by Fiona Lowe
Corey jangled his keys. ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘Will you be back for Survivor?’ The words tumbled out before she could stop them. She held her breath. Corey hated being asked about his plans.
‘Yeah, prob’ly. I’ll bring back a pizza, all right?’
‘Awesome.’
‘Catch ya later.’
He didn’t kiss her or Milo goodbye, but then he never kissed them hello either. That sort of shit only happened on the telly.
He disappeared out the door and the broken screen crashed back with a loud metallic thump. Jade jumped. Milo cried.
The only reminder of Corey having been in the flat was his musky scent and the stinking pile of dirty washing he’d dumped in the laundry basket. But Jade preferred the mix of sweat and grime to the sharp freshness of laundry powder—it meant Corey would be back.
When Corey was away working, Jade took long walks with Milo. Somehow being outside made her feel less alone in this stinking town. Corey had insisted they move here from Finley and given what had gone down with her mother, Jade hadn’t objected. But she wasn’t a fan of the riverside town.
Outside of the unit, the only other place in Boolanga she felt comfortable was the library. There was something soothing about sitting and reading surrounded by books. Books were her catnip—company and an escape from her life on mostly long and lonely nights. The library also saved her money. It was a place to hang—warm in winter, cool in summer and with free wifi. People who whinged about how slow the NBN was had no freaking idea how lucky they were to afford the internet at home.
As Jade approached the red-brick building, Milo’s stroller activated the automatic doors—another reason Jade loved the library—and then Fran, the librarian, was waving hello.
‘Oh good! You’re just in time,’ she said.
‘Why? Are you closing? Do I have time to borrow something?’ The thought of leaving without a book sent anxiety scuttling in Jade’s veins. ‘I’ve finished Jasper Jones and you said I should read To Kill a Mockingbird next.’
Fran smiled. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for books after Baby Time.’
Jade’s stomach cramped so fast she almost doubled over. You dumb, stupid cow! How had she forgotten it was Wednesday? Worse than that, why had she come to the library right on eleven fifteen? Dread dragged at her and she reluctantly glanced beyond Fran to the group of well-dressed women sitting in a circle holding their babies in their laps.
‘It’s music again today,’ Fran said encouragingly.
The last time Jade had attended Baby Time, she’d felt stupid sitting there singing and clapping when Milo’s only response was to huddle in her lap and bury his face in her chest. It hadn’t helped that all the other babies had cooed and clapped and smiled and drooled. Failure had pinned her to the carpet, twisting shame and humiliation into every cell and was accompanied by the barbed message: Why did you think you could do this? You suck as a mother like you suck at everything else.
The side-eye glances of the other women hadn’t helped. They were all much older than her—every mother in town was—and most of them were either married or lived with their partner in big houses close to the river. At the first class, a couple of them had quizzed her, then said, ‘Wow! I could never have done what you’re doing when I was your age,’ as if Jade had a choice.
When Fran had left the room to get a hand puppet, the Queen Bee of the group had asked, ‘Does Milo have a dad?’
What sort of a stupid question was that? Of course he had a dad, but she’d been so pissed off, she’d said, ‘Nah, it was an immaculate conception.’
A couple of the women had laughed but not the Queen Bee. She’d given Jade the stink eye then ignored her. That suited Jade to a T.
‘And after class, this time you can go to Bert & Bears with everyone,’ Fran suggested softly. ‘It will be nice for you to have some company.’ Her face shone with enthusiasm. ‘The great thing about a mother and babies group is you’re all experiencing the same things. It gives you lots in common and breaks up the week. It’s a perfect antidote to loneliness.’
Jade didn’t agree. When she was with this group of women, her stomach churned, sweat beaded under her arms and she’d never doubted her mothering abilities more. She’d already been to the café with the other women. It was the reason she’d been dodging Baby Time for the last two weeks. Kasey—the only one who wasn’t a total stuck-up bitch—had invited her.
