A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘But?’

  Things had changed since she’d first mooted the idea of the stall. Now she was helping the Hazara women establish their garden as well as waiting for the shire’s response to her tiny houses submission. The moment the project got the green light, her time would be consumed by the steering committee.

  Bob’s eyes—still bright and vivid for a man his age—were fixed on her, waiting for an answer. She didn’t like depending on anyone—people invariably let her down—but at the same time she didn’t want to be perceived as flaky. It was unusual for her to say she’d do something then not follow through.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, but there’s an important project on the horizon. It’s still under wraps, but when it happens it will be big. It means my time will be spread very thin.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Bob flipped the fish parcel over. ‘What if you and I do the stall together until you get too busy? That way you can teach me the ropes. You know, stuff like who’s who on the market committee and all the protocols. Then you can leave knowing the stall’s in capable hands.’

  She reminded herself that Bob had only ever been helpful and this was a reasonable and sensible suggestion—one she should accept. But knowing that didn’t make it easy to change years of protective behaviour.

  ‘Only if it’s something you really want to commit to.’

  Bob laughed. ‘There’s no hardship in spending a Saturday morning chatting to people. Besides, it would be good to show Judith and the committee that it’s a viable extension of the garden during times of surplus.’ He slid the fish parcel onto a plate and sat down opposite Helen. ‘I want your opinion on the fish.’

  ‘It smells good.’

  ‘That’s a start.’

  Another car arrived and parked a few spaces away from Helen’s. When the occupant got out, Roxy joined her and together they walked to the pavilion. Helen didn’t know the other woman but she waved.

  ‘Hi, Roxy. Glad you could make it. Fancy some lamb?’

  ‘Or fish.’ Bob, all old-fashioned manners, rose and disentangled himself from the picnic seat.

  ‘Roxy, this is Bob Murphy,’ Helen said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Bob extended his hand. ‘Hope it’s okay that I’ve gatecrashed your picnic.’

  ‘You and me both, Bob.’ The unknown woman seated herself next to him. ‘I’m Cinta.’

  ‘The more the merrier, I always say. Right, Helen?’ Roxy slid in next to her with all the aplomb of an invited guest.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Helen played along, honouring Roxy’s dignity. ‘Any idea if the others are coming? I’ve overcatered.’

  ‘Give it ten. I sent out some reminder texts.’

  Helen relaxed. Roxy hadn’t stayed in the car because of Bob’s presence, but because she was spreading the word of the unexpected feast on a wet night.

  The women made a fuss of Daisy while Helen heated up the pita. Bob urged the women to eat the fish and the conversation turned to the many benefits of omega-3 oils including how they slowed the decline of brain function.

  ‘So that’s why I struggle with the cryptic crossword,’ Cinta said. ‘Not enough fish.’

  Bob laughed. ‘I’ve eaten fish all my life and the cryptic still stumps me.’

  Tracey arrived with Agape, whose eyes lit up at the food. ‘Halal snackpack!’

  ‘Almost. No hot chips, sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Helen. This looks amazing.’

  Tracey sat down, pumped some hand sanitiser, spread a paper serviette across her lap and then loaded her plate with meat and salad.

  As they ate, they talked and the topics ranged far and wide, from the weather to the federal government’s latest out-of-touch-withthe-people stuff-up to conspiracy theories and the hike in the cost of petrol.

  ‘Can I get anyone a cuppa?’ Bob asked.

  ‘If there’s no Bundy, I guess tea will have to do,’ Tracey said.

  ‘Actually …’ Bob pulled an old and battered pewter hip flask out of his fishing basket. ‘There’s enough whiskey in here to make everyone an Irish coffee.’

  Tracey lifted an enamel mug out of the drinks box. ‘I like the way you think, Bob.’

  While Bob made the drinks, Roxy stared out into the dark. ‘I love this place at night,’ she said. ‘The frogs are serenading their lovers, the possums are thumping and grunting, and the river rushes or glides, depending on the rain.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Cinta said. ‘Once the Chinese arrive, we’ll be sitting under floodlights, dodging bullets as they shoot deer or ducking golf balls from night golf.’

