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

‘Only if it’s something you really want to commit to.’

Bob laughed. ‘There’s no hardship in spending a Saturday morning chatting to people. Besides, it would be good to show Judith and the committee that it’s a viable extension of the garden during times of surplus.’ He slid the fish parcel onto a plate and sat down opposite Helen. ‘I want your opinion on the fish.’

‘It smells good.’

‘That’s a start.’

Another car arrived and parked a few spaces away from Helen’s. When the occupant got out, Roxy joined her and together they walked to the pavilion. Helen didn’t know the other woman but she waved.

‘Hi, Roxy. Glad you could make it. Fancy some lamb?’

‘Or fish.’ Bob, all old-fashioned manners, rose and disentangled himself from the picnic seat.

‘Roxy, this is Bob Murphy,’ Helen said.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Bob extended his hand. ‘Hope it’s okay that I’ve gatecrashed your picnic.’

‘You and me both, Bob.’ The unknown woman seated herself next to him. ‘I’m Cinta.’

‘The more the merrier, I always say. Right, Helen?’ Roxy slid in next to her with all the aplomb of an invited guest.

‘Absolutely.’ Helen played along, honouring Roxy’s dignity. ‘Any idea if the others are coming? I’ve overcatered.’

‘Give it ten. I sent out some reminder texts.’

Helen relaxed. Roxy hadn’t stayed in the car because of Bob’s presence, but because she was spreading the word of the unexpected feast on a wet night.

The women made a fuss of Daisy while Helen heated up the pita. Bob urged the women to eat the fish and the conversation turned to the many benefits of omega-3 oils including how they slowed the decline of brain function.

‘So that’s why I struggle with the cryptic crossword,’ Cinta said. ‘Not enough fish.’

Bob laughed. ‘I’ve eaten fish all my life and the cryptic still stumps me.’

Tracey arrived with Agape, whose eyes lit up at the food. ‘Halal snackpack!’

‘Almost. No hot chips, sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, Helen. This looks amazing.’

Tracey sat down, pumped some hand sanitiser, spread a paper serviette across her lap and then loaded her plate with meat and salad.

As they ate, they talked and the topics ranged far and wide, from the weather to the federal government’s latest out-of-touch-withthe-people stuff-up to conspiracy theories and the hike in the cost of petrol.

‘Can I get anyone a cuppa?’ Bob asked.

‘If there’s no Bundy, I guess tea will have to do,’ Tracey said.

‘Actually …’ Bob pulled an old and battered pewter hip flask out of his fishing basket. ‘There’s enough whiskey in here to make everyone an Irish coffee.’

Tracey lifted an enamel mug out of the drinks box. ‘I like the way you think, Bob.’

While Bob made the drinks, Roxy stared out into the dark. ‘I love this place at night,’ she said. ‘The frogs are serenading their lovers, the possums are thumping and grunting, and the river rushes or glides, depending on the rain.’

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Cinta said. ‘Once the Chinese arrive, we’ll be sitting under floodlights, dodging bullets as they shoot deer or ducking golf balls from night golf.’

Bob laughed. ‘I don’t have a problem with anyone shooting feral deer, but night golf in Boolanga? That sounds a bit far-fetched.’

Helen, who’d worked hard all evening to keep her mouth closed during most of Cinta’s conspiracy theories and unsubstantiated conjectures, lost her battle to stay silent. ‘The resort rumours come out to play every year. Even if there’s a proposal kicking around somewhere, the shire’s been rejecting them for decades. They’re not going to sell to the Chinese or anyone else.’

‘What makes you so certain?’ Cinta asked belligerently.

‘It’s always been community land. Your frogs are safe, Roxy.’

‘That’s good to know.’

The other women were savouring their almost-Irish-coffee treat and didn’t comment.

‘What proposal?’ Bob asked.

Damn it. The man didn’t miss a trick. ‘Nothing specific. I was speaking in general terms.’

His head tilted as if he didn’t believe her. ‘This place is special to me and my family and to a lot of folk in the district. After the Great War, my grandfather worked on the experimental farm. He proposed to my grandmother under that tree over there.’ He lifted his arm to indicate the largest river red gum. ‘My father got caught up in the next nightmare and was starved by the Japs. He brought home malaria as a keepsake and met my mother.

‘Growing up, all I wanted was a dad who’d kick the footy with me, but he’d have bouts of fever that put him in bed for days. But the moment he was up and about, the first thing he’d do was bring me here. In Changi, it was memories of the river that kept him going. The way the morning mist hovers just above the surface and how the pelicans glide regally out of the fog, barely stirring the water.’ Bob tapped the hip flask. ‘This was his, and this park is his part of the river. I scattered his ashes here. Wouldn’t mind if I ended up here either.’

‘You’d better tell your kids that’s what you want,’ Helen said briskly, embarrassed she’d been so entranced by the story she’d leaned in.

‘Pen and I were never blessed that way.’

Bob’s general easygoing persona faded and for the first time Helen glimpsed sadness circling him—old and worn but still with the capacity to bite. A familiar tug pulled on her own grief and she quickly glanced down at her coffee, trying to halt the rising melancholy.

‘Lucky for me I’ve got a much younger sister and a terrific nephew,’ Bob said, sounding brighter. ‘Still, I’m hoping Debbie and Lachie won’t have to do the job for a long time yet.’

‘Amen to that.’ Tracey raised her mug. ‘Any chance of seconds?’

After the women had drifted to the river to smoke, Bob said, ‘Your friends are an eclectic bunch.’

‘They are.’ It was the easiest answer to avoid further comments.

‘Cinta’s conspiracy theories must test you though.’

‘Everyone’s got their idiosyncrasies.’

‘Hah! True, but in Cinta’s case, I think there’s some mental health issues at play as well.’

Helen opened her mouth to object, but Bob