by Fiona Lowe
Jade’s heart twisted. I thought you were different. But of course he was leaving. Everyone left her.
‘That’s disappointing, Lach,’ Bob said. ‘Not like you to walk away from injustice.’
‘I’m going to the police station to make a statement.’
‘They’ll just tell you not to hang around with people like me,’ Jade said. ‘Oh, wait. You’re already doing that.’
He walked out the door without looking back.
You’re so stupid, Jade. She sucked in her lips, pressing them hard and trying not to cry.
Helen sighed, rose and unexpectedly wrapped her in a hug. Jade held herself back from the comfort on offer, waiting for the sting when Helen said, ‘I told you it would never work.’
Instead, Helen said, ‘Milo’s a star. He took three steps.’
‘What? He walked?’ Her excitement was instantly slammed with disappointment. ‘I m-missed it?’ The tears she’d valiantly held at bay spilled over.
Helen stroked her hair. ‘Bob and I made a fuss of him, and I can promise you he’ll do it again and again just to hear the claps. Life just changed, Jade. You’re the mother of a toddler. We need childproof locks for the kitchen cupboards and we’ll have to put everything dangerous or precious out of reach.’
‘Ladies,’ Bob said, ‘given the drive-bys, you should both move in here for a while.’
‘No way!’
Helen’s voice chimed in with Jade’s, and Jade hugged her. She didn’t care that Helen was probably saying no because she hated depending on anyone. She was just grateful Helen wasn’t leaving her.
CHAPTER
35
The Chamber of Commerce was planning a Christmas kick-off, having moved the traditional Santa parade from early December to mid-November.
‘It’s what they do in Melbourne,’ Jon told Tara when she’d complained the change meant bringing the summer casuals’ training forward. ‘It’s a good thing. It focuses everyone’s attention early that they need to buy gifts. We need to be fully stocked and fully staffed when the parade finishes and be cooking sausages and a shirt-load of onions to entice them into the store.’
‘The powerful aroma of hot fat?’
He grinned. ‘That’s the one. Works every time.’
‘Are you bumping a community group off the sausage sizzle roster?’
‘No. I gave Bob Murphy a call and worded him up for peak time. He’s going to have a table of produce from the community garden too. He’s raising funds for an outreach food van to feed the poor and homeless in the district.’
‘Do we have homeless people?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Have we been living in a different Boolanga?’ Tara said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t know there was a community garden. I’d never met a refugee. I had no idea the police harassed people, and now Boolanga’s got people who are homeless?’
‘You make it sound like we’ve been completely out of touch. We’ve always supported the community.’
‘We’ve supported the mainstream stuff like sport.’
He bristled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
The uncomfortable feeling that kept coming and going settled again in her chest. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. Before you got Parkinson’s, we’d vaguely heard of it, but we didn’t know anything about it because it didn’t affect us. Now it does and it’s making me notice things I’ve either been blind to or chose not to see.’
‘I think I know what you mean. When we installed the ramp at the store entrance we did it because we got audited and it’s the law. I didn’t give much thought to people with movement issues. Now I look at every business I enter with new eyes.’
The big day dawned clear and bright with no sign of any rain on the Christmas parade. The children had insisted Jon take them to see Santa and then to the carnival, probably because he was a softer touch for junk food and rides. Tara battled sadness that they couldn’t all go together and focused instead on making the store as festive as possible. She’d created targeted displays of gift ideas for him, her, them and kids. She’d put the casuals—Sabrina, Darcy and Amal—in charge of helium balloon inflation. Amal had suggested using some of the balloons to create a welcome arch.
As no staff members’ relatives had been impacted by Amal’s employment, Tara hadn’t heard any official disgruntled comments, although that didn’t mean there weren’t any. There’d been a tricky couple of weeks after she and Jon had told the staff about Jon’s illness and the changes in management style with Tara doing more, but once they’d been reassured their jobs were safe, they’d settled and been remarkably helpful. Tara wanted to believe this good will extended to Amal.
