A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  What the hell?

  Even though Corey didn’t leave notes she looked around for one, trying to make sense of why he’d left without telling her. She checked her phone for a text. Nothing.

  Something made her open the fridge. An empty cardboard wrapper sat on the top shelf. Understanding dawned, bringing relief. He’d gone to buy beer.

  She closed the fridge and noticed the cake. It looked like it had been hit by a chocolate avalanche—the fondant icing hung jagged and loose and a gaping hole existed where cake had once sat. The number one candle lay broken, snapped at its base.

  She closed her eyes. Corey wouldn’t have grabbed a hunk of cake like a caveman. Not when he knew how much she wanted a photo of the three of them with Milo blowing out his candle. But when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed.

  ‘I can fix this.’

  Blinking furiously, her fingers pushed the fallen cake upwards and tugged the edges of the icing together. But it wouldn’t knit. It was as torn and damaged as her heart.

  CHAPTER

  19

  ‘Helen?’ Bob’s voice drifted through the screen door. ‘You there?’

  She had her head in the fridge organising the leftover party food and before she’d given it any real thought, she was calling out, ‘Door’s open.’

  A second later, Bob was standing in her kitchen for the first time and holding a small bunch of sweet william.

  She hauled herself to her feet and shot the flowers a suspicious look. ‘Who are those for?’

  ‘You. A thank you for clearing up after the party.’

  ‘Give them to Lachlan. He did the lion’s share.’

  ‘He probably wanted to keep busy. Were the women okay? Something like that’s pretty rattling.’

  Helen sighed, understanding perfectly. ‘And to think I was worried about Judith making a scene. She’s got nothing on Corey.’

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘Take a number.’

  ‘I’ll take a cuppa if you’re offering.’ He dropped his hat on the table. ‘I didn’t think he was even on the scene. I’ve never heard Jade talk about him, have you?’

  ‘She’s twenty, Bob, and we’re older than dinosaurs.’ She pulled mugs out of the cupboard.

  ‘Nah, that’s ninety-eight.’ He winked. ‘Me, I’m still in my prime.’

  ‘Have you always been this infuriatingly optimistic?’

  He laughed. ‘Yep. Only way to survive being a farmer.’

  ‘And your wife?’ God, what was she doing? ‘Sorry, don’t answer that. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘What happened to Pen’s not a state secret. In fact, one of the first signs things weren’t right was her sudden pessimism and suspicion of people.’ He stirred milk into his tea. ‘Alzheimer’s. She died last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise your loss was so recent.’

  ‘It’s only recent in terms of her physical death. The disease swallowed my darling Pen three years ago.’

  His words summoned thoughts of Nicki. Her own unrelenting grief.

  ‘Was her illness why you sold the farm?’

  ‘No. We’d already sold the farm and moved into town anticipating retirement. We set off with the caravan, intending to take a year to go around Australia. Wilpena Pound was the first place Pen got lost on her way back from the toilet block. We laughed, saying all the trees looked the same. But it kept happening. She’d go to the supermarket and come back with strange combinations of food, but it only occurred to me there was something seriously wrong when she navigated us into a river.

  ‘That’s when I realised she could no longer read the map. Things went down fast after that. Pen loved bushwalking but she started taking off on her own and getting lost. When she forgot to turn off the stove, I realised she was no longer safe. We couldn’t get a nursing home bed in Boolanga when we needed it, but there was one in Wang, so I moved in with Debbie. Lachie’s mum.’

  ‘Did a new town worsen your wife’s confusion?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I put the standard lamp she’d always knitted under and her favourite chair in the room and initially she thought she was at the farmhouse. After that, there were months when she was convinced she was at teachers’ college and then, at the end, her childhood home.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘She didn’t recognise me for the last year.’

  Too many times Helen had thought the same about Nicki.

  ‘It pulls your heart out of your chest,’ she said.

  ‘Yep. Over and over. But believing she enjoyed my company in the moment, even if she didn’t remember me, helped.’ His eyes filmed as memories flooded his face.

