A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘Milo is.’

  ‘Only if Corey wants to be a father. Not every man does.’

  Jade’s thoughts drifted to her own father, before veering sharply away from her darkest fears about Corey. Both stirred up feelings she didn’t want to visit, so she zeroed in on something in Helen’s voice.

  ‘That sounds personal?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘I was married once. He said he wanted to be a father and we had a baby. After a few years he changed his mind.’

  ‘Did you ever meet someone else who loved you and your kid?’

  Helen pinched the bridge of her nose and breathed deeply. ‘I didn’t look for one, but this isn’t about me. This is about you and Corey. Has he ever done anything to prove he wants to be involved in Milo’s life?’

  Jade didn’t want to answer, because saying it out loud made it true and the truth terrified her. It meant there was no going back.

  ‘Men get more interested in their kids when they’re older,’ she said. ‘That’s when they do stuff with them.’

  ‘That sounds more like an excuse than a known fact. There are plenty of hands-on dads from day dot.’

  Not in my family. But the words stayed trapped.

  ‘I understand when you got pregnant, Corey didn’t reject you like your mother did. That he’s hung around when it suits him, and he may have even told you things you wanted to hear. None of it means he loves you or that he wants to be a dad. If you’ve been telling yourself that he loves you the only way he knows how, then ask yourself this. Is it enough?’

  Right then, Jade wanted to hate Helen for seeing into her head. For reading her thoughts.

  ‘He’s had it tough,’ she said.

  ‘And by the sounds of it, so have you. But you’re not giving Milo love and attention only when you feel like it. You’re showing up every day, no matter what, even when it’s bloody hard. You’re intelligent, funny, kind, loving and a good mum.’

  Jade wanted to bask in Helen’s words, but Charlene’s voice squealed like static in her head. You’re not only a lazy bitch, you’re a slut!

  ‘Are you softening me up to pay less rent?’

  Helen didn’t smile. ‘I mean every word. And remember, I’ve got the credentials to say it because I’ve known you for a while now and I live with you. You deserve better than the likes of Corey Noonan. But it won’t happen until you stop settling and start believing that you deserve better too.’

  Jade dropped her head, uncertain if she wanted to hear Helen’s opinion or not. ‘When Milo was born, we promised each other we’d do a better job than our parents.’

  ‘Being a father’s so much more than contributing DNA,’ Helen said. ‘It’s being around. It’s being involved. Does Corey ever put you and Milo first? Does he ask for and value your opinion? Does he know what’s important to you? Does he share your dreams for the future? Will he help you so you can get a qualification that takes you off Centrelink? Forget his words, Jade. Words are easy. Concentrate on his actions, because that’s where you find the truth.’

  Helen’s words stung like acid rain. There were too few moments when Corey acted like a father. He only ever touched her when he wanted sex and then it was all about his need to get off, never hers. Life with Corey didn’t come close to the life she’d imagined for them, but at least she didn’t have to explain why she had no money. Or why her mother had stolen from her and kicked her out. Or how her father didn’t give a rat’s about her. Corey’s family was just as useless.

  Sure, Lachlan’s dad wasn’t around, but the man had died—he hadn’t chosen to abandon his kid. And Lachlan had Bob and he was close to his mum. The nearest he’d ever come to poverty and day-to-day survival was reading about it in the paper. It put him and Jade on either side of an unbridgeable gulf.

  If her family and Corey, who were intimate with poverty, still managed to hurt her, there was no way Lachlan could avoid it. And in some deep dark place, she knew his hurt would be way worse, because hope was a bastard. It ate away at preservation, leaving her wide open to a surprise knife in her heart. And that terrified her.

  CHAPTER

  30

  ‘Helen! Sorry I haven’t got back to you.’ Vivian’s voice sounded strained. ‘It’s been a bit crazy here. The builder’s apprentice put a backhoe through my sewer pipe, the tiler miscalculated the order and I’ve got double the amount of imported Italian glass tiles I need, and the supplier won’t accept a return. It’s taken me years to save for this renovation and now it’s a nightmare!’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘Sorry, Helen. That was thoughtless—I shouldn’t be venting to you. My only excuse is your call came in straight after the tiler’s snafu. Are you settled in your new place?’

