaroo paws for Australian fiction. What was the flower for crime?

  ‘You’re thinking about it,’ Lachlan said.

  ‘No.’ Then she noticed he was holding Milo out to her.

  Lachlan wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s a bit whiffy. I think he’s done a dump. And I better get back to work or the boss will have my guts for garters.’

  Jade’s daydream fractured, turning opaque like glass and blurring the view. This was why she tried not to dream—it always left her feeling agitated and diminished. And who was she kidding? She could barely pay her rent let alone start a business. She needed a job before she needed a degree.

  She lifted Milo into her arms and the dream vanished completely. She was the only person who changed his nappies. She was the only person who loved him enough to stay.

  No one loves you enough to stay.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Helen was trying her best to get on with her day, but her concentration strayed on every task. The word eviction beat in her veins like the call of a drum.

  She waved to Fran at the library desk before logging on to computer three and checking the Facebook page. There were another two hundred likes and lots of comments about the importance of transparency in local government.

  Keep the bastards honest!

  Community land belongs to the community.

  Councillors don’t give a sh*t about anyone. They’re only in it for themselves.

  Riverfarm is Yorta Yorta land.

  No Chinese.

  Keep Australia Australian. Send the buggers back!

  Helen rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to fend off a headache. Why did people go off on tangents? She deleted the racist comments and started a post to keep the followers focused.

  Boolanga has a long history of caring for all of its community.

  Her fingers stalled. The Yorta Yorta would dispute that. So would some of the refugees. She pressed the backspace button and started again.

  Having a home is a basic human right, but each night in Boolanga up to twenty people sleep rough, many of them women. Are you shocked? You should be.

  Anxiety hovered—she might soon be adding to the statistics. She tried to banish it by concentrating on uploading photos of the river, the garden and a picture of a similar housing project on the New South Wales central coast. She hit post, logged out and turned her attention to The Standard.

  African youths strike again. No longer content with graffiti, they’ve turned their attention to destroying the pride and joy of Boolanga’s seniors: their garden plots. Judith Sainsbury, president of the community garden, said, ‘How dare they come to Boolanga and terrorise our way of life. The garden has always been a safe haven and now it’s been desecrated. We no longer feel safe in our beds.’

  Helen’s temples throbbed so hard she thought she’d burst a blood vessel. Judith had actively worked against the women’s garden but now, when it suited her racist rhetoric, she was claiming it as part of the community garden.

  She forced herself to keep reading.

  Police are interviewing the usual suspects. Charges are yet to be laid.

  Of course they were yet to be laid! Corey had scarpered, and for all the talk in town about an African gang on the loose, the police didn’t seem able to make any charges stick.

  Helen’s anger at the
police’s insistence on talking to Amal still simmered. Of course the boy had denied all knowledge of the incident—he had a cast-iron alibi. Although his manner had been respectful during the interview, the burn in his eyes and the jut of his jaw showed his outrage. Helen couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned to the police station.

  When she’d mentioned racial profiling to Sergeant North, he’d pointed out the two Anglo kids waiting to be questioned. As Jade had greeted them by name when she’d arrived at the station, Helen assumed they were from Serenity Street. That was a perfect example of geographic and socio-economic profiling, and another reason she’d hidden her past when she’d started over in Boolanga. If the local police knew she’d been homeless, she’d be targeted for ‘chats’ regarding any and all petty misdemeanours.

  She brought up a new email and typed in: editor@Boolangastandard.com.au.

  As the caretaker of the community garden

  Her fingers paused. Could she say that? Yes. She’d been the caretaker at the time of the event. Her fingers tapped again.

  I would like to address some inaccuracies in the 9/10 report of the damage the garden sustained. The damage occurred in the new extension, which, unlike the original community garden, is not protected by a high fence. One flower garden was badly damaged and two other beds sustained minor damage. This is hardly an attack on our way of life. I’d be far more concerned about the lack of rain and the impact that’s having on our food production than one garden bed being wrecked.

  She added her name and address and hit send.

  On her way home, Helen dropped into Boolanga Signs and asked for a quote to have the shire’s logo added to the sponsorship sign. The figure Len came up with astonished her.

  ‘Good God. How can it possibly cost that much?’

  Len’s chest puffed out. ‘I can’t just paint it on.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘With our heat, it’ll peel off in no time.’

  Helen thought it peeling off fast might be a good option.

  Len pointed to a sign on the wall. ‘Something like that will do the job and last for years.’