With the car park converted into a mini carnival and stage to entertain the parade crowd, there was a constant flow of customers through the store. Tara was troubleshooting and supporting the summer casuals as they found their feet.
A large man in a suit approached the counter clutching a wobbly tower of duct tape, rope, screws, a paintbrush and a punnet of lettuces. Sensing imminent disaster, Tara reached for the plant. ‘Let me help you with that—oh, Mr Mayor.’
‘Geoff,’ he said genially. ‘You’re Jon’s wife, aren’t you? I was just chatting to him and your delightful children. Presiding over the Christmas parade is one of my favourite mayoral duties.’
Tara grabbed an unexpected opportunity with both hands. ‘It’s a great idea to use the car park for the kids’ carnival. Of course, if it was lit, we could hold all sorts of festivals.’
He gave her a politician’s smile. ‘We’re trialling many initiatives. It’s an exciting time for Boolanga.’
Tara was about to press the point that four store break-ins weren’t exciting when she remembered the cottage. She’d been playing phone lotto with the shire, being passed from Parks and Gardens to Engineering to Municipal Resources and back again, even taking a detour to Volunteer Services when someone pressed the wrong button. She was yet to talk to anyone with any authority over the cottage.
‘Geoff, this might seem like it’s coming out of left field, but Jon and I have been discussing the old manager’s cottage at Riverfarm. It’s an important piece of Boolanga’s history and we feel it needs to be preserved.’
‘You won’t get an argument from me. Unfortunately, we haven’t been successful with any restoration grant applications. It’s looking like we’ll have to dismantle it for public safety.’
Dismantle? As part of their initial costings, she and Jon had snuck down and snooped around the outside of the cottage. Jon had insisted on crawling under it and she’d held her breath the whole time. Although it had taken him longer than it used to, he’d emerged filthy but with a grin that spun her heart. She knew his excitement wasn’t limited to no signs of termites in the foundations.
‘What if the community restored it?’ she asked Geoff.
He sighed. ‘That’s a nice idea in principle, but we don’t have any fat in the budget to run a fundraising campaign, let alone allocate a staff member to coordinate it. It’s my experience that everyone’s sentimental about history until they’re asked to stick their hands in their pockets.’
Tara frowned. ‘The war memorial was restored two years ago.’
‘Yes, well, people feel differently about the war. This is a cottage that looks pretty similar to half a dozen in town.’
That was inaccurate given the cottage predated the town by twenty-two years, but Tara knew she wouldn’t win any points by mentioning it.
‘We feel very strongly about the cottage,’ she said. ‘Hoopers Hardware and Timber would happily spearhead a community restoration project and provide the building materials. We’d work closely with the historical society and the library to ensure a faithful restoration. All we’re asking is for it to be relocated to the museum.’
Geoff pulled on his ear, his expression thoughtful, then slid a business card out of his wallet. ‘I can’t make you any promis
es—due process and all that—but email me a document outlining exactly what you’re offering. I’ll get Engineering and Parks’ input and discuss it with my fellow councillors. But as community is what we’re all about here in Boolanga and your idea has that written all over it, I’m pretty optimistic it will sail through.’
Anticipation buzzed, making her jumpy and excited. ‘Thank you, Geoff!’
‘I better get going or Sheree will have my guts for garters.’ He tapped his credit card and left with his purchases.
Tara’s stomach rumbled. It was two o’clock and she’d covered everyone’s lunch break but not taken one herself. She texted Jon: Meet me at the sausage sizzle tent?
Clemmie on the teacups. Give me five
She grabbed her hat and on the way out ran into Al Kvant.
‘Hey, Tara. You must be happy. Looks like everyone’s doing their present-buying early.’
‘A lot will be browsing for ideas with plans to order a cheaper online version on Black Friday.’
‘That’s gotta hurt.’
Tara had always liked Al more than Kelly—he was the kinder of the two. ‘It does, but we get the win when their item arrives damaged or doesn’t fit. Then we woo them with our customer service and keep them. Are you looking for something in particular?’