  Bob laughed. ‘I don’t have a problem with anyone shooting feral deer, but night golf in Boolanga? That sounds a bit far-fetched.’

  Helen, who’d worked hard all evening to keep her mouth closed during most of Cinta’s conspiracy theories and unsubstantiated conjectures, lost her battle to stay silent. ‘The resort rumours come out to play every year. Even if there’s a proposal kicking around somewhere, the shire’s been rejecting them for decades. They’re not going to sell to the Chinese or anyone else.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’ Cinta asked belligerently.

  ‘It’s always been community land. Your frogs are safe, Roxy.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  The other women were savouring their almost-Irish-coffee treat and didn’t comment.

  ‘What proposal?’ Bob asked.

  Damn it. The man didn’t miss a trick. ‘Nothing specific. I was speaking in general terms.’

  His head tilted as if he didn’t believe her. ‘This place is special to me and my family and to a lot of folk in the district. After the Great War, my grandfather worked on the experimental farm. He proposed to my grandmother under that tree over there.’ He lifted his arm to indicate the largest river red gum. ‘My father got caught up in the next nightmare and was starved by the Japs. He brought home malaria as a keepsake and met my mother.

  ‘Growing up, all I wanted was a dad who’d kick the footy with me, but he’d have bouts of fever that put him in bed for days. But the moment he was up and about, the first thing he’d do was bring me here. In Changi, it was memories of the river that kept him going. The way the morning mist hovers just above the surface and how the pelicans glide regally out of the fog, barely stirring the water.’ Bob tapped the hip flask. ‘This was his, and this park is his part of the river. I scattered his ashes here. Wouldn’t mind if I ended up here either.’

  ‘You’d better tell your kids that’s what you want,’ Helen said briskly, embarrassed she’d been so entranced by the story she’d leaned in.

  ‘Pen and I were never blessed that way.’

  Bob’s general easygoing persona faded and for the first time Helen glimpsed sadness circling him—old and worn but still with the capacity to bite. A familiar tug pulled on her own grief and she quickly glanced down at her coffee, trying to halt the rising melancholy.

  ‘Lucky for me I’ve got a much younger sister and a terrific nephew,’ Bob said, sounding brighter. ‘Still, I’m hoping Debbie and Lachie won’t have to do the job for a long time yet.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ Tracey raised her mug. ‘Any chance of seconds?’

  After the women had drifted to the river to smoke, Bob said, ‘Your friends are an eclectic bunch.’

  ‘They are.’ It was the easiest answer to avoid further comments.

  ‘Cinta’s conspiracy theories must test you though.’

  ‘Everyone’s got their idiosyncrasies.’

  ‘Hah! True, but in Cinta’s case, I think there’s some mental health issues at play as well.’

  Helen opened her mouth to object, but Bob hooked her gaze and said firmly, ‘I fish here a lot, Helen. Tonight’s not the first time I’ve shared a hot drink with Tracey.’

  ‘So you know?’

  ‘That they’re likely homeless? I had a fair idea. It’s bloody sad.’

  Helen wasn’t often lost for words but she was fighting to fi
nd any in a roiling sea of emotion. Bob had sat down and eaten with these women, treating them with respect and dignity without once giving away that he knew their circumstances.

  ‘Thanks for being kind,’ she managed.

  ‘Kindness doesn’t cost a thing.’ But he squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. ‘But it isn’t practical, like you throwing a dinner party. To be honest, I’ve wanted to do more, but had no idea where to start. Giving Tracey booze probably isn’t helpful.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. On a cold wet night, whiskey’s a warming balm. Don’t let your WASP morals get tangled up with practical help.’

  He laughed—a joyful rumbling sound that echoed around the park. ‘With a name like Murphy, I’m no more Protestant than the Pope. Mind you, I’m far more lapsed than he is. Give me the great outdoors over a church every time.’ He lifted Helen’s esky and placed it on the table. ‘I’m guessing there’s no point offering them any leftover food when they can’t refrigerate it.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘So how long have you been sharing your food?’

