by Fiona Lowe
But the thought didn’t reassure her enough not to glance around, seeking the dark outline of a human. Of a man. All she saw was suffocating dark.
Trembling, she slammed the hatch shut and locked herself into the car. Breathe.
She rested her hands lightly on the steering wheel and concentrated on long calm deep breaths, frustrated she’d allowed that time in her life to come back and haunt her. Worse still, when there was no reason.
I am safe. I am calm. I am safe.
With her heart no longer flinging itself against her ribs, she started the ignition and drove towards the road. Lights came on and followed her. She must have taken longer than she’d realised to pull herself together and Roxy was on her way to the RSL to nurse a drink until closing.
Helen pulled onto Riverfarm Road and the car followed. At the intersection, she flicked on her left indicator then held up her hand to the rear-view mirror and waved—the RSL was in the opposite direction.
She turned. The car followed, its headlights flicking to high beam and blinding her. A tingling rush of goosebumps prickled. She squinted. Was it Roxy’s car? She’d never been good at identifying vehicles and the bright lights made it impossible.
If it was Roxy, was she trying to tell Helen something? But surely she’d flash the headlights. Or call her. What if she was out of credit? Then she’d toot.
Helen sped up. The car kept pace. She slowed and it slowed, showing no signs of wanting to overtake. Agitation pummelled her, putting every cell on high alert. If she drove home, she’d be showing whoever it was where she lived. She gasped, as a streak of protection for Jade and Milo shocked her.
She couldn’t go home but where could she go? The police station was in the opposite direction and there was no guarantee it would be staffed at this time of night. Still, was driving past it a message?
Her navigational skills—never great in daylight—were now overlaid by the dark and blind panic. She took random left and right turns, not recognising the streets but trying to find her way to the police station. The car followed, sticking like glue.
After her eighth turn, she was halfway down a street when she passed a ute with a distinctive worm logo parked outside a Californian bungalow. Lachlan. Without thinking, she turned hard left and straight into a driveway.
Hitting the brakes, she grabbed her phone, her fingers reaching for 000.
The car didn’t slow. It kept driving.
Her phone fell into her lap and her body crumpled, unable to hold itself upright. What could she say to the police? A car followed me to a destination I had no intention of coming to and then kept driving? That wasn’t following. That was a coincidence. She couldn’t identify the car and she didn’t even have the registration to give them.
Even in her frazzled state, she recognised how flaky the story sounded. This was Boolanga! Population 7800, with fifty per cent of residents aged over sixty-five. The highbeam lights were probably a confused octogenarian.
Except she hadn’t seen any elderly people at the park. Then again, apart from the women, she hadn’t noticed anyone else at the park tonight.
There was a knock on the window. She screamed.
A figure jumped back. ‘Steady, Helen. It’s me. Lachlan.’
She recognised his voice and fumbled with her seatbelt. With a strength of will she didn’t know she had, she forced her wobbly legs to cooperate and heaved herself out of the car.
‘Sorry, Helen. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. It’s just when I heard the car and no one knocked, I came out to see who it was.’
‘Right,’ she managed to stammer.
‘It’s nice of you to pop in and check on Uncle Bob. Come in and I’ll put the kettle on.’
Daisy greeted Helen by nuzzling her hand, then shook her head as if to say ‘follow me’. Soon Helen was standing at the end of Bob’s bed, looking at a washed-out version of the man who was usually so full of energy.
‘Grey’s not your colour,’ she said.
‘No? I thought I could carry it off.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?’
‘Didn’t want to worry you. Looks like that didn’t work.’ He winked at her.
The man was incorrigible. Even flattened by gastroenteritis he was still flirting. She opened her mouth to tell him her presence had nothing to do with being worried about him, but that opened her up to the real reason.
‘I’m only here because the women at park food missed you. I figured you didn’t need Cinta and her theories of deliberate water contamination visiting you.’
He pressed his hand to his heart. ‘Admit it. You do care.’
