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

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 skipping 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