  ‘It’s not actually my food, but twice a week for the last year I’ve brought leftovers from the café.’

  His forehead creased. ‘That long? How come this is the first time I’ve seen you?’

  ‘I rotate through the parks on both sides of the river. Although as you can see, word gets around. If they can afford the petrol, they come and find me.’

  ‘Only women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit sexist?’

  Her jaw tightened and she counted to five. ‘I’m not defending my decision. It is what it is. I won’t turn a man away, but given how it’s usually men who’ve played varying roles in putting most of these women in their current situation, they prefer dinner to be a testosterone-free zone.’

  ‘What do you mean by varying roles?’

  ‘When a relationship breaks down, especially if violence is involved, then it’s the women who are forced to flee and leave everything behind.’

  ‘Sounds like it was an honour for them to include me tonight,’ he said.

  He kept surprising her. ‘When you turned up I was worried Roxy would send out the word to the others to stay away.’

  ‘Ah! So that’s the reason you didn’t greet me with open arms.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Tell yourself that.’

  Bob’s eyes crinkled up as a grin wrote itself across his face and then he winked at her.

  With a stomach-dropping thud, Helen realised he’d misconstrued her reply as flirting. God! Had she flirted? No. She hadn’t flirted in a thousand years and even then she hadn’t been any good at it. Besides, she was close to sixty. Did people their age even flirt? Of course they didn’t. Anyway, she was too busy surviving and helping others to do the same.

  Studiously ignoring the wink, she focused on rinsing out the cups before stacking them inside the plastic box and snapping down the lid.

  ‘So how many homeless people do you reckon we have in Boolanga?’ Bob asked, eventually breaking the silence.

  ‘It’s a transient population so it’s hard to say. But certainly more than the town’s limited emergency housing can accommodate.’

  ‘So it would be good to offer food on more nights?’

  ‘There’s a need.’

  ‘I’d like to help if I could. I don’t reckon I’m too old to dumpster dive.’

  ‘You’ve heard about dumpster diving?’ She couldn’t hide her incredulity.

  ‘I read The Age and listen to ABC Radio, Helen,’ he said mildly. ‘I’ve heard about the food waste and, as the young ones say, “I know stuff”.’

  Helen smiled despite herself. ‘They say that, do they?’

  ‘My nephew Lachie does.’ He grinned again. ‘Anyway, my point is, do we source more food so we can offer it on more nights?’

  We? ‘The food’s appreciated but it’s a stop-gap measure,’ she said. ‘The important thing is stable and affordable housing. When we get that right, everything else falls into place.’

  ‘Crikey.’ He ran his hand through his hair, which was remarkably thick for a bloke his age. ‘Where do you even start with something like that? The local MP? State or federal?’

  ‘It’s a combination of local council and state government.’

  ‘Sounds like you know a thing or two about it.’

  ‘I do.’ She wasn’t prepared to confess knowing homelessness herself, but after all the months working on the submission, she had an overwhelming need to share her vision. And Bob ticked all the boxes of being understanding, non-judgemental and wanting to make a difference. ‘You know that important project I said was under wraps?’

  ‘The one that will spread your time thin?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s a sustainable tiny housing project for women over fifty-five.’ And before he could query the gender, she said, ‘For a heap of reasons, they’re the fastest-growing homeless demographic.’

  ‘And this is the plan you mentioned the shire has for the old experimental farm?’

  Helen had never met a bloke who listened like Bob. ‘I’m hoping so. I’m still waiting to hear officially but Vivian Leppart’s confident. The land around the cottage is included in the plan and it will connect the village to the existing community garden. Each resident who wants a plot will have one.’

  ‘Something this big usually gets run up the local rag’s flagpole in the planning stages. Why haven’t I read anything about it before now?’

  ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ she quoted back at him. ‘There’s a lot of behind-the-scenes politicking. I’ve been working with the female councillors and they’re working on the men. Once we have the votes and the land’s officially ours, we’ll run a community awareness program outlining the benefits to Boolanga.’

  ‘Hmm …’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘You might find yourself up against some opposition.’