‘Lachlan, did you give him something more than Gastrolyte?’
Lachlan grinned. ‘He’s been pretty happy since I brought him home from hospital. I think they gave him a happy shot.’
‘Hospital?’ The evening’s agitation stirred again. ‘You went to hospital?’
‘He couldn’t keep anything inside him either end,’ Lachlan said. ‘When he—’
‘That’ll do, Lachie!’ Two spots of pink stained Bob’s sallow cheeks. ‘Helen doesn’t need to hear all about that, thanks very much.’
Helen stifled a smile, understanding completely. Age made no difference; dignity was everything.
‘Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some chicken soup for when you’re allowed more than Gastrolyte.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Of course I don’t, but I want to.’
‘Thanks.’
Bob smiled and something hard inside her softened.
CHAPTER
29
Sunshine streamed into the meeting room at the library where Jade and Helen sat scanning the social pages in back issues of The Standard. Initially, Jade had thought reading the social pages would be boring, but it was turning out to be pretty interesting. Not that she knew any of the people whose photos seemed to pop up every week. But whoever they were, they were busy being seen at everything from openings to awards dinners, theatre nights, shire events and fundraisers.
As the research had been Bob’s idea, Jade had thought he and Helen would do it together, but over a lunch of chicken soup Bob had said, ‘You’re the digital native, Jade. You and Helen go to the library, and me and Milo will go to the park and feed the ducks.’
‘Shouldn’t you have a nap?’ Helen said.
Jade had never seen Bob look anything close to grumpy, but his mouth had hardened and he’d narrowed his eyes at Helen. ‘I don’t need a nap!’
‘You’ve just spent two days in bed.’
‘And now I’m fine. Don’t fuss.’
Jade had laughed out loud. ‘Fuss? Helen doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’
But for some reason, a smile had woven through the silver stubble on Bob’s face, and Helen had suddenly started clearing the table, not looking at either of them.
‘There’s no way we’ll ever be in one of these photos,’ Jade said now.
Helen looked up from the iPad. ‘Why’s that?’
‘We don’t have an expensive blonde bob.’
‘There is a certain look, isn’t there.’
‘Lucky Vivian’s a councillor,’ Jade added. ‘Or perhaps she’s the diversity shot because she’s got dark hair.’
Helen’s face crinkled into a sea of lines and then she was shaking with laughter. ‘You’ve got a wicked sense of humour, Jade. You’re also very astute.’
A sneaky warm feeling cuddled her. ‘Thanks.’
Things had changed between them since the night Helen told her she’d been homeless. People with money never lived with that fear or breathed the utter helplessness of having nowhere to go. They didn’t understand that no matter how careful you were with money, it was almost impossible to stay even the smallest amount on the black side of red. But Helen knew. Helen understood the fear that glowed inside Jade like a nightlight—low but constant—that despite her rigid budgeting and skippi
ng lunch most days, it could still happen to her and Milo.
Not that Helen didn’t still drive her nuts sometimes. The woman was a neat freak—who folded fitted sheets? But for all her mutterings about ‘mess’, Jade knew the older woman was trying hard to treat her as an adult and a housemate. She loved the way they planned their meals and shopped together. Helen mostly ignored Milo, but she’d bought a basket at the op shop for his toys. Milo thought it was the best joke ever to tip it over, laughing as toys spilled across the floor.
‘Why are the women always better dressed than the blokes at these gigs?’ Jade asked.
‘I think most women have a complicated relationship with clothes and make-up.’
‘But not you?’ she teased, expecting Helen to roll her eyes. But the older woman gave her a long look and she braced herself for a snarky comment.
‘Can you see me wearing those clothes gardening, frying food or serving food to homeless women? I do own a nice dress. I just don’t have any occasions to wear it.’
Despite the crisp way Helen spoke, Jade heard the sadness and it drifted into her. If Helen had a nice dress, did it mean that back in the day she’d been invited to events like in the paper? Helen didn’t say much about her life before she arrived in Boolanga, but Jade sensed it had been different.
