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

turned their attention to destroying the pride and joy of Boolanga’s seniors: their garden plots. Judith Sainsbury, president of the community garden, said, ‘How dare they come to Boolanga and terrorise our way of life. The garden has always been a safe haven and now it’s been desecrated. We no longer feel safe in our beds.’

Helen’s temples throbbed so hard she thought she’d burst a blood vessel. Judith had actively worked against the women’s garden but now, when it suited her racist rhetoric, she was claiming it as part of the community garden.

She forced herself to keep reading.

Police are interviewing the usual suspects. Charges are yet to be laid.

Of course they were yet to be laid! Corey had scarpered, and for all the talk in town about an African gang on the loose, the police didn’t seem able to make any charges stick.

Helen’s anger at the police’s insistence on talking to Amal still simmered. Of course the boy had denied all knowledge of the incident—he had a cast-iron alibi. Although his manner had been respectful during the interview, the burn in his eyes and the jut of his jaw showed his outrage. Helen couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned to the police station.

When she’d mentioned racial profiling to Sergeant North, he’d pointed out the two Anglo kids waiting to be questioned. As Jade had greeted them by name when she’d arrived at the station, Helen assumed they were from Serenity Street. That was a perfect example of geographic and socio-economic profiling, and another reason she’d hidden her past when she’d started over in Boolanga. If the local police knew she’d been homeless, she’d be targeted for ‘chats’ regarding any and all petty misdemeanours.

She brought up a new email and typed in: editor@Boolangastandard.com.au.

As the caretaker of the community garden

Her fingers paused. Could she say that? Yes. She’d been the caretaker at the time of the event. Her fingers tapped again.

I would like to address some inaccuracies in the 9/10 report of the damage the garden sustained. The damage occurred in the new extension, which, unlike the original community garden, is not protected by a high fence. One flower garden was badly damaged and two other beds sustained minor damage. This is hardly an attack on our way of life. I’d be far more concerned about the lack of rain and the impact that’s having on our food production than one garden bed being wrecked.

She added her name and address and hit send.

On her way home, Helen dropped into Boolanga Signs and asked for a quote to have the shire’s logo added to the sponsorship sign. The figure Len came up with astonished her.

‘Good God. How can it possibly cost that much?’

Len’s chest puffed out. ‘I can’t just paint it on.’

‘Why not?’

‘With our heat, it’ll peel off in no time.’

Helen thought it peeling off fast might be a good option.

Len pointed to a sign on the wall. ‘Something like that will do the job and last for years.’

Helen glanced around the shop; it was full of examples. Most were shire signs, but there was one for Ainslea Park and another for Geoff Rayson’s accounting firm.

‘You seem to do a bit of work for the shire,’ she said. ‘You must be more competitive than Sign On.’

‘I like to think so.’

She turned back to the counter and noticed a photograph of a rowing crew holding a trophy aloft. ‘Is that you and Geoff Rayson?’

Len laughed. ‘Back in our glory days when we were younger and lighter. Mind you, we rowed in the inaugural Boolanga Business Regatta last year and came third.’

‘Not too shabby.’ She picked up the printed quote. ‘Thanks for this. I’ll check in with Sign On and get back to you.’

‘Ah, Helen …’ Len leaned over the counter. ‘I’m the shire’s approved sign-writer so if you use someone else, Finance might not reimburse you. I wouldn’t want you or the garden to be out of pocket.’

‘Right.’

Except not a lot about the information seemed right at all. Helen’s mind churned on the walk back to the cottage.

As she opened the gate, she heard Milo’s cries. A rush of goosebumps raised her skin and she rubbed her arms, hoping Kubra, Aima or Baseera were about. They adored Milo and often gave Jade a hand.

But when Helen came out from behind the trees, Jade was standing next to her garden bed, jiggling Milo in her arms. The rest of the garden was empty.

Plants in pots were positioned across the freshly raked bed, marking their future place in the soil. One plant lay on the ground, already out of its pot.

Helen couldn’t stop herself. ‘The roots will dry out.’

Jade rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, boomer.’

‘What?’

‘You’re stating the obvious. I know it’s drying out, but Milo was screaming blue murder. I don’t need child protection breathing down my neck on top of all the other crap!’

Self-reproach stung Helen into action and she bent down to pick up the plant. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘No!’ Jade blinked rapidly. ‘I mean, no, thank you. Can you hold Milo instead? He hasn’t stopped crying all day.’

Helen stood slowly and met the baby’s blue-grey eyes. He looked at her pensively as if he knew she’d inevitably disappoint him. Judging her with unspoken words—you didn’t do a very good job last time.

Every part of her screamed no. ‘I don’t do—’

‘Please.’

Anguish carried on the plea and Helen took a closer look at Jade. Black smudges—not mascara—coloured the skin under her eyes. Her hair was greasy, pulled back in a raggedy ponytail as if it had been done in a hurry, and she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn the previous two days. The girl was strung out and exhausted.

Helen remembered what that was like. Reluctantly, she held out her arms and accepted the baby. He immediately screamed and flung himself sideways, reaching for his mother. The strength in the movement shocked her as much as his weight. When Nicki was one, she’d been half his size and had lain