  ‘Yes, but I miss the cottage. I don’t suppose there are any plans to rewire it?’

  ‘I talked to Ross Barret from Parks about it. He told me that for the same money, he can put a new playground into Tranquillity Park.’

  Helen considered the old battered slide and swing set that were likely a tetanus risk, and how close Milo was to climbing on the play equipment. ‘That’s fair.’

  Vivian huffed. ‘I told him he was just building more hidey-holes for drug deals! That park is a disgrace and the police need to crack down on the illegal activities before we install a new playground.’

  Thinking about possible deals—legal or otherwise—Helen asked, ‘What do you know about the property developer Andrew Tucker?’

  ‘Handsy Andy? Other than he’s pally with Geoff Rayson, not much. Why?’

  ‘Handsy’ explained the distance between the women and Tucker in the photo.

  ‘He’s been in town a bit this year,’ Helen said.

  ‘Once. At the business awards. Cynthia, Messina and I didn’t want him there because the sleazebag can’t keep his hands to himself, but Geoff Rayson made a captain’s call.’

  ‘He’s been in town more than once. I’ve done a bit of digging and he attended the opening of duck shooting and the Mad Monday celebrations. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Duck shooting and football? Even if I hadn’t been on retreat in Bali, I avoid both.’

  ‘According to photos in The Standard, Aki, Don and Craig were at both events.’

  A tapping sound came down the line and Helen could picture Vivian thinking with her fingers on the steering wheel.

  ‘Really? What about Messina and Cynthia?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘There weren’t any photos of them.’

  ‘That sneaky bastard!’

  ‘Tucker or Rayson?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Both!’

  Helen paced under the shade of the oak. ‘I know you said council would never agree to a resort, but doesn’t this point towards it being a definite possibility?’

  ‘More than anything, I want you to be wrong,’ Vivian said slowly.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Geoff knows exactly how Messina, Cynthia and I feel about Tucker’s behaviour towards women. But it looks like he’s been inviting that weasel up here for events we avoid and giving Tucker carte blanche access to the voting block of male councillors. Christ!’

  A horn blared. Vivian swore and then there was silence.

  ‘Vivian? You okay?’

  ‘I’m ropeable.’

  ‘Maybe you should pull over.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking that between the rorting of tenders and now this Andrew Tucker connection, surely—’

  ‘Alleged rorting,’ Vivian said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For all of Geoff’s affable muppet persona, he’s a clever political animal. I’ve looked into it and Boolanga Signs got seventy per cent of the tenders and they were a mix of dollar amounts. It’s not enough to prove a rort.’

  Helen fumed, remembering Len’s nod and a wink when she asked for the garden sign quote. ‘At the risk of you accusing me of drinking the Kool Aid, what if the cottage’s wiring is just an excuse to kick me out? Is the community g
arden next? What if the mayor’s quietly freeing up the land in preparation for sale?’

  ‘I know you’re visualising the land around the cottage as the bridge between the community garden and the old farm, but they’re on different titles and a public road runs between the two. Before it can be sold or leased as a resort, they’d have to do some legal legwork and build another road.’

  ‘So I am being paranoid?’

  ‘No, I’m starting to think that you might be onto something. Now the cottage is vacant and derelict, Geoff can raise a motion to consolidate the titles.’ Vivian barked a laugh that hurt Helen’s ear. ‘That scheming prick. I didn’t think he had it in him, but it’s the perfect “look over there” ruse.’

  ‘I knew the cottage wasn’t derelict!’ The significance rolled Helen’s stomach. ‘God, that probably means he’s paying off someone in Engineering and in Parks.’

