by Fiona Lowe
‘Chosen? Fleeing a warzone is hardly a choice.’
Judith sniffed. ‘All I’m saying is they have to follow the rules just like the rest of us. They’re welcome to fill in a form and go on the waiting list. Sharon, pass the forms out.’
‘Don’t waste time and paper, Sharon,’ Helen said. ‘These women have worked incredibly hard today creating their beds. There’s no way I’m telling them they can’t garden.’
‘That’s up to you, Helen, but they won’t be gardening using the community garden’s equipment.’ Judith turned to face the women and clapped her hands like the retired schoolteacher she was. ‘Ladies! Until this area is officially part of the community garden, you can’t work here. Please return everything to the shed.’
The Hazara women looked to Aima for a translation. Helen watched their faces move from confusion to disappointment before they turned to her, their eyes full of questions.
Helen didn’t want to have what would be a loud and angry argument with Judith in front of them so she said, ‘After we’ve put the tools away, come to the cottage. I’ll explain everything.’
Fiza, who was already a very tall woman, suddenly seemed to gain a couple more centimetres. She extended her hand to Sharon. ‘I would like a form, please.’
Sharon jumped. ‘You speak English?’
‘Yes. I also speak French and Arabic.’
‘I speak a bit of Greek.’ Helen grinned. ‘What other languages do you speak, Sharon?’
Sharon ignored her and pulled a form from her organiser, handing it to Fiza. ‘You can post it to the address on the top. I’ll date it when I receive it and put you on the waiting list.’
‘I will fill it out now. May I borrow a pen?’
‘Sorry. I don’t have one.’
Helen’s rage boiled over. ‘What do you call that then?’ She pointed to the silver pen nestled inside the folder.
‘Oh. Right.’ Sharon’s cheeks flushed red and she reluctantly withdrew the pen and passed it to Fiza.
‘Don’t worry, Sharon,’ Helen said. ‘It’s a lot safer with Fiza than Jade. She just nicked off with my gardening gloves.’
‘Who’s Jade?’ Flustered, Sharon kept her eyes fixed on Fiza.
Someone else you wouldn’t want to join the garden.
And you do?
The thought dug in under Helen’s moral high ground. ‘Someone who helped me clear the Lipari bed. It’s ready, by the way. Ask the Bradleys to contact me so we can set up a time for orientation.’
‘There.’ Fiza handed back the form and the pen. ‘Please date it today and put the time also.’
Sharon wrote the date and time, stowed the paper and pen away and zippered her organiser closed with a jerk. She joined Judith, who was back in the community garden having walked behind the Hazara women like a kelpie rounding up sheep.
Helen shielded her eyes and squinted. She could see the women were handing off their equipment to a man at the shed. A dog barked and she swung her gaze—a familiar border collie was tied up next to a bike. Bob. Bloody hell! Why was he relieving the women of their tools when he’d implied she’d misunderstood him? Was it payback? They’d never had that cup of tea.
Her leg muscles twitched, demanding she walk straight up to him and ask him what the hell he was doing. But there was a time and place to pick a fight and if Bob had changed sides, talking to him with Judith and Sharon flanking him would be unwise.
The women drifted back, dejection clear in their slumped shoulders. They gathered on the cottage’s veranda, waiting for Helen to speak.
‘Aima, can you please tell everyone that I’m truly sorry about this, but we’re not going to let a few small-minded people stop us. We will keep gardening.’
Aima translated. The women murmured among themselves, but their expressions clearly stated they didn’t believe Helen.
‘But that woman says we not use the tools,’ Aima said.
‘Does anyone have any gardening tools?’
The women shook their heads.
‘I’ve got a few I could lend you,’ a male voice said.
Helen swung around to see Bob standing at the bottom of the worn bluestone steps. Frustration blew through her like a hot north wind—gritty and unsettling—and she ran with it.
‘If you hadn’t just locked up all the tools, we could still be using them!’