Jade had been pleased to be part of the pram parade crossing the road, but once inside the café, everything changed. When she saw the food and drinks prices, she’d stuck to sipping the water the waitress had fancied up with bits of lemon.
The group had talked about their holidays—Noosa was divine, Byron too busy—how they only fed their babies organic vegetables, only dressed them in bamboo onesies that cost what Jade paid each month for her electricity, how tired they all were and how their partners tried but ‘he doesn’t fold the laundry properly’ or ‘he said he cleaned the toilet but honestly, I had to do it again’.
Jade had sat mute, convinced she was visiting a foreign country. Apart from the fatigue, nothing about their lives was familiar. She didn’t own a car, didn’t even have her driver’s licence and she’d never been on a plane. Other than school camps and the scholarship she’d won to summer camp at Portsea when she was fifteen, she’d never had a holiday. She could count on one hand how many times she’d travelled to Melbourne—always by train or coach. And when Corey was in town, he never cooked or cleaned, and if she’d owned a washing machine, he wouldn’t know how to turn it on, let alone peg the washing out or fold it.
These women treated motherhood as a competitive sport, but Jade couldn’t afford to join their club, let alone buy the uniform. Being in their presence only made her lonelier. Which was saying something when she didn’t know anyone in town and sometimes when Corey was away, the unit closed in on her like a jail cell.
‘Sorry, Fran, I can’t stay today,’ she said. ‘Milo didn’t sleep much last night and he’s really clingy. I only walked up here to send him to sleep.’
Disappointment dimmed Fran’s smile. ‘He does look like he’s just nodding off. Never mind. Let’s try again next week.’
No way in hell. ‘Sure.’
As much as she hated lying to Fran, who’d only ever been kind to her, the refusal was self-preservation. Nothing would entice her anywhere near the library on a Wednesday ever again. She’d take being home alone every time over being judged wanting by that group of stuck-up bitches.
CHAPTER
4
Despite the outcome of the committee meeting several days ago, Helen was yet to break the news to Fiza that there wasn’t a plot available for her. So confident was she of finding a way around the problem, she’d texted Fiza to reschedule the visit as soon as the meeting had ended. Fiza had replied immediately with a thumbs-up emoji and followed with a message containing her address for the forms. But Helen was still scratching for a solution.
Agitated and unable to settle, she took herself for a long walk along the river, confident that breathing in the eucalyptus-scented air and watching sunshine and shadow playing across the water would soothe her jangles. But a brisk four kilometres later, she was back at the top of her driveway and no closer to a state of calm than she’d been when she set out. Every time she remembered how Judith and Sharon had gazumped her, frustration and anger surged and she pictured her GP tut-tutting about her blood pressure.
Helen lovingly ran her hand along the curlicue on the old decorative woven-metal gate. The cottage with its orchard was on the edge of town, bordered by the community garden, some fallow hectares and two roads—one a gravel track to the river. It was a peaceful spot and Helen treasured the space, even if the cottage was maintained at just above habitable. According to Fran at the library, after the Great War the surrounding land had been an experimental farm, helping injured returned servicemen get back on their feet. During the Second World War it had served
as an internment camp, and in the following decades been leased to a variety of farmers.
In today’s climate—both weather and economic—it was no longer a large enough parcel of land to generate a farm living. The shire had divided it into three uneven parts—short-term grazing, the community garden, and the section closest to the river that was under the management and guidance of the local Landcare group along with the Indigenous community. Native grasses and tree plantings were restoring the land to what it had been before a hundred and fifty years of farming had irrevocably changed the landscape. But what really made Helen’s heart sing was, unlike their New South Wales cousins across the river, the Mookarii Shire hadn’t sold their soul to a resort. The land belonged to the community.
During her shifts at the Acropolis Café, Helen constantly heard rumours about plans for the land—anything from the shire selling it to a consortium to returning it to the Yorta Yorta people. Whenever she gazed at the paddocks, she saw a tiny housing village for women aged fifty-five and over. The year before, she’d started meeting quietly with individual councillors to test the waters and garner support for an affordable and sustainable housing project—tiny houses. Consultation was taking longer than she’d expected because, between their paid jobs and their shire commitments, the six councillors were busy and hard to pin down. Of the four she’d met with, their responses had ranged from barely lukewarm to fully invested.
