by Fiona Lowe
‘When she picked up the kids the other day, she asked me how you were. I said you were running around like a chook with its head cut off trying to do everything.’
‘Ian!’ Tara hated that the statuesque woman with the critical demeanour knew she was struggling.
He clicked his tongue. ‘Well, it’s true, love. The only thing I feel bad about is that Fiza went to the trouble of cooking something no one’s going to eat. But I plugged it in to be polite.’
‘Grandpa!’
A ball flew past Ian’s ear and he turned his attention back to the children.
Go and look after your husband. Fiza’s terse words rang in Tara’s head despite the fact she hadn’t seen her since they’d both stood at the entrance of A&E on the afternoon of Jon’s accident. Now a tangled mix of emotions battered her. Why did it have to be Fiza who’d cooked her a casserole? Why couldn’t it be Kelly or Rhianna?
She reluctantly lifted the slow cooker’s lid. White beans lay nestled in a thick tomato-based sauce. Ian was right—the kids would likely turn up their noses and refuse to eat this. Jon, never a fan of vegetarian food, probably wouldn’t want it either. It would end up languishing in a plastic container at the back of the fridge, slowly going mouldy, and she’d throw it out in a week’s time. May as well dump it now.
The tomato sauce plopped slowly, taunting her with unwanted obligation.
‘Fine!’ She ripped off the end of the baguette and dragged it through the contents before putting it in her mouth.
At first, all she was aware of was the heat of the sauce, but then the subtle flavours emerged—lamb stock, tomatoes, herbs and pepper. Damn. Why did it have to taste so good?
A thank-you note and a small gift of appreciation. The many lessons about manners drilled into her by her mother were never far away. Normally, Tara didn’t need reminding of her social obligations in or outside of work. She’d been the driving force behind Employee of the Month at the store, acknowledging hard work, innovation and kindness. Once, she’d given Kelly a voucher to Bathroom Pizazz just for taking Clementine to the movies. Now, guilt chafed against her reluctance and her tardiness in thanking Fiza. She’d justified not doing it by hiding behind the excuse of a blur of appointments and trying to make sense of what Jon’s diagnosis really meant for them as a family.
And because the woman always left her feeling wrong-footed.
Is that because you are?
She transferred the contents of the slow cooker into one of her casserole dishes and washed the large ceramic bowl. Then she riffled through her stash of cards, finally settling on a Royal Flying Doctors charity one covered in a mass of callistemon. She scrawled a brief note, which when she re-read it sounded stilted and polite rather than heartfelt, but she shoved it in an envelope anyway. Then she wrapped a small tube of hand cream, stuck the card to it and headed to the door. Halfway across the room she hesitated, doubled back to the gift cupboard and picked up a music voucher.
Calling out to Ian, ‘Back soon,’ she walked the length of the drive and around to the front door of the orange eyesore. Except it wasn’t an eyesore any more. The grass was mown, the garden beds were weed-free and the porch was swept.
Sucking in a deep breath, she rang the bell.
Heavy footsteps sounded and then a very tall and very black young man answered the door.
Tara swallowed, battling every previous reaction she’d ever experienced when she’d seen groups of black teenagers in town. She tried hard not to stare, but the darkness of his skin was luminous and hypnotising. He looked down at her from his impressive height, his expression neutral and his eyes wary.
‘Amal?’ He gave a slight nod of his head. ‘Hi. I’m Tara. Tara Hooper. From next door.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘I believe I have to thank you for helping my husband when he fell.’ She pushed the voucher at him. ‘And for looking after Flynn and Clementine.’
He stared at the rectangular piece of plastic with its distinctive logo, turning it over slowly in his hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Then his face lit with a smile, his teeth a dazzle of white. ‘Thanks. Is he better?’
‘Jon? He’s—’
‘Amal, who are you talking to?’ Fiza walked up the hall, her feet bare.
‘Mrs Hooper.’ Amal turned away from Tara. ‘Look what she gave me!’
‘Where are your manners! Invite Mrs Hooper inside.’