He took off his broad-brimmed hat and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I arrived and found everyone returning the tools so I jumped in to help.’
‘Of course you did.’ Spare me from well-intentioned duffers.
Bob’s ‘niceness’ got under Helen’s skin. Each time they had a conversation, she became increasingly convinced he was one of those naive men who saw the world through rose-coloured glasses because an easy life had cushioned any blows.
He met her angry gaze full on, his brows rising slightly. ‘I didn’t realise I was aiding and abetting a counter coup.’
‘I didn’t stage a coup! I’m extending the garden to meet demand.’
‘Which is a good idea in principle …’
She narrowed her eyes. Did she need to reassess the ‘duffer’ tag? ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Exactly that. It’s a great idea, but come on, Helen. You must have known you were playing with fire when you didn’t consult Judith.’
‘Technically, I don’t have to consult her. And I knew what she’d say. Besides, it’s not up to the committee whether the garden’s extended or not. That’s up to the shire. Judith’s being deliberately obstructive, but she’ll be eating humble pie soon enough.’
‘I’ve known Judith for years and I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Bob said.
Helen opened her mouth to fire back a reply but he’d already turned to face the women.
‘Hello, ladies, my name’s Bob. Been a farmer all my life and I only moved to town six months ago. Before you all came to Australia, where was home?’
The Hazara women explained how they’d come from refugee camps in Pakistan.
‘Crikey,’ Bob said. ‘That’s a long journey to Boolanga. I reckon the least we can do is give you a patch of dirt you can call your own. I’ll bring my gardening tools down tomorrow and my wheelbarrow so you can keep going, although it will be at a slower pace.’
The women murmured their thanks.
The exchange added to Helen’s disquiet that she couldn’t slot Bob neatly into a box.
‘Even with your equipment, we can’t plant without hoses,’ she said impatiently. ‘And mine’s not long enough to reach all the beds.’
‘We use buckets,’ Kubra said.
‘Your best bet is to get some funding,’ Bob suggested.
Helen was intimate with the grants system after exploring it for her tiny housing submission. ‘The grants have all closed for this year.’
‘What about talking to Hoopers about a sausage sizzle?’
Spare me. Helen shoved Bob back into the polite but clueless box. ‘We can’t ask these women to cook pork sausages. We’d need halal meat to make kebabs and that would dent the profit margin.’
‘I believe you can buy halal beef sausages, but I’m not talking about a barbecue. I meant Hoopers has a huge garden section.’
‘We don’t have any money to buy anything, remember?’
Bob ignored her sarcasm. ‘But you’ve got a nice big fence and a reasonable amount of passing traffic. Go and talk to Jon Hooper about him donating some gardening gear in exchange for signage advertising the store.’
‘That’s actually a good idea.’
He grimaced. ‘I’ll take that as a thank you. And think big, Helen. Ask for a shed. It will save everyone a long walk.’
‘But that would separate the gardens and I don’t want that. It defeats the point of community.’ And it meant racists like Judith and Sharon would win.
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ Bob said. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey. There’s more than one way to—’
‘Righto
, Bob. I get it.’
Her familiar irritation with him needled holes in her appreciation of his sponsorship idea. She was already going slowly with the housing project, jumping through one hoop at a time. Why did she have to apply the same approach to a garden when it was a simple and easy thing to achieve? Before these women had arrived in Australia, they’d been through hell. Like Bob said, the least they deserved was a garden.
‘It shouldn’t be this hard,’ she added. ‘And don’t even think about quoting Malcolm Fraser’s “Life wasn’t meant to be easy” at me.’
‘Actually, Fraser was paraphrasing George Bernard Shaw. He left out the most important part.’
‘Really? What was that?’
‘Life is not meant to be easy, my child; but take courage: it can be delightful.’
‘Pfft.’
‘You don’t agree?’
Helen laughed it off. No way was she debating that with Bob. It was bad enough she’d let herself be interested in the quote. She’d learned a long time ago that maintaining general disinterest in casual conversation was the best way to keep a safe distance from people. Especially men.