  ‘Or Tucker is. If he’s schmoozing the other councillors with Geoff’s blessing, any one of them can bring a proposal to the table. That takes the spotlight off the mayor, but either way, it comes with the absolute security of a win.’ Vivian sighed. ‘You know what this means?’

  Helen had no idea. She was starting to feel like she was in the middle of a TV show about local government. ‘A protest meeting?’

  ‘Not without concrete proof. It would show our hand far too early. If those men get a bare hint we’re onto them, they’ll rush a vote and then we’re screwed. No, we need real information from the man himself.’

  ‘Geoff Rayson?’

  ‘Handsy Andy Tucker.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll brief Messina and Cynthia. We’ll set up a meeting and bring the conversation around to Riverfarm.’

  ‘But if he’s never approached you and he’s already got the votes he needs, why would he even take a meeting?’

  ‘Two reasons. Votes are never a sure thing until they’re cast, so if he thinks we’re interested, he’ll want to court us.’

  ‘And the other reason?’

  ‘Men’s egos are always their downfall, and rich men like to brag.’

  Helen had no experience with rich men. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch when I’ve got something to report back,’ Vivian said. ‘Meanwhile, keep me posted. Unity, Helen! The only way to fight this is to stick together.’

  ‘Do you think she changed her mind?’ Jon said. He was staring out the bay window towards the orange-brick house.

  ‘I hardly know her,’ Tara said, ‘but I feel she’s the type of person who’d text or call if she wasn’t coming. Besides, she’s not all that late.’

  They’d decided it was best to talk to Fiza first before offering Amal a job, so had invited her to Tingledale.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve got cricket training,’ Jon said.

  Tara hesitated, caught on the horns of a dilemma. As much as she wanted Jon to socialise, if Fiza didn’t arrive soon it meant she’d have to talk to the woman on her own. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do it, but there was something about Fiza that always made her feel she was failing in some way.

  ‘Unless you want me here?’ Jon asked when she didn’t respond.

  ‘No!’ He cocked his head at her emphatic tone. ‘I mean, it’s more important you go to cricket than be here. But if Fiza agrees, you should be the one to offer Amal the job.’

  ‘Too easy. The other day when Flynn dragged him over for more trampolining lessons, we got talking and he asked me to show him how to bowl.’ He checked his watch. ‘Talking cricket, I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘You go.’ The doorbell pealed.

  ‘Thanks.’ Jon kissed her. ‘I’ll explain on my way out.’

  Flynn and Clementine thundered down the stairs, enticed by the sound of the doorbell. Their faces lit up when they saw Fiza and fell when they realised she was on her own.

  Jon apologised, kissed Tara and the kids goodbye, then disappeared, leaving Tara alone with disappointed children and a confused guest.

  ‘Sorry I am late,’ Fiza said. ‘I was delayed by an emergency at work.’

  ‘Can we go next door and play with Sammy and Leila?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Mummy, look at Fiza’s hair!’

  ‘Clementine!’ Tara scolded, utterly horrified. ‘Don’t be so rude.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It is okay, Clementine,’ Fiza said. ‘It has surprised many people.’

  ‘Mummy, can I have my hair in lots of little plaits like that?’

  ‘Can we go next door?’ Flynn repeated.

  Tara’s head pounded. ‘I have something important to talk to Fiza about so please go back upstairs and we’ll discuss visiting and hair later.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go.’ She pointed to the stairs. ‘Or there won’t be any discussion at all.’

  The children bolted and she turned back to Fiza. ‘Sorry about that. Please come in.’

  Fiza shrugged. ‘I saw your face. Clementine said what you probably wanted to say.’

  As always, Tara found her directness disconcerting. ‘My mother taught me that thinking something and saying it out loud are very different things.’

  ‘I was taught the same, but it does not stop people.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Tara thought about the horrifying stories people didn’t censor when they learned about Jon having Parkinson’s. Did they really think her knowing about their incontinent father or demented mother was helpful to her?