  ‘We live in a democracy and people are free to object, but at the end of the day, the shire doesn’t need the community’s permission to use the land. We’re not building close to any existing structures or affecting traffic flow and we’re not a greedy corporation. We’re building a small and tasteful housing project to alleviate a social problem. It ties in perfectly with the historical use of the land.’

  The women’s voices were now audible as they approached the pavilion and anxiety stirred Helen’s gut. She’d gone out on a limb trusting Bob and although most of her didn’t regret it, old habits die hard.

  ‘Don’t discuss the project with anyone until after it’s announced, okay?’

  ‘Not even with you?’

  ‘Not around flapping ears.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Your project’s as safe as houses.’

  ‘It’d better be.’ She turned and greeted the women. ‘I’ve got some strawberries. Anyone want to take some with them?’

  CHAPTER

  11

  Tara checked the time, feeling her frustration escalating until she was tapping her fingers on the store’s information desk.

  Leanne Gordon, pushing a trolley loaded with boxes of nails, paused on her way past. ‘What’s giving you frown lines now? I thought the police had been and said it was kids?’

  ‘They have and they did.’ The shop had been broken into again and this time the target was spray cans. Denny North had told them to expect another spate of street graffiti as if that hadn’t occurred to them. ‘Jon set up an appointment for me with Vivian Leppart, but she’s late and I’ve got another meeting.’

  Leanne snorted. ‘You mean lunch?’

  Leanne had worked for Hoopers for twenty-five years and what she didn’t know about the stock wasn’t worth knowing. But the usefulness of her vast knowledge was offset by an abrasive personality.

  Tara forced herself to laugh, allowing Leanne to think she was going to lunch with the girls instead of a training session with Zac. Jon would have a pink fit if she rescheduled Vivian for a gym session, but if the deputy may
or didn’t arrive in two minutes, she’d risk his wrath.

  ‘Tara!’ Vivian’s high heels clacked on the concrete floor as she strode towards her. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Could be better. We got broken into again last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Surely the police have got some leads by now?’

  ‘Theories but no leads. And to add insult to injury, our insurance company’s insisting we install CCTV.’ She almost added, ‘The shire needs to light the car park,’ but stopped. There was a time and a place, and today Vivian was a valued customer, not a councillor.

  Vivian handed her phone to Tara. ‘I need you to order these.’

  Tara studied the photo. It wasn’t often she coveted things but these intricate sea green, glass Italian tiles put her own bathroom in the shade. ‘These are incredible.’

  Vivian beamed. ‘Aren’t they? I saw them years ago in a gorgeous little hotel on the Amalfi Coast and I’ve been determined to have them ever since. Mind you, they’re not cheap. I’ve had to delay the renovation to save up for them.’

  ‘It will be so worth it.’

  ‘I can’t wait!’

  ‘You might have to,’ Leanne said drily. ‘Unless our Melbourne supplier has any in the back of his warehouse, they’ll be coming from Italy by ship.’

  ‘That would be worst case scenario,’ Tara said quickly, wishing Leanne had a clue about customer service. ‘Don’t worry, Vivian. We’ll contact every supplier in all the capitals before we order overseas.’

  ‘Thanks, Tara. I’ve spent the last five years scrimping and saving and putting up with that god-awful 1970s’ mission brown décor so I can do this extension properly. I’d hate for bathroom tiles to hold things up.’

  Tara calculated the nice profit Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel had already made from Vivian’s determination to ‘do it properly’ and continued to stroke her ego. ‘You’ve worked hard. You deserve this.’

  ‘I do. Unlike the mayoress.’

  It was no secret Vivian detested Sheree Rayson. Even if she hadn’t, the entire town was jealously agog at the mayor’s purchase of Ainslea Park, a stunning agistment property and riding school that came with a luxury home. The purchase had surprised everyone and Tara struggled to imagine the mayor, an overweight accountant, on a horse. But perhaps Ainslea Park was Sheree’s passion. Tara didn’t know either of the Raysons well enough to comment. But she did know the key to staying in business in a small town was to never badmouth one customer to another.