CHAPTER
8
‘Whoa! Slow down, Tara!’ Her personal trainer’s chest heaved and sweat ran along his temples.
Tara flicked her ponytail out of her eyes. ‘Why? Can’t you take it, Zac?’
He grinned at her, all raw sex appeal and outrageous confidence—the domain of the twenty-somethings. ‘You know I take whatever you give me.’
A raft of sensation skittered along her spine and her heart kicked up. It wasn’t a hundred per cent due to the kickboxing. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ But his flirty look had faded. ‘But I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’
‘I’m fine. Just shut up and block.’
She didn’t want sympathy. She wanted teasing. Zac was both easy on the eyes and good company and she enjoyed their banter. Unlike Jon, he made her feel powerful and in control as well as incredibly sexy and desirable.
Not that she had any plans to act on the occasional zings of attraction that sparked between them. The idea of becoming the clichéd woman having a fling with her gym instructor made her shudder. It was bad enough her marriage was channelling Anna Karenina. Her sympathies lay with Anna, whose husband took her for granted.
Tara slammed the boxing gloves into the pads, savouring her power. Up until three years ago, sport for her had always been tennis. Then, at her mother’s suggestion, she’d added in Pilates. Early this year, she’d responded to a ‘free session’ offer from Zac who was new to town and promoting his business. Although she still enjoyed tennis and Pilates, neither matched the exhilarating buzz she got from her twice-weekly personal training sessions.
Tara wished her mother was still alive. Jane would have understood her addiction to the endorphin rush and the sense of well-being that always followed pushing herself to her limits. Jon didn’t get it. Since Clementine had started school, he’d been saying, ‘If you’re bored, increase your hours at the store.’ Recently, he’d added snippy comments about ‘ladies who lunch’. But Tara had no intention of dropping any of her exercise. Currently, it was one of a few things that gave her joy and took her away from the niggling and unsettling feelings about her life.
Today, she planned to exhaust herself so her brain would still and she’d be free of the taunting and circuitous thoughts that Jon was looking outside their marriage. Visualising Rhianna, she raised her legs, kicking high and hard into the pads.
Zac took whatever she threw at him with an appreciative smile that carved its way across his model good looks and designer stubble before settling in his dark and fathomless eyes. Eyes that had appeared two nights ago in Tara’s erotic dream.
Zac hadn’t questioned her request for extra sessions this week, but why would he when it meant more money. He didn’t need to know she suspected her husband and his lifelong friend of having an affair.
You don’t know that until you talk to Jon. But the idea of that conversation made her gag. It was easier concentrating on the burn in her muscles and pushing herself beyond sensible limits than tormenting herself as to why her husband no longer found her attractive.
Only when the soreness in her limbs transformed to a screaming agony that consumed her mind and stole her breath did she allow herself to give in. She sank to the floor and lay on her back, panting.
‘Drink this.’ Zac passed her an electrolyte drink.
‘Thanks.’ But she lacked the energy to lift her head.
‘Come on.’
‘Can’t.’
‘I’m serious, Tara.’ His hand slid under her head and lifted it as if she was an invalid. ‘Drink.’
‘God, you’re bossy.’ She sat up and his hand fell away—she hated that she missed it. But the reality was, if she excluded the hugs of the children and Jon’s perfunctory kisses, Zac’s occasional guiding touches during a session were her only intimate contact.
Talk. To. Jon.
‘If these extra sessions are ongoing, I’ll plan some different workouts for you.’ Zac’s gaze was fixed on her—intense and full of swirling sexuality. ‘You up for that?’
Despite her exhaustion, her body fluttered. ‘Up for what?’
‘Mixing things up a little. Keeping it fresh so you’re not bored. A woman like you deserves to be challenged.’
