A Home Like Ours Fiona Lowe (good novels to read .txt) 📖

her. Tara wasn’t contending with a war or racism, but she understood that bone-deep protective urge that went hand in hand with love and motherhood. Recognised it in Fiza. Understood it was the reason she’d pushed so hard to convince Jon to take the meeting.

‘It doesn’t mean I’m not furious with Amal for breaking our trust,’ she’d explained. ‘I want to shake him for causing his mother more anguish and pain after they’ve been through so much and she’s worked so hard to give him a safe life full of opportunities.’

‘You do realise just because Fiza said he didn’t do it isn’t proof, right?’ Jon said.

‘Yes.’

‘And I’m still calling Denny North.’

‘After we’ve spoken to Amal.’

Jon grumbled but he’d agreed to the delay. Now he was showing Amal photos of the graffiti, the rubbish and the garden section.

‘So what do you know about this, Amal?’

His school uniform made the boy look younger than his years. ‘I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t ever do something like this. Especially not to you and Mrs Hooper.’

Some of Tara’s hard line wavered at his sincerity, but not Jon’s. ‘You specifically asked Tara to work in the garden section.’

‘Because I love plants. Not because I want to destroy them!’

‘He was home last night,’ Fiza said. ‘He has been home every night since we moved here.’

‘Unless you check him every hour, you have no idea if he snuck out of bed and into town or not,’ Jon said.

‘We live ten kilometres out of town,’ Amal said. ‘How would I even get there?’

Jon folded his arms. ‘I can think of many ways. Steal your mother’s car. Get picked up by one of your mates. You tell me.’

‘He did not drive my car. I put petrol in yesterday and I pressed the …’ Fiza’s hands moved as she searched for a word, ‘… the number again. They were the same.’

‘I’m telling the truth. I didn’t go into town.’ A hint of antagonism threaded through Amal’s words. ‘The last time I was at the store was when I watered the plants.’

‘Amal, I want to believe you,’ Tara said. ‘You’re polite, you work hard, you’re always smiling and cheerful. I appreciate all those qualities.’

Gratitude crossed his face. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hooper.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She waited a beat. ‘Tell me, why would boys break into the garden section last night, not the store?’

His pupils dilated fast. He looked down, staring determinedly at his hands.

‘Amal?’

‘I don’t know.’

But the quietly spoken words didn’t carry the same weighted conviction of his previous denials. For the first time he looked frightened. It niggled Tara. They hadn’t told him or Fiza about the missing spray cans, the pocket knives or the jobsite radio, only the damaged plants and mess. If Amal had been lying cheerfully to their faces about his innocence up to now, the question shouldn’t have thrown him.

‘Amal, if you know something you need to tell us.’

He kept his head down. ‘You won’t believe me.’

Fiza said something to Amal in Arabic, then looked at Tara. ‘I am sorry. When I am stressed, I lose English words. I beg him to tell you what he knows.’

Amal looked up then, straight at Jon, his gaze challenging. ‘Aussie blokes don’t dob on their mates.’

Jon winced and pressed two fingers between his eyes as if he’d just been pierced by an arrow. When he removed them, his arm trembled and he placed one hand over the other.

‘What is dob?’ Fiza asked.

‘I know a bit about being a mate, Amal,’ Jon said. ‘I’ve got one mate who has my back no matter what. Then there are some blokes I thought were mates, but when I got Parkinson’s and I needed their understanding, they couldn’t manage it. You did a better job of it the day I fell, and when we played backyard cricket and some of my bowls went wide.’

A tug of emotions played out on the boy’s face but he remained silent.

Jon continued. ‘I want you to ask yourself this. Is someone a mate if they let you get convicted of a crime you didn’t do? Are they a mate if they expect you to stay quiet to protect their illegal activities and let you lose your chance to become a doctor? I can tell you that a true-blue mate would never ask you to do those things.’

‘But you don’t know what it’s like,’ Amal muttered.

‘Then please explain it to me. I want to know.’

Amal’s fingers fiddled with some loose rattan on a placemat. ‘They call us African. They say we’re all the same, but there’s no such thing as African. What do I share with a boy from Ghana? They speak English. In Sudan we speak Arabic. Ghana is Christian, Sudan is Muslim. Some food’s the same but a lot’s different. It’s like saying Australians and the French are the same!

‘If I say I’m Sudanese, they tell me I’m in Australia now. But when I say I’m Aussie, they say I’m African. I have a certificate that says I’m Australian! They say they’re Australian because they were born here, like they made it happen. Every day at school I have to prove I’m an Aussie. Show them that I deserve to be here when they never have to. I am Australian. I studied Australian Rules. I watch it on TV and at the oval so I can play at lunchtime. I kick the soccer ball. I asked you to show me cricket. I even tried—’ A horrified look flashed in his eyes and he bit his lip. He didn’t look at his mother. ‘No matter what I do, they expect more and more to prove I belong. And then the black boys, they say, forget being Aussie, be in their gang—but they ask me to do things I know are wrong too.’

‘And have you done these things?’

He ducked his head. ‘Once.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I drank vodka with them in the park.’

Fiza gasped and Tara reached out, squeezing her hand, hoping she wouldn’t tell Amal off when they were finally