The teenager ducked as if Fiza was going to clip him on the back of the head. ‘Sorry, Mrs Hooper. Please. Come in.’
‘No. Really. It’s okay. I just wanted to return your slow cooker.’
Tara held out the bag but neither Fiza nor Amal reached to accept it. She could either lower it onto the stoop and walk away or step inside.
You have to thank her.
She crossed the threshold and almost tripped on all the shoes just inside the door. Toeing off her sandals, she followed Fiza and Amal into the kitchen that still had the original 1960s’ laminate benches and lime green tiles. Feeling out of place, Tara placed the bag on the bench and lifted out the slow cooker before resting the card and hand cream on top.
‘Thank you for the casserole. It was kind of you, but not at all necessary.’
Fiza switched on the kettle, then lifted two glasses out of the glass display cabinet above the island bench. Her silence unnerved Tara.
‘I really should get back to the children,’ she said.
‘They are safe. Your father is with them.’
Damn! Fiza could see Ian’s car from the kitchen window.
‘Father-in-law,’ Tara corrected weakly. ‘Jon’s dad. My father’s no longer alive. Or my mother.’ Shut up! You don’t have to tell her anything.
‘I am sorry for your loss.’ The words carried genuine sympathy.
‘Thank you, but it was a while ago now.’
‘This doesn’t mean you don’t miss them.’ Fiza poured tea into a glass and pushed it towards her. ‘Your husband’s father says things are difficult for you.’
It was enough that Fiza had insisted Tara come inside and drink tea. All she wanted to do was the bare minimum of polite. Discuss the weather.
‘Ian exaggerates.’
Fiza’s brows rose fast towards the band of her turban. ‘He is worried for your family.’
‘He should be more worried about his own health.’
‘Older people accept health challenges are part of ageing. But his son is a young man with a disease that will only get worse.’
A flash of anger flared from fear. ‘We don’t need your pity!’
‘You don’t have it. Pity is useless.’
The words hit Tara so hard she startled and knocked her tea. They both watched the line of amber fluid roll across the speckled bench, as if it promised them answers to impossibly difficult questions.
‘I appreciate you gave Amal a gift.’
Something about the soft way Fiza said it made Tara squirm. Guilt? Shame? In her heart, she knew she should have acknowledged their help much earlier than this.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said.
‘No! It is a lot.’ Fiza jerkily wiped a cloth across the spilled tea. ‘It means you see the truth.’
‘The truth?’
Fiza raised her gaze to Tara’s. ‘That my son is a kind and caring boy. I thank you for that.’
But the compliment sat like a stone in Tara’s gut, rubbing against the sharp edges of long-held beliefs.
The following day, Tara’s thoughts were still a jumbled mess as she pulled a wagon filled with punnets of seedlings down to Helen’s cottage. Given the last time she and Helen had talked it had hardly been cordial, she wasn’t certain of her reception. But during this morning’s stocktake of the garden section, she’d immediately thought of the community garden.
You’re really thinking of Fiza not Helen.
It was true. The night before, all through dinner, then Uno Attack and supervising the bedtime routine, Tara kept hearing her neighbour’s words—it means
you see the truth. What truth?
She couldn’t shift the question, so when everyone was finally in bed and she had some time to herself, she’d googled Sudan. According to Wikipedia, it was in north-eastern Africa, bordered by Egypt, Libya, Chad, the Central African Republic, Ethiopia, Eritrea, the Red Sea and South Sudan. That was news to her. She’d thought South Sudan was just a geographical reference. She’d never even heard of the Central African Republic, and the little she knew about Eritrea and Ethiopia she’d learned years ago from watching a horrifying World Vision documentary about starving children.
She’d scrolled past the prehistoric information and read about the Egyptian then British rule in Sudan and how they’d administered the north and south separately. How the north was predominantly Muslim and the south Christian and Animist, and how the country had been ravaged by drought, floods and civil war, and the enormous numbers of displaced persons in and outside the country.
