A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (inspirational books for students .txt) 📗

good way of highlighting the existence of the garden to the community,’ Bob said.

‘Good idea,’ Dot agreed.

‘We’ve got a couple of empty plots that need gardeners,’ Bob added.

A seed of hope sprouted in Helen’s chest. Although she didn’t know enough about Bob to predict how he’d react to what she was about to suggest, she needed allies if her plans for the garden had a hope of coming to fruition. Not that Dot wasn’t an ally, but Helen needed practical rather than in-principle allegiance.

‘And talking about community, our garden’s no longer truly representative of Boolanga’s community,’ she said.

Vin groaned. ‘What are you on about now, Helen?’

‘It’s a pretty white, able-bodied garden.’

‘You saying we need to build some raised beds so the nursing home set can get their hands in the soil?’ Enthusiasm lit up Bob’s eyes. ‘That’s something I could get behind.’

‘It’s one idea,’ Helen said. ‘So is reaching out into different parts of the community. Like to Fiza, who wants to take over plot seventeen.’

‘Who’s Fiza when he’s at home?’ Vin asked.

‘Fiza is a she and she lives in Serenity Street.’

Vin’s bushy brows pulled down at the mention of the address. ‘So she’s one of them refugees.’

‘It isn’t only refugees who live in Serenity Street, Vin,’ Dot said.

Helen threw her a grateful glance.

‘Where’s she from?’ Judith asked.

‘Melbourne. She’s been in Boolanga five months.’

Judith tsked. ‘I mean originally.’

‘I’m not sure.’ It was the truth, but had Helen known, it wouldn’t have changed her reply. ‘Not that it matters. She lives in Boolanga and is keen to have her own plot and grow vegetables, so she well and truly meets the criteria for membership.’

‘Is she a towel head?’ Vin asked.

Helen’s hands fisted in her lap. ‘I don’t understand your question.’

‘I think Vin’s asking if she’s Muslum, right, Vin,’ Dot said.

‘Muslim,’ Helen automatically corrected. ‘We talked about gardening not religion. Besides, religion isn’t a membership criteria.’

During the conversation, Sharon had been riffling through papers and consulting her phone. ‘Sorry, Helen. I’ve already offered the two spare beds to other people.’

‘Really? Why wasn’t there an agenda item on new members?’

Sharon met Helen’s combative gaze with one of her own. ‘They verbally committed yesterday. There wasn’t time to process the paperwork and their membership fees before today’s meeting. They’ll appear on next month’s agenda.’

‘Good work, Sharon,’ Judith said. ‘It’s wonderful the garden’s at capacity again. Now, the date of the next meeting …’ She flipped through her diary. ‘The tenth. Who’s for a cuppa and a piece of passionfruit sponge? My chooks are currently laying eggs the perfect size for sponges.’

‘Me!’ Dot eagerly got to her feet.

While people drifted to the kettle and the food, Helen took a moment to calm her seething rage at being snookered by Sharon in an act she couldn’t prove was racism, despite it being written all over it.

Bob said softly, ‘Sometimes herding cats is easier.’

‘You were very quiet. Do you agree with them?’

His easygoing demeanour faded. ‘I’m disappointed you feel the need to ask.’

Bloody men and their fragile egos! But as Bob walked away, Helen knew that for the greater good of the garden, she’d have to offer him a cup of tea tomorrow at three after all.

CHAPTER

3

Jade Innes loved her baby in a way that filled her heart to bursting, yet riddled it with empty air pockets—a lot like that cheese rich people bought. Some days, it felt like she was the only person who adored Milo’s gurgling laugh and found it hilarious the way he sucked his toes. That she was the only person who needed to blink away the prickle of tears when he gazed up at her with his huge eyes, the same vivid blue as the little wrens that jumped about in the bush near the community garden. Sometimes it felt like she was the only person who truly loved him.

Don’t be a stupid cow, she reminded herself sharply. Corey loves Milo.

The reassuring thought made her smile and took her back to the first time Corey saw their son.

‘Fuck. He’s as red as a rabbit after I’ve ripped off its skin.’

Jade had laughed and cried with happiness and exhaustion. Labour had hurt like nothing on earth, except perhaps her mother’s words. She’d touched their baby’s red and scrawny head, studied his closed eyes and wondered at the spider web of blue veins across his lids.

The midwife had pursed her lips at Corey—again. It was obvious from the moment they’d checked into the hospital that the woman had a poker up her arse. Old battleaxe.

Jade didn’t understand why the olds got their knickers in such a twist about her and Corey having a baby. They weren’t kids. And hadn’t everyone been banging on at her since she was sixteen about the responsibilities of being an adult? That and the many ways she was failing at it. Well, she’d shown them what being an adult looked like. Nothing was more responsible than being a mother.

The midwife had muttered something about kids having kids, but Jade was nineteen and Corey was twenty-two. Plus the midwife didn’t know Corey like Jade knew him. He might sound tough and look it—not all his tattoos were pieces of art created by professionals—but hidden underneath the blotchy ink was a man with a soft and mushy heart. A man who loved her and their son.

It was Corey who’d named their ‘skinned rabbit’ Milo after his favourite drink—favourite non-alcoholic drink, Jade corrected herself. He’d wanted to call him Jack Daniels.

Jade believed the father should name his kid. If her mother had let her father name her Barbara after his own mother, perhaps he might have stuck around longer. But even so, naming their kid after whiskey didn’t seem quite right.

‘What was your favourite drink when you were a kid?’ she’d asked Corey. She’d realised later it could have been Zooper Dooper or Nesquik. Thankfully, it wasn’t. And Milo was the name of Georgia’s baby in Gossip Girl, which was cool. Also, kids who drank Milo were sporty, weren’t