‘Just some leather cleaner. With the bye this afternoon, I thought I’d give the Valiant some love.’
Cricket and classic cars were Al’s two passions.
‘Do you reckon the team can beat Numurkah next week?’ Tara asked.
‘It’s always a bit of a grudge match, but Simmo’s in good form so I reckon we’re in with a chance.’
‘Paul Simpson? I thought he was playing with Cobram these days.’
‘He’s back. Lucky really with Jon being sick and all.’
‘Jon’s not sick. He has a condition.’
‘You know what I mean. His bowling’s not what it was.’
Tara flashed hot and cold. I arrived just as they were packing up. ‘Have you told him Simmo’s back?’
‘I tried the other night, but the poor bugger was already sitting there nursing soda water.’ Al shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. ‘Thing is, Tara, the team’s determined to wrench back the trophy from Tatura this year so we’re cutting a few people.’
She hooked his evasive gaze. ‘And which few people would that be?’
He looked at his feet and sighed. ‘Yeah, okay. It’s just Jon. Would you mind telling him? It will come better from you.’
Are you freaking kidding me? She breathed deeply, trying to douse the molten fury melting her control. ‘No, Al.’
Genuine surprise creased his forehead. ‘Why not?’
‘I think you know why. The team’s name is Boolanga Old Boys for a reason. None of you are twenty any more. So he bowls the occasional wide and drops a catch; most of you do that. How would you feel if you discovered the club you’ve belonged to all your life has replaced you without having the decency to tell you? If the team doesn’t want Jon to play then the team tells him.’ Her restraint slipped. ‘And Jesus, Al! You’re supposed to be his friend.’
‘I am!’ Al sounded shocked she’d questioned his friendship. ‘When the committee were worried Jon might pull his sponsorship, I told them he wasn’t like that.’
I am. I’ll pull the sponsorship. ‘I can’t answer for him.’
Al frowned, disappointed not to get the reassurance he wanted. ‘It’s hard, Tara. I don’t want to make him feel any worse.’
‘I think that boat’s already sailed.’
‘Right.’
But there was nothing right about any of this.
‘I promised the kids I’d meet them five minutes ago,’ she lied, desperate to get away.
‘No worries.’
Seething, she walked outside before Al suggested she host a gang get-together so he could break Jon’s heart in his own home.
The melodic tones of the Boolanga Blokes rang out, singing Christmas carols—the lyrics about snow incongruous in the afternoon heat. Tara noticed Jade, the young mother from the community garden, standing off to the side and listening intently to Kelly’s boss, Fatima.
The lunchtime rush was well and truly over so Tara walked straight up to the sausage sizzle serving table. She was delighted to see Helen standing behind it.
‘I didn’t know you were part of the—’ she glanced at the chalkboard, checking the exact organisation, ‘—Food Rights group.’ She had a sudden need to be honest. ‘To tell the truth, I didn’t know we had people going hungry in Boolanga. You’re teaching me a lot.’
Helen smiled. ‘Happy to help. Have you met Bob Murphy?’
‘Mummy!’ Clementine ran over clutching a red balloon and excitedly flung her arms around Tara’s waist. ‘Daddy bought us fairy floss.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
She glanced over Clementine’s head and saw Jon walking towards her, the change in his gait so very obvious to her since his diagnosis. Fiza was walking beside him, her height a close match for his. It seemed odd to see her dressed sedately in navy hospital scrubs. The dark colour didn’t really suit her and Tara suddenly realised why she always wore such bright colours—they made her sparkle. Flynn and the twins bounced behind them on similar sugar highs to Clementine.
‘Who’s for a sausage?’ Jon asked the kids.
‘Me! Me!’ four voices called.
Tara’s heart sank, remembering what she’d read on Wikipedia. ‘Jon, I don’t think the twins are allowed to eat sausages.’
‘These are halal beef snags, Tara,’ Bob said. ‘They suit everyone except the vegos. We’ve got vegan burgers for them.’