The despondent feeling deepened. She didn’t even own a nice dress—not since Charlene had sold them. And apart from the year twelve formal, she’d never been to anything swanky.
Her phone beeped with a Facebook notification and she turned it screen down so she wasn’t tempted by the distraction. She returned to reading, clicking through the pages, looking for anything that might be a clue to the mayor’s activities. Anything that might shine a light on how he and his wife could afford Ainslea Park. There were photos of him at the ANZAC Day service with the local veterans, with polo players at an event sponsored by Ainslea Park and at the Mad Monday parade at the end of the footy season. Jade was surprised that whoever created the meme of him on the camel had missed this photo of him wearing a Boolanga Brolgas footy jumper and a blue tutu. None of the photos linked Geoff Rayson with anyone.
Her phone vibrated and she turned it over, checking it wasn’t Bob. The number of notifications on Facebook had rocketed up and she clicked through to read them.
‘Jeez, Helen. Who have you upset this time?’
Helen didn’t look up from the iPad. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The Facebook pages for the garden and the tiny houses are being trolled.’
‘As in little men under bridges?’
Jade rolled her eyes. ‘As in people who go online and make trouble. Apparently you’re a communist, a bleeding heart and un-Australian.’
‘Oh, is that all. I’ve been getting emails on and off for months saying that and worse.’
‘They also called you a garden wrecker.’
‘What?’ Helen looked up, hurt in her eyes. ‘Who said that?’
‘Trolls don’t use their real names. They’ve also called you a wog and say “go back to where you came from”.’
Helen snorted. ‘What, Melbourne? I was born there.’
Jade screwed up her face. ‘Oh, hang on. I’m not sure that one’s for you. It’s written under the group photo I took in front of Fiza’s maize.’
‘Sometimes this bloody town …’ Helen sucked in a deep breath. ‘Are any of the names an anagram of Judith Sainsbury? She’s determined to get rid of me and the refugees.’
Anxiety flushed agitation through Jade. ‘Can she really shut down the extension?’
‘She’d have to convince four councillors and, as we know, that’s hard work so it’s unlikely to happen. But just in case, we need to keep posting photos about the success of the garden. Show how it’s not only benefitting the community but meeting the garden’s objectives. Tara Hooper’s putting photos up on the hardware store’s page too, which will—what do you call it?—“extend our reach”?’
‘Yeah, that’s good because it’s different people. I could write something about how the garden brings women together. I mean, I didn’t even know where Afghanistan was before I met Aima and I’d never eaten bolanis. Now I love them.’
‘That’s a great idea, but I doubt The Standard will print it.’
Jade waved her hand. ‘I’m thinking a lot bigger than the scummy Standard. Mrs Kastrati was always banging on about the power of the word. If we got some attention about our garden in Shepparton or in Melbourne, or in online spaces like Medium and Mamamia, then if that old witch Judith tries to shut us down we’ll have way more support than her poxy committee.’
‘You’re starting to think like a lobbyist.’
‘Is that good?’
‘It is for the garden. It’d be great if you could mention the tiny houses project in your article.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ Jade still thought Helen should broaden the scope of her project and open it up to single mothers.
Helen adjusted her glasses and returned her gaze to the screen, and Jade typed some points on her phone for the article.
‘Well, hello,’ Helen said.
‘Have you found something?’
‘Maybe. Can you google Andrew Tucker.’
Jade typed in the name. ‘It says he’s a property developer. There’s pictures of paddocks and then houses and factories. A diversified business with successful industrial and residential development in Melbourne’s south-east.’
‘What else?’
Jade clicked back to the search page. ‘There’s a few mentions of Sino-Austral Investments.’
‘Is there a website for that?’
Jade typed in the company name and waited for the page to load. Images of emerald green golf courses slid across the screen. ‘There’s a hotel and golf course in Queensland and a resort on the Mornington Peninsula.’