She’d just started reading that the legal system in Sudan was based on Islamic Sharia law when Clemmie wandered out, rubbing her eyes and wanting a glass of water and a cuddle. This was a nightly occurrence since Jon’s diagnosis and Tara was on alert for other signs of stress in the children. By the time she’d resettled Clemmie, it was late and she’d tumbled exhausted into bed.
Now, standing in front of the deserted cottage, she was struck by its air of ennui. ‘Has Helen moved?’ she asked one of the Hazara women she recognised from the morning tea weeks earlier.
‘She lives with Jade now.’
Tara momentarily considered leaving the plants with the women. They certainly knew how to grow things—their beds were lush with herbs and vegetables. But for reasons she didn’t fully wish to acknowledge, she wanted to give the plants directly to Helen.
As soon as she walked through the decorative gates of the community garden, Judith rushed over.
‘Tara! You poor girl! Ian told me. And the children are so young. What a tragic thing to happen to you all. I can’t imagine …’
Tara stiffened in the woman’s unwelcome embrace. As word trickled out around town about Jon’s Parkinson’s, people’s reactions to the news seemed to fall into one of two camps. They either completely ignored it or were overly dramatic with cloying sympathy. She got a sudden flash of Fiza’s proud face. Pity is useless.
Extricating herself from the hug, Tara straightened her shoulders. ‘Jon’s not dead.’
‘Of course, and you’re so brave.’ Judith patted her hand, then noticed the wagon. ‘What have you got there?’
Desperate to change the subject, Tara blurted, ‘Plants we can’t sell because they’re not perfect. I wondered if the community garden might like them?’
Judith frowned at the selection, which was a mixture of overgrown seedlings—some slightly yellow—along with some established plants that needed repotting or immediate planting. She clicked her tongue. ‘We’re not miracle workers, dear.’
Tara’s grip on the handle tightened so fast her hand cramped. ‘So that’s a no?’
‘Perhaps these.’ Judith picked up the healthiest punnets of strawberries and lettuces. ‘Any chance of some Seasol to go with them?’
Only Judith would infer Tara was giving away dead plants and then expect a donation of fertiliser.
‘Actually, it’s part of our catalogue sale,’ Tara said sweetly. ‘Pop in to the store this week and you’ll save a few dollars.’
‘Judith!’ A woman waved from the shade of the shelter. ‘Quick chat before the meeting?’
‘Coming.’ Judith turned back to Tara. ‘Sorry, dear. I need to go. Bit of a committee crisis.’
As Judith hurried away, Tara pulled out her phone. Bypassing a forest of non-urgent text messages from the school and the store, she brought up Helen’s number.
‘Tara?’ Helen was walking towards her dressed in her usual flannel shirt and work boots, but this time she carried a compendium instead of a trowel.
‘Hi, Helen. I was just about to ring you. I called in to the cottage but you’ve moved.’
‘To be precise, I was moved out. The official line is the cottage is uninhabitable.’
‘It could do with some love but uninhabitable’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?’ Tara remembered the solid bones of the cottage and the original features. ‘Is the shire going to renovate it or sell it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Helen’s gaze drifted to the wagon. ‘What have you got there?’
‘I wondered if you or the women in your garden might be interested in rescuing these plants?’
Helen’s eyes lit up. ‘They don’t look like they need too much rescuing, just a bit of love. Thanks for thinking of us.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Warmth replaced the chagrin instilled by Judith. ‘I can’t believe how well all the garden beds are doing. The women have green thumbs.’
‘Have you told your husband about the garden yet?’
Tara hesitated. The truth was no, but the reason behind her not telling Jon had changed. Parkinson’s had cast a new light on many things. ‘Things have been a bit hectic …’
If Helen thought the answer odd she didn’t press for more details. ‘Things have been a bit hectic here too. A few weeks ago some morons did some damage next door.’
Tara looked through the cyclone fence at the healthy beds and saw tall straight leafy stalks. ‘Fiza’s maize looks unscathed.’
‘You’ve met Fiza since the morning tea?’
Tara would have needed to be deaf not to hear the surprise in Helen’s voice. ‘Yes. She’s our neighbour.’