‘My children love to eat a sausage in bread.’ Fiza fished out some coins from her purse.
‘Put that away,’ Jon said. ‘My treat.’
‘Thank you, but that’s not nec—’
‘Fiza, if you hadn’t taken one for the team by going on the Whizzer with the boys, I’d still be lying on the ground with the world spinning.’
‘Taken one for the team?’
‘Done something you didn’t want to do to help everyone else,’ Tara said. ‘And if you went on the Whizzer you deserve a lot more than a two-dollar sausage.’
‘It was fun.’ Fiza’s smile dimmed. ‘I am fortunate to have the chance to do these things with my children.’
A shiver ran up Tara’s spine as it did every time she thought of Fiza alone in the refugee camp with twin babies, a nine year old, and grieving for a husband who’d been murdered in front of her.
She shoved a twenty-dollar bill at Bob. ‘Seven, please. Keep the change.’
‘Thank you.’ He shot her a silver fox smile. ‘Can I tempt you with some fresh herbs or some cucumbers?’
‘No, thanks. My garden’s generously giving me more cucumbers and rhubarb than I need. Oh! Would you like some to give to people in need?’
‘That’s a kind thought, but cooking’s a challenge when you’re homeless,’ Helen said. ‘However, if you’re able to make a rhubarb crumble or rhubarb bars, they’d be very much appreciated.’
‘Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.’ Her cheeks burned that she hadn’t thought about how a homeless person would cook.
While Bob was handing off sausages in bread to the kids and Fiza and Jon were supervising sauce, Helen tilted her head to the side and took a step. Tara followed.
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed about the food offer, Tara. It’s not until we’re in the thick of something that it even crosses our radar.’
Helen’s words unlocked a barrage of emotions that spilled out fast. ‘I’m learning that. Most people don’t understand what Jon having Parkinson’s means to us. If he’d been diagnosed with cancer, the footy club would hold a fundraiser. If he’d died, our friends would rally around, bring over casseroles, offer childminding, and give me a spa day, knowing I’d eventually get back on my feet and there’d be an end date.
‘But no one knows how to handle a chro
nic illness that will partner Jon for another thirty to forty years. No one wants to look at us or ask us how we are in case we tell them. These days I get “ask and answer” questions like, “How are you, all good, yeah?”. It leaves me no place to go. But if I say, “Well, no actually, I’m not all good,” they feel trapped and embarrassed because really, they didn’t want to know in the first place.
‘Part of me understands that Jon’s shakes and trembles make them uncomfortable. They’re terrified it might happen to them, even though we’ve explained Parkinson’s isn’t like the flu—you can’t catch it from someone. I hate that they only see the tremors, because it means they’re remembering how he was rather than seeing the man he is right now. He’s not even bad at the moment and they’re staying away. How will it be when he’s worse? Don’t answer that.’
Tara sighed. ‘The awful thing is, I wonder if I was in their shoes, would I have behaved the same way? Outside of Jon’s father, the one person who’s helped us is the person with the least reason.’ Her voice broke and she pulled a tissue from her pocket. ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.’
Helen gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. Don’t waste your precious energy whipping yourself about what you might or might not have done in the past. You’ve got enough to deal with now. Instead, appreciate that in the midst of chaos you’ve taken the time to reflect and grow.’
Gratitude poured through her, stilling some of the agitation that was now a permanent part of her. ‘How did you get so wise?’
Helen gave a wry smile. ‘I’m hardly wise. I tend to jump in feet first so I think it’s more to do with experience. My daughter was severely disabled so I understand how people drop away when they find it all too hard.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Tara returned the arm squeeze. ‘Are you ever free for coffee?’
‘Absolutely! We have a regular group lunch with the women on Thursdays so bring some lunch to share and join in. You might enjoy it.’
‘Thanks, but I work across lunch so Jon can grab a rest.’
‘No problem. I’m in the garden all day Thursdays. Call in when it suits, but if you’re not fond of instant coffee, bring your own.’
