A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (feel good books .txt) 📕

it became obvious her replies encouraged more vitriolic responses, she’d stopped.

How had these strangers even got her email address? The shire had strict privacy rules about sharing information, and the only other people who had her email address were Con and the members of the garden. None of them had any reason to give out her details.

Judith and Sharon do.

Did they hate the refugee women so much it prevented them from seeing the bigger picture?

Helen’s phone rang and Vivian’s voice echoed down the line, sounding like she was speaking underwater. ‘Great letter in the paper again this week, Helen.’

‘Thanks, but not everyone’s in favour.’

‘You mean the five letters against that Granski printed? Remember I warned you that would happen.’

‘I’ve received some negative emails about the tiny houses. People can be pretty blunt.’

‘Tell me about it. Don’t let a few morons get you down. I’ve been in local politics for a decade and if it’s taught me anything, it’s the need to focus on the positives. Your point of view’s getting airplay and that’s what we need.’

It was true. Despite the letters from Bob, Lachlan and Roxy—Cinta, Tracey, Agape and Sue hadn’t wanted to write—the paper had only printed Helen’s. The comment Jade wrote on The Standard’s Facebook page had been referenced in the print edition of Saturday’s paper, but it was buried in a forest of negative comments.

Helen was glad Jade had set up a Facebook account for her, even if the process had been fraught with much sighing and arguing from them both. She was still embarrassed that Fran at the library had suggested next time they should book a meeting room if they were going to ‘engage in robust discussion’.

‘Robust discussion?’ Jade had looked blank. ‘We’re having a fight.’

Fran smiled. ‘No, you’re disagreeing and debating your points of view. It’s only a fight if you put each other down. Why don’t you combine your opinions and make a banner you both like using Canva?’

Helen had watched, genuinely impressed, as Jade took the artist’s impression of the village from Helen’s submission, then chose a photo of lush green spring vegetables in the garden, and used them to create the perfect banner for the Boolanga Needs A Sustainable Tiny Housing Village page. It was slowly gaining likes and Helen had posted the emails she’d written to The Standard on the page too.

She was about to tell Vivian about the Facebook page when the deputy mayor said, ‘What did you think about the mayor’s press release on Riverfarm?’

‘Full of mixed messages. If he wanted to put out The Standard’s fire, it didn’t work.’

‘Exactly. I’m wondering if he wants to put it out. Since he bought Ainslea Park, he’s changed.’

‘What do you mean?’

There was a brief silence as if Vivian was struggling to put her feelings into words. ‘Geoff was always keen to hear both sides of the story, but lately—’

This time the silence was different. ‘You still there, Vivian?’

‘Yes, sorry. I’m on Chinaman’s Creek Road. The reception’s a bit hit-and-miss.’

‘I didn’t hear anything after “but lately”.’

‘I’m starting to wonder if Geoff’s more interested in the prestige and business opportunities being mayor offers him rather than the public service aspect.’

‘Do you think he leaked the tiny houses submission to The Standard?’

‘Maybe … I’d like … think that … want … staffer … Granski.’

‘What? You’re breaking up.’

‘Sor—’ The call died.

‘Damn it!’ Helen pressed the faded red button on her phone, then rubbed the spot under her sternum that burned each time she thought about the project’s future. A few weeks earlier they’d been so confident. Damn Geoff Rayson for doing a backflip.

Prestige and business opportunities? She recalled Vivian’s comment the day The Standard leaked the submission—something about wealthy international horse-racing people. Today was the second time Vivian had implied Geoff was putting his own business interests ahead of the shire. It was time to do some digging.

Helen walked to the library and did an internet search. Vivian was correct—it was public knowledge that a sheik from the UAE had visited Ainslea Park.

She logged into her Facebook account and brought up the page. Jade had told her that to ‘get traction’ she needed to add a photo to each post. Fortunately, Jade had taken plenty of the garden and the adjacent land. Helen chose a photo of Sally Atkins’s two old hacks grazing—not exactly racehorses but needs must—and started typing.

Rumours are flying around Boolanga that the delegation from the UAE who visited Ainslea Park have their eyes on more than just horseflesh. Riverfarm has always been part of this community. Be far more concerned about foreign ownership than a community-based housing project.

She checked her spelling and punctuation and hit send.

Jade was on her way to the supermarket when her phone pinged. Corey! Hope and relief made her check it immediately. Her body cramped with disappointment. There was no text notification. No message saying I’ll be home on Milo’s birthday.

‘I think Daddy’s planning a surprise,’ she told Milo. But the words hung in the warm air like empty promises.

Her phone continued pinging and it took her a second to work out what was going on. The device had automatically connected to the library’s wifi when she’d walked past and she was still in range.

She opened the Facebook app. Holy shit. There were five hundred likes on the tiny housing page she’d set up for Helen. Yesterday when she’d checked, there’d been twenty-five—mostly friends of Bob and Lachlan. She scrolled down and saw Helen had posted something without her help. Pride shot through her that she’d taught Helen how to do it.

There were heaps of comments on the post, but only three said they supported the housing project and they were from Lachlan, Bob and Fran at the library. The rest wrote about multinational companies and global cowboys raping Australia. There was a lot of swearing about overseas ownership of cultural icons and Jade thought they’d all missed the point of the post. Then she noticed the post had been shared twenty times,