  Helen’s hand rose, heading towards his, before she realised what she was doing. Unwise. Stop. Shocked, she pulled back fast, fisting her hand in her lap. Empathy was one thing. Physically touching him was another thing entirely.

  Bob cleared his throat. ‘Do you reckon we should call Jade?’

  ‘If she wants help, she’s got our numbers, but I doubt she’ll call. For all that Corey’s obnoxious and racist, I’ve never seen any signs on Jade that he’s physically hurting her. And she gets around in those short-shorts and tank tops so we’d have seen the bruises.’

  Bob gave her a long look. ‘That’s not a very high bar.’

  ‘It’s the important one.’

  ‘Emotional abuse causes as many scars. I might pop in on my way home.’

  ‘And what if you popping in pisses off Corey and makes things worse? Don’t go using your happy marriage as the measuring stick for everyone else’s relationships. Most won’t come close.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’

  Her empathy for him shut down fast and she stood, wishing she’d never invited him in.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment. When you’ve finished your tea, lock the door on your way out.’

  Helen’s ‘appointment’ was at the library. She checked her email, bracing herself for negative ones, but for the first time in a few weeks it was thankfully vitriol-free. She was excited to see the Facebook page now had over fifteen hundred likes. Some of the comments made her cringe, but none of them called her a whore, bitch or worse so they were an improvement on the emails.

  Jade had explained how the more likes the page received, the higher its visibility. Most people wrote messages of support for the tiny houses village, and there were three messages from successful co-housing projects offering advice and assistance. The Landcare group had messaged, wanting to talk to Helen. They were worried if a resort was built, the nature corridor along the river would be lost to the community, or worse, lost completely.

  She released a slew of comments onto the page, including one that said Geoff Rayson needs to rethink his priorities. Then in a show of solidarity for Landcare, she wrote a post highlighting their concerns and used one of their photos of the river. She logged out and walked to the café for her shift.

  When she got home four hours later, she found dishes dry in the drainer and her kitchen tidier than when she’d left. The bunch of sweet william nestled in a glass of water next to a note that looked like it had been written with a carpenter’s pencil—the letters printed, solid and thick. Thanks for the cuppa. See you at park food. Bob.

  Between the garden, the farmers’ market, the food nights and his help with the campaign, she was seeing a lot of Bob. She couldn’t decide if that was a problem or not.

  She headed off to bed to the tunes of a cicada band, the soothing hoot of owls and the nails-down-the-blackboard screeches of the flying foxes. Exhausted after a huge day, she shoved in earplugs and fell asleep.

  She woke with a start, her heart leaping into her mouth and sweat beading on her skin. Lying rigid, she tugged the earplugs out and strained to hear whatever had ripped her out of a deep sleep. Thick and suffocating silence pressed in on her. She held her breath, waiting for it to break. For the danger to reveal itself.

  When it didn’t, she slowly released her breath and let her head fall b
ack on the pillow. It must have been a nightmare. The thought depressed her. After three years of stable housing, she’d thought those terrors were long gone.

  Pulling up the sheet to her chin, she closed her eyes and rolled over. A jangling noise crashed around her, the sound old but familiar from her childhood—of dustbin lids being crashed together like cymbals. Wheelie bins didn’t make that metallic clash.

  The new shed! Bloody kids!

  She lurched to her feet, grabbed her phone and bat light and dragged open the front door. Swearing at the hedge blocking her view and with her heart pounding, she forced herself to step off the safety of the veranda. In her shaking hand, the white LED beam of her torch bounced wildly as she tried to find the shed. When she did, the door was hanging open.

  She arced the light again and this time caught sight of two dark shapes running into the orchard. Bastards!

  ‘Keep going!’ she yelled.

  She counted to fifty, watching and listening keenly, but there was no more movement or human-made noise. She did another sweep with the torch, but the garden was empty.

  Should she ring the police?