  Fiza followed her into the lounge room and accepted a glass of soda water with lemon. Tara sat across from her and got a sudden urge to explain her reaction to her hair.

  ‘For the record, I got a shock seeing your hair. Not because I don’t like it, but because I’ve never seen it before. I didn’t think Muslim women were allowed to show their hair in public.’

  ‘Just like Christians, some Muslims are more religious than others. Many things are as much a part of culture as they are religious.’

  ‘Like Christmas and Easter?’

  ‘Yes. I choose to cover my hair during Ramadan.’

  Tara didn’t know much about Ramadan. She thought it was a bit like Lent, only instead of giving up chocolate or wine, people fasted from dawn and ate at sunset. ‘Wasn’t that earlier in the year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tara waited for Fiza to explain why she’d been covering her hair recently, but the woman sat straight-backed and silent, her hair swept elegantly around her head in an impressive braid bun.

  Fascinated, Tara asked, ‘Does it take long?’

  ‘To box braid? Yes, a very long time. First I drive to Shepparton. Then five hours in the chair.’

  ‘Five hours! I … Does …’ Tara swallowed and tried again. ‘Is that all your natural hair?’

  ‘Once it was, but long hair was too hard in the camp. Now I use hair extensions.’

  The camp. Fiza said it so casually, as if it was no different from her time living in Melbourne.

  ‘Why were you in a refugee camp?’

  ‘My country has been at war for a long time.’

  ‘But isn’t Sudan a Muslim country?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So you were safe?’

  Fiza shook her head. ‘War does not care if you are a good or bad person. It does not care for people, only for its cause. My husband and I got caught in the middle of a civil war. I was born in the north and he in the south.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘Idriss. He taught at the university in Khartoum. For a long time we were safe, but when South Sudan gained independence, my husband was declared stateless. A foreigner. So was Amal.’

  ‘But if you’re from the north, doesn’t that make Amal from there too?’

  ‘The law there says mothers do not have the right to pass on citizenship. This means for all his life, Amal would not be able to get an education or a job. It meant my husband lost his job. They accused him of speaking out against the government and suppor
ting rebel groups. All of it was lies, but in war, no one bothers to check the facts. They sent Idriss to prison for three months. During that time, whenever I left the house, I was followed. Once I was accused of public indecency for wearing trousers. The police whipped me on the street.’

  Tara’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘That’s terrible.’

  Fiza shrugged. ‘At the time I thought so too. Now I know there are many worse things.’

  A chill ran across Tara’s skin. ‘You don’t have to talk about it if it upsets you.’

  Fiza sat a little straighter. ‘If you want to hear it, I want to tell you. Most people are not interested to know. They see the colour of my skin and the scarf on my head and they tell me to go back to where I come from. And if I could, I would. I love my country. I did not choose to leave my home, but it was leave it or die. What would you do to protect your family?’

  Tara thought about how a war had displaced Fiza and how Parkinson’s had displaced her and Jon from the life they’d always known and taken for granted. How she was always googling ‘new therapies for Parkinson’s’ and looking for ways to change their situation.

  But apparently Fiza wasn’t expecting a reply because she kept talking. ‘My husband had been home for six months and I was pregnant with the twins. We were selling my jewellery bit by bit, saving our money so we could leave with more than just the clothes on our backs. I wanted so badly to visit my father and the village to say goodbye, but I did not dare. I did not want to be the cause of the village being burned.’

  She took a sip of water. ‘A week before we planned to leave, the police arrived at our door in the middle of the night. Idriss made me promise that whatever happened, I would take Amal and run. I had just hidden our papers and money in my thoub when they banged down the door. Perhaps because I was pregnant or because Amal was clutching me tightly, but they did not touch me. They beat Idriss to stillness. When they dragged him away, he did not move. If he was still alive then, prison is no place to recover. I never saw him again.’

  Tara tasted the bitterness of acid and closed her eyes against the unimaginable.

  Look after your husband. He needs you. Fiza’s words, which she’d interpreted as a command, now sounded like a lament.