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

Please return everything to the shed.’

The Hazara women looked to Aima for a translation. Helen watched their faces move from confusion to disappointment before they turned to her, their eyes full of questions.

Helen didn’t want to have what would be a loud and angry argument with Judith in front of them so she said, ‘After we’ve put the tools away, come to the cottage. I’ll explain everything.’

Fiza, who was already a very tall woman, suddenly seemed to gain a couple more centimetres. She extended her hand to Sharon. ‘I would like a form, please.’

Sharon jumped. ‘You speak English?’

‘Yes. I also speak French and Arabic.’

‘I speak a bit of Greek.’ Helen grinned. ‘What other languages do you speak, Sharon?’

Sharon ignored her and pulled a form from her organiser, handing it to Fiza. ‘You can post it to the address on the top. I’ll date it when I receive it and put you on the waiting list.’

‘I will fill it out now. May I borrow a pen?’

‘Sorry. I don’t have one.’

Helen’s rage boiled over. ‘What do you call that then?’ She pointed to the silver pen nestled inside the folder.

‘Oh. Right.’ Sharon’s cheeks flushed red and she reluctantly withdrew the pen and passed it to Fiza.

‘Don’t worry, Sharon,’ Helen said. ‘It’s a lot safer with Fiza than Jade. She just nicked off with my gardening gloves.’

‘Who’s Jade?’ Flustered, Sharon kept her eyes fixed on Fiza.

Someone else you wouldn’t want to join the garden.

And you do?

The thought dug in under Helen’s moral high ground. ‘Someone who helped me clear the Lipari bed. It’s ready, by the way. Ask the Bradleys to contact me so we can set up a time for orientation.’

‘There.’ Fiza handed back the form and the pen. ‘Please date it today and put the time also.’

Sharon wrote the date and time, stowed the paper and pen away and zippered her organiser closed with a jerk. She joined Judith, who was back in the community garden having walked behind the Hazara women like a kelpie rounding up sheep.

Helen shielded her eyes and squinted. She could see the women were handing off their equipment to a man at the shed. A dog barked and she swung her gaze—a familiar border collie was tied up next to a bike. Bob. Bloody hell! Why was he relieving the women of their tools when he’d implied she’d misunderstood him? Was it payback? They’d never had that cup of tea.

Her leg muscles twitched, demanding she walk straight up to him and ask him what the hell he was doing. But there was a time and place to pick a fight and if Bob had changed sides, talking to him with Judith and Sharon flanking him would be unwise.

The women drifted back, dejection clear in their slumped shoulders. They gathered on the cottage’s veranda, waiting for Helen to speak.

‘Aima, can you please tell everyone that I’m truly sorry about this, but we’re not going to let a few small-minded people stop us. We will keep gardening.’

Aima translated. The women murmured among themselves, but their expressions clearly stated they didn’t believe Helen.

‘But that woman says we not use the tools,’ Aima said.

‘Does anyone have any gardening tools?’

The women shook their heads.

‘I’ve got a few I could lend you,’ a male voice said.

Helen swung around to see Bob standing at the bottom of the worn bluestone steps. Frustration blew through her like a hot north wind—gritty and unsettling—and she ran with it.

‘If you hadn’t just locked up all the tools, we could still be using them!’

He took off his broad-brimmed hat and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I arrived and found everyone returning the tools so I jumped in to help.’

‘Of course you did.’ Spare me from well-intentioned duffers.

Bob’s ‘niceness’ got under Helen’s skin. Each time they had a conversation, she became increasingly convinced he was one of those naive men who saw the world through rose-coloured glasses because an easy life had cushioned any blows.

He met her angry gaze full on, his brows rising slightly. ‘I didn’t realise I was aiding and abetting a counter coup.’

‘I didn’t stage a coup! I’m extending the garden to meet demand.’

‘Which is a good idea in principle …’

She narrowed her eyes. Did she need to reassess the ‘duffer’ tag? ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly that. It’s a great idea, but come on, Helen. You must have known you were playing with fire when you didn’t consult Judith.’

‘Technically, I don’t have to consult her. And I knew what she’d say. Besides, it’s not up to the committee whether the garden’s extended or not. That’s up to the shire. Judith’s being deliberately obstructive, but she’ll be eating humble pie soon enough.’

‘I’ve known Judith for years and I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Bob said.

Helen opened her mouth to fire back a reply but he’d already turned to face the women.

‘Hello, ladies, my name’s Bob. Been a farmer all my life and I only moved to town six months ago. Before you all came to Australia, where was home?’

The Hazara women explained how they’d come from refugee camps in Pakistan.

‘Crikey,’ Bob said. ‘That’s a long journey to Boolanga. I reckon the least we can do is give you a patch of dirt you can call your own. I’ll bring my gardening tools down tomorrow and my wheelbarrow so you can keep going, although it will be at a slower pace.’

The women murmured their thanks.

The exchange added to Helen’s disquiet that she couldn’t slot Bob neatly into a box.

‘Even with your equipment, we can’t plant without hoses,’ she said impatiently. ‘And mine’s not long enough to reach all the beds.’

‘We use buckets,’ Kubra said.

‘Your best bet is to get some funding,’ Bob suggested.

Helen was intimate with the grants system after exploring it for her tiny housing submission. ‘The grants have all closed for this year.’

‘What about talking to Hoopers about a sausage sizzle?’

Spare me. Helen shoved Bob back into the polite but clueless box. ‘We can’t ask these women to cook pork