  She trudged up to the shed to see if they’d stolen anything. They’d used boltcutters on the padlock, but a quick glance showed all the tools in place on the shadow board and shovels and forks hanging on their allotted rack. Thank goodness one of the buggers had let the door bang and she’d disturbed them before they could pilfer anything. Although why would teenagers want garden equipment?

  It was probably just part of a dare. That had been Trent and Jax’s motivation three years earlier.

  She checked her phone: 03:51 am. There was no point waking up the good sergeant. She’d call him at eight.

  After tossing and turning from four until seven, Helen was pulling on thick socks when loud and rapid thumping on the front door made her jump.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called.

  ‘Jade. Open the door!’

  Was Jade hiding from Corey? Helen half ran, half slid along the bare boards. She flung the door open, grabbed Jade and pulled her and the pram into the hall. Then she kicked the door shut so hard the slam vibrated the glass in the windows.

  Milo screamed.

  ‘Does he have a gun?’ Helen asked. ‘I’ll ring the police.’

  Jade was unbuckling Milo. ‘What the hell are you doing? You’ve just scared the shi—shirt out of him.’

  Indignation poured through Helen. ‘I’m keeping you safe.’

  Jade straightened, her expression confused. ‘From what?’

  ‘From who.’

  Jade’s eyes lit up in triumph. ‘From whom.’

  ‘Fine! But save the grammar discussion for later. Does Corey know you’re here?’

  Her eyes dimmed but her chin lifted. ‘No.’

  ‘Does he know you’ve left your place?’

  ‘No.’ Jade chewed her lip. ‘And I don’t know where he is. Probably halfway to God knows where.’

  ‘Then why are you hammering down my door like the hounds of hell are on your heels?’

  ‘Because some bastard’s wrecked my flower bed! They’ve snapped off half my plants and stomped on the others. They pulled out the bedhead and dropped it on Kubra’s chives and they ripped Fiza’s tent. Some of the maize plants are broken. But the worst thing—’ her voice cracked, breaking with despair, ‘—the disgusting deviants shat on my daisies. Who would do that?’

  Helen thought about the shadowy figures running towards the orchard. Remembered the ugly words Corey had spoken at the party.

  ‘Corey doesn’t like you being here, does he?’

  Jade looked at her feet. ‘No.’

  ‘So he has a reason to destroy your garden bed.’

  Her head shot up. ‘He doesn’t even know I have a garden bed! Anyway, he’s not like that. It was probably those African kids The Standard’s always talking about.’

  ‘Why would they damage Fiza’s tent and her plants?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Helen made herself give Jade’s shoulder a pat. ‘I understand what’s happened is upsetting, but the worst thing we can do is attribute blame before we have the facts.’

  ‘A minute ago you were blaming Corey!’

  ‘No. I was pointing out he has more reasons to hurt you than some random kids.’

  ‘Corey wouldn’t …’ Jade bit her lip.

  But Helen knew all about angry young men. ‘I know you don’t want him to have done it, but that’s not always enough. Let’s call the police and then we’ll ring everyone else.’

  Every time Jade looked at her flower bed, tears formed. Then she flushed hot with anger at herself. What was wrong with her? Who cried over a garden bed? But since finishing school and giving birth to Milo, the garden was the first activity that was just for her. She hated that some prick had stormed in to deliberately destroy it.

  Helen thought it was Corey, and Jade resented her for that. Sure, he’d wrecked her cake, but everyone knew when the munchies hit they needed to be satisfied. It didn’t mean he’d wrecked her garden. Hell, he didn’t even know which bed was hers.

  You should have been home waiting for me instead of here with stinking scum.

  She tried shaking away Corey’s words, but like borers tunnelling relentlessly into wood, they ate into her confidence.

  Did Macca know about the garden? She’d come here straight after he’d taken the PlayStation. Had he followed her?

  A flash of colour caught Jade’s attention and she looked up. Fiza was rushing straight to the torn tent and snapped maize. She cried out and sank to her knees, her distress blooming like a mushroom cloud and drifting over to envelop Jade. She’d never seen Fiza other than happy and her audible wailing grief unsettled her. It was embarrassing.

