A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  ‘Where did you go?’ she asked.

  ‘We had talked of Egypt then to Israel, but I heard women and children were shot at the border. I took Amal to Kenya.’

  Something about the way she said it told Tara it wasn’t as straightforward as catching a bus or a plane. ‘So the twins were born in a tent at the camp?’

  ‘They were born in the camp hospital.’

  Relief shifted. ‘And you lived in a house?’

  ‘When we arrived, I was given plastic to build our shelter. Later I got a mud house.’

  ‘But you had water and electricity?’

  ‘Yes and no. I carried our water from a well. We could buy electricity for the phone and computer. We used solar lights and I cooked on briquettes made from charcoal and excrement.’ She laughed at Tara’s shock—a tinkling happy sound so at odds with the story. ‘They are fantastic. They save trees and help with camp sanitation. They burn longer. Very efficient.’

  Tara remembered the few short months she and Jon had camped at Tingledale without power or hot water and she’d cooked on a burner attached to a gas bottle. One night, it had all got too much for her and she’d lost it, screaming it was ‘all too hard!’ Jon had treated her to a week in a cabin in the caravan park with all the amenities and she hadn’t been pregnant or trying to care for a newborn, let alone twins. Back then, she’d vowed she’d never take lights or hot running water for granted again. But of course she had, and quickly.

  ‘How many people were at this camp?’ she asked.

  ‘It goes up and down, but about one hundred and fifty thousand.’

  ‘But that’s bigger than Ballarat!’

  Fiza gave a rueful smile. ‘Boolanga is much smaller. The camp has shops, schools and health centres and people run businesses just like in a normal town. The UNHCR keeps different groups separate, but still …’ Memories flared in her eyes. ‘Camps are not safe places for women and children. Especially a woman without a husband.’

  Tara didn’t ask the awful question that crossed her mind and instead focused on the children. ‘Does Amal remember it?’

  ‘Of course. He did things I wish he did not have to. Even now I feel this way with what I have to ask him, but I had babies and no husband. We had to survive. I kept promising him everything would change when we got our new life. Even though that new life was going to be far from the thorn trees. Some people spend twenty years living in the camp, but through Allah’s grace, peace be upon him, and my father’s sacrifice, I was there only four years.’

  Tara, whose belief in God wavered, thought it was probably more to do with Fiza’s grit and determination. ‘Your father’s sacrifice?’

  ‘He believed in education for women. He was a farmer and the agriculture coordinator where we lived. He scrimped and saved so I could go to university and have a more secure life. I give thanks every day for that. Without knowing French and English, my life would be so much harder. I am fortunate to be in this country and have the security of a good job.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re growing maize here and in the community garden?’

  ‘Yes. To honour my father in my new home. And to honour Idriss. I am trying hard to give our children the life we both wanted for them—one with education and opportunity. To make them appreciate how lucky we are to live in a democracy. To choose where we can go and what we can wear and who and how we can worship. It is easier with the twins. They are young and their camp memories fade. It is harder with Amal. I promised him a place where no one with guns knocks on the door in the middle of the night. A place of safety and contentment. But there are days when I feel I have swapped one warzone for another. Days when I fear for my children. Especially for Amal.’

  Fiza raised her gaze to Tara’s, dignity and pride radiating from the determined tilt of her chin and her tall and graceful bearing. ‘I teach them to work hard, respect the laws and be good citizens, but it breaks my heart they need to prove they belong here. That they must work twice as hard for the same rewards.’

  Strong women had always intimidated Tara, but she could no longer hide behind that as an excuse. As difficult as it was to accept, she knew she’d allowed Fiza’s dark skin to play an extra role in her antipathy towards her. Towards her son. She wasn’t proud of it, especially as from their first encounter, Fiza had only offered help and concern. Brisk help, but help nonetheless. Tara shuddered at the memory of telling her to go away, and resolved to always do better.

  ‘The reason I asked you to come over was because of Amal. Helen told me you moved next door so he …’ Given what Fiza had just said, how did she say this without offending her? ‘So he’s never in town on his own at night.’

  Fiza stiffened as if Tara had slapped her. ‘My son has never, would never, steal anything from your shop.’

  Tara met Fiza’s gaze, feeling the sparks of flint but this time understanding they were survival traits that had got her safely to Australia. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘He is a goo—’ Fiza stopped as if only just hearing Tara’s words. ‘Then what is this conversation about?’

  ‘Before we talk to Amal, we want to ask if you’re okay with him working at the store.’

  Her brows pulled down. ‘But he wants to go to university.’

  ‘Not a full-time job. A casual job. Most teenagers have an unskilled job they do a few hours a week when they’re in year eleven and twelve.’

  ‘And you think Amal would do a good job for you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s why we’re offering. We want casuals who are bright, reliable and work hard. If he wants the job, we’ll need him weekends from early November, then pretty much full-time from when school finishes until Christmas.’

  Fiza’s fist flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips. Her shoulders shook.

  Anxiety washed through Tara. ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded wordlessly, then drew in some deep breaths. ‘I want this chance for Amal very much. But I work shifts at the hospital.’