Getting a meeting with the mayor, Geoff Rayson, had proved impossible and Helen couldn’t decide if he was the problem or his officious secretary. Each time she’d tried, he was either fully booked, overseas, at a local government conference or sick.
She’d been ready to give up when the deputy mayor, Vivian Leppart, had called her. ‘I’ve got good news, Helen! I’ve been working on the mayor for the last few months and he’s given his “in-principle” agreement for the tiny houses.’
‘That’s incredible! Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘What’s next?’
‘A formal submission.’
The opportunity to use her dusty qualifications was exhilarating and Helen had loved every minute of the process. She got a thrill each time she pictured a cluster of tiny houses, a communal kitchen and living space for classes and gatherings, and a large community garden. She’d researched and established strong links with the people who’d been involved in housing projects around the country and along the way she’d collected an arsenal of useful tips, including applying for a small grant to pay for draft plans so there was no ambiguity around the project. She had no intention of being stymied at any point due to lack of information. The hardest part so far was waiting to hear what the councillors who supported the project—Cynthia, Messina and Vivian—thought of the recently completed submission.
Helen walked through the orchard. It had been planted back when the land was an experimental farm. Although not technically part of the garden, it was on shire land and the garden members considered it theirs and cared for it zealously, treasuring the mix of fruit and nut trees—apricot, nectarines, peach, pear and plum, almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, macadamias and pistachios. Unlike a Melbourne community garden they’d visited, where a couple of clueless blokes had pruned fruit trees with a chainsaw, up here retired orchardists fought to be on the roster. More than once, Helen had been forced to intervene with a bottle of grappa and a sack of diplomacy. Lesson learned, she now allocated trees to members so there was little opportunity for disputes.
She checked on her bees—all busy feasting on spring blooms—then crossed the vast expanse of the cottage’s ‘lawn’—a dustbowl in the summer and potential silage and snake habitat in spring. Closing her hand around the wire on the cyclone fence that separated the block from the community garden, she sighed in frustration. The plots along the fence line were full-sized but only half of them were working at capacity. This was an ongoing source of aggravation. In the years Helen had been involved in the garden, she’d suggested gently, loudly, subtly, blatantly and often that the underutilised beds be halved so new members could join. It would be a win-win for all as a smaller bed was more manageable for the plot holder, and the ensuing new bed would provide an opportunity for new members to become involved, but the idea was consistently rejected.
After the recent committee meeting, Helen had made another round of phone calls, but no one wanted to divide their plot. Should she halve her own bed so Fiza could join? But Helen had seen the zeal burning in Fiza’s eyes for a patch of dirt of her own. A small plot wouldn’t be enough.
Helen hated how she’d raised Fiza’s hopes and was now about to dash them. It was tempting to text the bad news, but she knew that was a cop-out—it must be done in person. A surge of anger at Judith and Sharon had her kicking the red dirt like a kid whose request to play had been rejected. Her boot connected with a stray canola plant valiantly shooting in the dry ground.
She squatted, wrapped her hand around it and pulled. She stilled, staring at the fine roots as if she’d never seen a bare-rooted plant before.
This was it! This half-dead plant screamed solution.
Fifteen minutes later and panting slightly, Helen stood on Serenity Street. She’d heard some of Boolanga’s locals refer to Serenity and its intersecting streets as ‘The Ghetto’, despite having never visited. During her university placements, she’d spent time in some dodgy parts of Melbourne and, although the lack of tended gardens in Serenity Street gave it a down-and-out feel, it lacked the rubbish and used syringes of its city counterparts.
A few kids played on the road—some riding old bikes assembled from a mishmash of pre-loved parts, while others kicked a well-worn soccer ball.
