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

‘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