  Tara didn’t follow. ‘And?’

  ‘When I start at seven, Amal takes the twins to school. When I start at one, he brings them home. If I work on the weekends, he is home with them.’

  Tara opened her mouth to ask if there was anyone else who could help and closed it, knowing it was a stupid question. Fiza wanted Amal to work so if there was anyone who could help out, she’d have mentioned them. She thought about the conversation she and Jon had when the children were born and their purchase of life insurance so if one of them died there would be money to employ a nanny-cum-housekeeper to look after Flynn and Clementine. Fiza didn’t have that option.

  Tara wondered how many seventeen-year-old boys needed to help their younger siblings get ready for school or look after them at the end of the day. The parents of teenagers she knew complained about how hard it was to get them off their devices and out of their rooms, let alone give up their time to be a stand-in parent. Not only did Amal lack a network of people to recommend him, he was being denied the chance of a job because for his family to function they needed him at home.

  ‘Perhaps we can help?’

  Take it back! You have enough to do already.

  But she kept talking. ‘November and December will be crazy months, but we can try to roster him around your weekends and afternoon shifts. And if that gets too difficult, I’m sure the twins could come here occasionally until he gets home from work. That’s if you’re okay with Ian minding them with Flynn and Clementine. He says having the twins over is easier than minding my kids on their own.’

  Fiza sat perfectly still—striking and proud. Tara suddenly regretted putting herself out there only to be rejected.

  Fiza’s chin rose. ‘I can only accept this if you allow me to help you with your children on my days off.’

  ‘That’s not really nec—’

  ‘It is.’ The words rang with self-respect.

  Tara remembered Helen saying that when a crisis hits, it’s never the people you expect who step up. And wasn’t t
his the perfect example. Fiza was offering help from her precious and limited time and inferring that without Tara’s acceptance she may not allow Amal to work. Even though she’d confessed how dearly she wanted him to have the job.

  Did she consider Tara’s offer pity? Pity is useless. Now, knowing what Fiza had been through, that statement was even more remarkable.

  So why are you vacillating? Who else has brought you a casserole? Other than Ian, who else is offering to help you? Accept a gift from one working woman to another.

  Feeling buffeted yet again by the winds of change Tara said, ‘Thank you. My kids would love that.’

  ‘So it is settled?’

  ‘Almost.’ Tara smiled. ‘This time I have a favour to ask you. Jon wants to offer Amal the job himself. Can you ask him to come to the store one night after school this week?’

  ‘I will bring him myself. I will tell him I need tomato stakes.’ An earnest expression crossed her face. ‘This is true.’

  Tara laughed. ‘I’m sure we can organise some stakes. When you arrive, ask for Jon. He’ll give Amal a tour of the store first so he understands what’s involved. He may not want the job.’

  ‘I know my son.’ Fiza’s smile—so often restrained—broke across her face. ‘He will want it with both of his hands.’

  CHAPTER

  31

  After Fiza left, Tara told the children that between now and Christmas there would be play dates with the twins at Tingledale and at the Atallahs’ house. Flynn hugged her as hard as if she’d given him the new bike he wanted.

  ‘Can I get my hair braided with beads like Leila?’ Clemmie asked.

  Tara ran her fingers through her daughter’s fine silky hair, so very different from Leila’s wiry strands, and knew it lacked the body for box braids. ‘I don’t have any beads. How about I do a French braid with a ribbon woven through it?’

  ‘Okay. But then can we buy some beads?’

  ‘Perhaps. Now into bed.’

  She cuddled up in a Clemmie and Flynn sandwich, reading them one of her childhood favourites, Fantastic Mr Fox.

  ‘Sleep tight, munchkins.’

  As Jon was out, she poured herself a glass of wine. She knew he didn’t begrudge her a drink, but in an act of solidarity she’d decided not to drink in front of him. Not that she was sneaking off to drink either. It turned out that giving up alcohol wasn’t as hard as she’d imagined. They were working their way through a list of mocktails, surprised they weren’t sickly sweet but refreshing and enjoyable.

  Unable to settle on reading or television, she took herself outside and curled up in a chair to watch a dinner-plate moon rising in an aluminium sky. Her muscles twitched. It would be an awesome night for a run. But her crazy days of sneaking out to run with Zac were thankfully over. She’d barely sipped the local pinot gris when she heard the crunch of gravel and the familiar low hum of Jon’s car. She checked the time, surprised he was home an hour earlier than expected. Oh, God. Was he sick?

  Don’t catastrophise.

  Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, keeping her seated. If she rushed to meet him, he’d correctly interpret it as worry. She drew in some deep breaths, trying to channel calm, until she heard the glass door slide open and his heavy footfalls on the deck.

  ‘Hey.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘Hey.’ She raised her hand and touched his, aware that before his diagnosis she’d associated this familiar non-sexual kiss with him keeping her at arm’s length. Now she recognised it as him trying hard to tell her how much he loved her.