Helen glanced at the screen and pointed to the logo of the company. ‘Do Sino and Austral mean anything to you?’
Jade remembered Mrs Kastrati talking about root and stem words. ‘Austral is probably something to do with Australia. All I can think for sino is it’s connected to sinuses, which are holes in your skull. But that doesn’t make sense here.’
‘Sino is a very old name for China. It either comes from ancient Greek or Sanskrit.’
‘Cool.’ Jade loved a fun fact and she filed it away to tell Lachlan. ‘So you reckon Sino-Austral Investments is an Australian company doing deals with China?’
‘I’m wondering. The golf courses and resorts are a big flag.’ Helen sat forward. ‘Let’s see who Andrew Tucker hangs out with when he’s not in Boolanga.’
Jade clicked on images and a raft of photos appeared. Andrew Tucker dressed in a morning suit at the Melbourne Cup. Another with him standing next to a silver and black Ferrari outside Crown Casino, and one in front of a helicopter with four men with Asian features.
‘Holy sh—wow! He owns a helicopter!’ She looked at Helen. ‘Why would he bother slumming it in Boolanga?’
‘Exactly!’ Helen consulted her notepad. ‘He’s been here four times this year. He was at the business awards, at the golf tournament, the polo match and the rowing regatta. What do they all have in common?’
Jade took a punt. ‘The sleazy mayor?’
‘Absolutely. And there’s photos of Tucker with Geoff Rayson, Aki Rehn, Craig Dangerfield and Don DeLuca.’
Jade was now up to speed on all the councillors. ‘Are there any photos of him with the female councillors?’
‘There’s a group photo at the business awards. Messina’s standing next to him, but there’s a wide gap between them. Her body language says she doesn’t like him.’
‘You should ask her about him.’
‘I think you’re right.’
Jade returned to the tab she’d been on before Helen had interrupted. When the photo loaded, she was looking at a picture of a group of men. The caption read: The a cappella group The Boolanga Blokes, singing for their supper at the Beyond Bl
ue fundraiser.
Lachlan’s choir. Except they didn’t look anything like Jade had pictured them in her head—no robes and no one was holding music. She zoomed in on Lachlan for a closer look. He was wearing black leather pants, a black T-shirt, black jacket and a black hat—he looked like a cross between a bikie and an opera singer. A tingle shot through her and she pressed her legs together, savouring the twitching sensation.
‘What are you grinning at?’ Helen asked.
‘Nothing.’
But Helen was already leaning over her shoulder. ‘Ah.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means if I was your age I’d be grinning like a fool too. Looks like Lachlan’s put sexy into choir.’
Jade’s skin prickled with a mix of delight and disgust. ‘Gross, Helen! You could be his grandmother.’
Helen laughed and pointed to an older man standing next to Lachlan. ‘So you were grinning like a fool at this one, were you?’
‘Eeeuw! No way! You can have him. I don’t do old or nerdy guys.’
‘I’m not sure singing makes Lachlan a nerd.’ Helen took off her glasses. ‘It’s okay to like him.’
Her complicated knot of feelings for Lachlan tightened. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Why?’
‘Lots of reasons. There’s Corey for a start.’
Helen’s mouth tightened. ‘I wouldn’t be starting with the man who left town without telling you where he was going and doesn’t give you any money to help with the care of his child.’
Jade was used to people criticising Corey and always rushed to defend him. But as the familiar words formed in her head—Corey works hard; Corey needs space—all she heard were excuses for his abandonment of her and Milo. Anger and pain twirled on a helix, ringed by confusion. She wanted to yell ‘You don’t know anything!’ except Helen knew stuff.
‘Corey knows what it’s like when your family doesn’t love you,’ she finally said.
Helen’s hand rested briefly on her shoulder. Jade knew she should have shaken it off, but the warmth and gentle pressure felt so good.
‘I’m sorry you and Corey have got that in common. But it’s not a basis for a relationship.’