‘A woman like me?’ Given what was going on at home, she didn’t know if she should be flattered or offended. ‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged, the action bringing his tribal tattoo to life. ‘Most of my clients hate exercising. They do it to control their weight or to keep themselves moving. But you’re different—more like me. You get off on the rush.’
She always had. Jon had been amazed at how high she’d been after each birth. He’d teased her that he was more wrung out than her.
‘Gotta love those endorphins,’ she said.
‘Yeah, the happy hormones, right?’
And right now, she was taking happy wherever she could find it. ‘So how are you going to challenge me, Zac?’
‘I think you should train for something specific.’
‘Like what?’
‘A marathon.’
She laughed but Zac didn’t. ‘You’re serious? But a marathon … that’s huge. And the time commitment …’
‘It’s very doable if you start early, break it down into achievable goals and have a training partner.’
She thought about her friends and acquaintances. None of them would want to run a marathon. In fact most of them seemed confused and offended by her need to exercise.
‘Finding a partner might be difficult,’ she said.
‘We could train together.’
‘I pay you to train me and you get to train at the same time? I always knew you were a clever businessman.’
A flicker of emotion passed across his face so quickly she couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed she’d called him on his blatant hawking or if he was affronted.
‘I meant outside of our current arrangement. No charge.’
She stared at him. ‘You’d do that?’
‘Sure. You’ll push me as hard as I push you.’ He nudged her shoulder with his. ‘Besides, your testimonials and having my flyers at the store have brought me eight new clients.’
‘You really think I can run a marathon?’
‘I really do. So are you in?’
Yes! Yes! So in. ‘I want to say yes …’
‘So just say it. Do something for yourself.’
But that was the problem. She wasn’t just Tara, possible marathon runner with the freedom to dedicate herself to training. She was Jon’s wife and Flynn and Clementine’s mother, not to mention the store’s giftware buyer, classroom helper, domestic controller and a gazillion other things.
‘Can you send me the training program so I know exactly what I’m in for?’
The light in his eyes dimmed. ‘You can just say no.’
&
nbsp; She touched his arm lightly, needing him to understand. ‘Zac, this is me trying to say yes.’
His smile radiated sunshine, warming her from the inside out. The feeling stayed with her while she showered and floated out to her car.
On the drive home, Zac’s compliments and the very tempting idea of spending months training with him dominated her thoughts. Not wanting any of her happiness to drain away, she deliberately avoided looking at the property next door to Tingledale when she slowed to turn into her driveway.
Tara considered the proximity of the ‘orange eyesore’ to the gracious elegance of Tingledale a travesty. But apparently its orange bricks, diamond-patterned veranda rail, the name Shangrila written in white wrought iron beside the front door and its large airy rooms made it the pinnacle of 1960s’ modern design. According to Fran at the library, Doctor Tingle’s grandson had sold off forty-five acres to create a small housing estate and had built the orange eyesore for his son, positioning it close to the boundary so the grandchildren could run back and forth between the two houses.
Those familial days were long gone and the once-coveted modern home was shabby after more than a decade of being rented. It was a thorn in Tara’s side. Some tenants were better than others, but as the house aged and the current owners refused to spend any money on it, the calibre of the tenants dropped. The garden, if you could call it that, was now a rambling and weed-infested mess that dispatched thriving runners of the thick, green and tenacious spiderwort and threw out oxalis seeds that dug in deep, producing green clusters that taunted her with their cheery yellow flowers.
When the grass grew too long and became a fire and snake hazard, Tara rang the managing real estate agent. Although they responded to the requests to mow, they never did more than the bare minimum of maintenance on the property. Tara had started buying Powerball tickets in the vain hope of winning and making the absent and uncaring owners an offer they couldn’t refuse.
Jon’s car was in the garage and she wondered if he’d come home for lunch to extend some warmth into the frosty détente that had hardened to ice since the weekend. On Sunday morning, she’d expected him to apologise for the disaster that had been Saturday night, but almost a week had passed and he hadn’t said a word.