  They were yet to have sex or even have a conversation about it—there’d been too many other things to worry about. Not that she didn’t miss sex—she did. But she’d read how important it was for anyone with a chronic illness to feel like they had some control over their condition. She’d unwittingly stolen Jon’s control before the diagnosis by going into fix-it mode and she knew if she did it again, it would only make things worse. Still, knowing it didn’t make it any easier to sit back and wait. She was hoping now they both knew erectile dysfunction was part of Parkinson’s, he’d raise the topic without any coaxing from her. But hope was a double-edged sword.

  Jon dropped into the cane chair, weary but thankfully not grey with fatigue. ‘Great moon.’

  ‘Gorgeous. How was cricket?’

  ‘I arrived just as they were packing up.’ His mouth tweaked up in a rueful smile. ‘Must have missed the email about the time change so I only stayed for one drink. People were scattering as they had things on. Stretch and Solly were going to some community meeting about Riverfarm. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t Landcare? They’re both involved with that.’

  ‘Might have been.’

  ‘Actually, Helen Demetriou from the community garden was asked to move out of the old manager’s cottage. The shire told her it was uninhabitable.’

  ‘She’s the woman writing all the letters to The Standard and pushing for a tiny houses village, right?’

  ‘Is she?’ Tara hadn’t read the paper in weeks. She suddenly sat forward, propelled by the idea she’d jettisoned during her dark, angry and self-indulgent days. ‘I’ve been inside that cottage. It’s got the original pressed-metal dados, wallpaper and fireplaces. I doubt the shire wants to spend a cent on it, but they might sell it to us.’

  ‘Why would we want to buy it?’

  ‘It’s a piece of Boolanga history that needs preserving. If we approached the historical society and they provided a space for it, we could restore it to its former glory. Just think, it could be Hoopers Hardware’s very own The Block.’

  He smiled his old smile—one she rarely saw since Parkinson’s had blanked it out—and she gave thanks the drugs were restoring it. With the help of hindsight, she now realised how much its absence had tied into her insecurities about the state of their marriage. Then the smile faded.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  He rubbed his jaw. ‘Before I got Parkinson’s, a project like that would have been a challenge to juggle with work and the kids.’

  ‘I’m thinking bigger than just us. More like a twist on The Block. We’d decide on all the fittings, exterior work, paint and interior designs, but we’d coordinate the project. You’d be Scotty and I’d be Shelley. We can invite the best local tradesmen in to do the work and have volunteer labourers. That way we get to advertise how Hoopers can source anything anyone needs for a renovation, the tradies get free advertising, and the volunteers can learn a new skill. It can be a community project and we’ll video bits of it and throw it up on Facebook as well as making a big display instore.’

  Jon was quiet, but she could see his mind working, clicking the idea over and trying it on for size. It just about killed her not to ask What do you think?

  ‘We’d be giving back to Boolanga and generating goodwill. And if Bunnings comes after us, we’ll have another finger in the community pie and loyalty from the tradies involved.’ He grinned at her. ‘I love the way you think.’

  Warmth spread through her. ‘So will I contact the shire and see if they’re interested in selling while you do some initial costings?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He shifted in the chair. ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Months ago I suggested you set up an interior design consulting service and you didn’t want to do it. Now you want to spearhead a reno.’

  She swallowed and dug deep, honouring the silent pledge she’d made the day after his diagnosis when she’d revisited her marriage vows. In sickness and in health. Making that promise when she’d been head over heels in love with a man whose height and breadth declared him invincible had been easy. She’d spoken the words glibly when not even a hint of trouble was on the horizon and any thought of it was such a foreign concept she couldn’t fathom what it might mean. The ‘in health’ part was straightforward. Sickness was a totally different beast, taking cont
rol and pushing them away from each other. If they were going to make it, they needed to be honest with each other.

  ‘Back then, I thought you only wanted me as a business partner and a mother to your children.’

  His shoulders sagged and the tremor started in his fingers, racing up his right arm. ‘How close did I get to losing you?’

  She sucked in her lips, knowing instinctively that this particular truth would only damage their new and still fragile way of being together. The wife part of the relationship she had down pat. The carer part was like tiptoeing through a minefield of Jon’s pride and independence and her own overzealousness and reluctance. As for the lover part, it was absent.

  She shuffled her chair in close and placed her hand over his. ‘I understand now why we stopped having sex.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s still not happening.’

  ‘No.’

  He heaved in air. ‘You’re not the only one who misses it, T.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means there’s hope.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve been reading the stuff the clinic gave me on ED. It’s freakin’ terrifying. There’s stuff they suggest that I only ever thought was kinky.’

  She noticed he couldn’t even say the words erectile dysfunction. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Pumps.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Cock rings.’

  ‘Like from sex shops? Seriously?’ Tara had never got past reading about Viagra.

  ‘Yeah.’ He rubbed his face. ‘And it’s not just me not getting it up. There’s no spontaneity. It’s all about planning. I can take Viagra or I could pump myself up—’ he shuddered, ‘—but then there’s the issue of my coordination, or to be accurate, my lack of it.’

  She remembered some of their disastrous attempts before they knew what was going on with his body. ‘But since the drugs, you’ve been much more coordinated.’

  ‘Right up until I’m excited or stressed. And sex ticks both those boxes and anything close to resembling rhythm goes out the window.’