A small group of women wearing headscarves stood chatting on the concrete ramp in front of a block of flats. They fell silent as Helen approached and a few looked as if they wanted to shrink into the brick walls.
She smiled at them. ‘Hello. Lovely day.’
They smiled shyly and nodded.
One of them pointed at Helen’s hand. ‘You want pot?’
Helen was surprised to see she was still clutching the canola. ‘Oh, no, thanks. I’m not going to plant it.’
‘So why you carry it?’
‘I forgot I was holding it.’
The younger woman’s eyes scanned her as if she was checking for signs of dementia. ‘You are lost?’
Helen laughed. ‘No. I’m Helen Demetriou from the community garden. I’m looking for Fiza. Do you know her?’
The woman shook her head. ‘What is community garden?’
‘It’s a place where people without a garden can grow things.’
‘Where is this?’
‘Riverfarm Road. Near the caravan park and the oval.’
‘Ah. I know this garden, but I think it belongs to people.’
One of the other women said something in a language Helen didn’t recognise, and then the woman who’d been speaking earlier said, ‘Please. Come.’
Helen followed the women into a ground-floor flat and they showed her the tiny outside space. Almost every available centimetre was filled with small black pots of neatly cut chives and chaotic coriander. Tomatoes trailed up the fence.
‘Wow! I’ve never seen so many chives.’
‘We use in our food, but this our only garden for many families.’
‘What’s your name?’ Helen asked.
‘Aima. And this is Kubra and Baseera.’
‘Hello. What language do you speak?’
‘Dari and Hazaragi. We are Hazara.’
‘From Afghanistan?’
Aima smiled. ‘You know it?’
‘I know where it is on the map.’
‘A long way from here,’ Aima said wistfully, before adding urgently as if she may have caused offence, ‘But Australia is good to us.’
‘Is it?’ Helen wondered out loud and immediately saw Aima’s confusion. ‘Tell me, what would you grow if you had a bigger garden?’
‘This is easy. Chives,
coriander, lettuces, cucumbers, chilli, mint,’ Aima said.
‘What if you had lots of space? What else would you grow?’
Aima asked the other women something and translated their replies. ‘Spring onions, potatoes, beetroot, carrots, garlic and sunflowers.’ She put her hand on her heart. ‘And you say dream, so I say nut trees. Almonds, walnuts and pistachios. Oh! Grapevines too. Then we make all our foods.’
Helen laughed. ‘That sounds wonderful.’
‘It would be. We do this in your garden?’
Helen looked at the wilting canola and remembered what had propelled her to Serenity Street. ‘The community garden’s full, but there’s land next to it where we can extend. But we’d be starting from scratch. It would be a lot of work.’
Aima’s forehead wrinkled. ‘We have to scratch the dirt? You mean dig?’
Helen laughed. ‘Yes, dig and mulch and water. We’ll have to build the garden beds. Are your friends interested?’
Aima spoke to Kubra and Baseera and there was lots of smiling and nodding. Then a gabble of voices broke out and they were talking over the top of each other.
‘We say yes,’ Kubra said softly.
‘Thank you,’ Baseera said.
‘Excellent!’ They exchanged phone numbers and Helen left with an arrangement to meet them at the cottage the following morning after school drop-off.
Flying high on the buzz of a new idea, not to mention a way of putting it up the garden committee, Helen returned to looking for Fiza’s flat. The numbers she had on her phone didn’t match those on the street. Had Fiza transposed the flat and street number?
Helen texted her and waited five minutes. When Fiza didn’t reply, Helen crossed the road and retraced her steps. She stopped outside a classic pale brown brick 1970s’ unit complete with arches. The wooden gate under the arch was jagged and rotting at the bottom. Faded sheets hung across the front windows and weeds grew along the concrete drive. But there was a cracked terracotta pot close to the front door containing a riot of cerise geranium flowers, which tumbled over each other despite a collection of cigarette butts in the soil. Then again, a nuclear explosion may not be enough to kill a geranium. In the face of the surrounding building decay, Helen recognised the presence of the plant said ‘I care’.