  Jade didn’t know what to do, especially when Fiza picked up the broken plants and buried them as carefully as if they were human. That felt private—something she shouldn’t interrupt.

  Eventually, the need to commiserate over their joint heartache propelled Jade up the hill. Fiza was stroking the leaves on the surviving maize and murmuring something unintelligible to them. Jade itched with awkwardness. Fiza’s face was wet and shiny with tears, and the droop of her usually square shoulders made her look as broken as the maize.

  Something deep inside Jade ached and she didn’t want to feel it. It was a path leading to a dark place she had no intention of revisiting.

  ‘Why are you even growing maize anyway?’ Her words came out harsher than she’d intended.

  ‘For my father. For my heart.’

  The prickling sensation morphed into rushing heat. Jade’s father didn’t give a shit about her, but Fiza’s dad must have loved her if she was planting things for him on the other side of the world.

  ‘If you miss him so much, why did you come to Australia without him?’ she asked.

  ‘I did not choose to leave him or Sudan.’

  Jade thought about leaving Finley. She’d hardly chosen to do that and even though it was only a couple of hours down the road, it may as well have been a plane ride away. When she’d told Charlene she was pregnant, her mother had stormed into Jade’s bedroom and taken what she’d wanted—dresses, make-up and her stash of cash—before dumping everything else, including her books, into two-dollar-shop bags and throwing them outside into the rain. She thought about how Charlene had screamed at her, calling her a slut, telling her to never come back unless she got rid of ‘the brat’. How Corey had insisted they leave town.

  ‘Did someone make you leave?’ she asked.

  Fiza looked at her then with strangely empty eyes. She laughed, only it was nothing like the usual tinkling happy sound that matched her colourful clothes. She stood, her beautiful face twisted and ugly, her eyes flashing with angry light.

  ‘Who does this in Australia? Why here, where people have so much?’

  Jade squirmed. ‘I dunno. Amal might know?’

  ‘No!’ Fiza’s yell reverberated around the garden. ‘My son was at home
with me. He did not do this!’

  ‘He might know something though. Stuff like that gets talked about at school. At Tranquillity.’

  But Fiza wasn’t listening. She was watching Helen and a police officer Jade recognised walking up the hill. She’d met him a few times before. Not that she was going to admit to that in front of Helen and Fiza.

  ‘Ladies, this is Constable Tom Fiora,’ Helen said. ‘Constable, this is Jade Innes and Fiza Atallah. Their garden beds sustained the most damage.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ The police officer looked straight at Jade. ‘Helen says Corey might have decided to defecate on your daisies. Is he at home for a chat?’

  Corey had priors—dumb stuff from when he was a kid, like nicking a car for a joy ride and some bottles of Bundy from the Bottle-O. It marked him, so whenever the police turned up ‘for a chat’, Jade played dumb. At least this time she didn’t have to lie.

  ‘He shot through at six last night. Haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Any idea where he might be?’

  Macca came to mind, but if Corey was still in town the police would find him without her help. ‘No.’

  ‘Did he hurt you last night?’

  ‘He wasn’t around long enough to do that.’ The words came out uncensored, shocking her. Helen pursed her lips and that was enough to light Jade’s fuse. ‘What? It’s the truth, okay.’

  But Helen remained silent.

  The copper wrote something in his book, then turned his attention to Fiza. ‘Anyone you know who might have done this, Mrs Atallah?’

  Fiza’s hands balled into fists by her sides. ‘Are you talking in general or specifics? Half the town is unhappy that people like me live here.’

  ‘Are you aware of anyone in town who might want to upset you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyone in your own community?’

  Fiza’s eyes narrowed. ‘Boolanga is my community.’

  The policeman flushed. ‘I meant, any Africans.’

  ‘Africa is a continent,’ Fiza muttered. ‘No.’

  ‘You have children, Mrs Atallah?’

  ‘You know I do.’