Helen’s brows hit her hairline. ‘What does your husband think of that?’
Despite the unforgiving kernel of truth that neither she nor Jon had wanted the Atallahs as neighbours, Tara bristled. ‘Actually, we both appreciated Fiza and Amal’s help when Jon injured himself recently.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Not exactly.’
Why did you say that? But the genuine concern woven into the deep lines on Helen’s face reminded her of her mother. If Jane was still alive, she would have been the first person Tara told.
‘Jon’s been diagnosed with young Parkinson’s disease. We’re …’ Gutted? Angry? ‘Adjusting.’
‘I imagine getting the diagnosis was the equivalent of being knocked off your feet by a rogue wave, inhaling water and being spat onto the sand gasping for air.’
It was the first time anyone had come close to describing exactly how Tara was feeling and she couldn’t completely stifle the sob rising in her throat. ‘How did you know?’
Sadness clung to the corners of Helen’s eyes. ‘I’ve been around the block a few times, Tara. Life can sucker punch you hard.’
‘It’s done that. I mean, don’t get me wrong—Jon’s not so bad yet that he needs round-the-clock care or anything—but …’
‘You’re doing things for him you never expected,’ Helen said.
‘On the bad days, yes. But even on good days he’s exhausted by seven, so I’m doing more of everything at work, at home and with the kids.’
‘I’m sure you’ve got family and friends falling over themselves to help.’
The dull ache under her ribs twisted sharply. ‘Actually, we’re a little short on family. I’ve always thought we were surrounded by friends, but …’
‘When a crisis hits, it’s never the people you expect who step up,’ Helen said sagely. ‘How did Amal help?’
‘I was out and Jon fell. He’s a big man and when he couldn’t stand up, Amal helped. Then he looked after Clemmie and Flynn while Fiza took Jon to hospital.’
‘That sounds like Amal. He’s often here in the garden helping Fiza. Like most refugee kids, he’s had to grow up fast.’ Helen’s fingers fiddled with the zip on her compendium. ‘Did you know the police interview Amal every time something’s stolen in this town?’
‘They’re just doing their job,’ she said firmly, thinking about the times the police had been called to the store.
‘Even when
the kid has an alibi? Fiza moved out of town so the police would stop associating Amal with Tranquillity Park, but it hasn’t changed a thing. The night of the garden damage he was at home studying for his exams.’
‘So why would the police interview him if they knew that?’
‘You once told me that African kids are running wild in this town.’
‘Just because Amal has an alibi doesn’t prove there aren’t other kids behind the break-ins.’
‘That’s true, but it doesn’t prove those other kids are black. The police target them first. I’m worried for him, Tara. I was with him at the police station when he was being harassed—’
‘Harassed? Really? Surely that’s an exaggeration. We live in a democracy.’
Helen’s mouth flattened into a hard line. ‘We live in a country where some people are afforded more rights than others, often based around an accident of birth. Of course the police don’t call it harassment, they call it interviewing. Following up leads. How would you feel if those leads brought the police to your door every time something was stolen?’
Tara heard an accusation. ‘Jon and I didn’t ask the police to target anyone. We just want them to find the culprits and stop the break-ins.’
‘So does Amal. Right now the young man who responded to a plea for help is being unfairly treated. He needs a break or he’ll end up doing something stupid because no one other than his mother believes in him.’
Amal is a good boy! The memory of Fiza furiously defending her son at the hospital rushed back. At the time, Tara had been indignant that Fiza was criticising her right to question whether a teenage boy she’d never met was capable of minding her children. But it wasn’t only that Amal was a teenager or a boy.
Tara had stood in this garden once before and told Helen she wasn’t racist. But now she couldn’t hide from the uncomfortable truth that if Amal had been white, she probably wouldn’t have questioned the children’s safety quite so vigorously. Fiza had reacted to her casual racism and why wouldn’t she? If Amal was always assumed guilty and needed to prove his innocence even when he was ten kilometres away from the scene of the crime, it would jaundice their view of the world.