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

heard women and children were shot at the border. I took Amal to Kenya.’

Something about the way she said it told Tara it wasn’t as straightforward as catching a bus or a plane. ‘So the twins were born in a tent at the camp?’

‘They were born in the camp hospital.’

Relief shifted. ‘And you lived in a house?’

‘When we arrived, I was given plastic to build our shelter. Later I got a mud house.’

‘But you had water and electricity?’

‘Yes and no. I carried our water from a well. We could buy electricity for the phone and computer. We used solar lights and I cooked on briquettes made from charcoal and excrement.’ She laughed at Tara’s shock—a tinkling happy sound so at odds with the story. ‘They are fantastic. They save trees and help with camp sanitation. They burn longer. Very efficient.’

Tara remembered the few short months she and Jon had camped at Tingledale without power or hot water and she’d cooked on a burner attached to a gas bottle. One night, it had all got too much for her and she’d lost it, screaming it was ‘all too hard!’ Jon had treated her to a week in a cabin in the caravan park with all the amenities and she hadn’t been pregnant or trying to care for a newborn, let alone twins. Back then, she’d vowed she’d never take lights or hot running water for granted again. But of course she had, and quickly.

‘How many people were at this camp?’ she asked.

‘It goes up and down, but about one hundred and fifty thousand.’

‘But that’s bigger than Ballarat!’

Fiza gave a rueful smile. ‘Boolanga is much smaller. The camp has shops, schools and health centres and people run businesses just like in a normal town. The UNHCR keeps different groups separate, but still …’ Memories flared in her eyes. ‘Camps are not safe places for women and children. Especially a woman without a husband.’

Tara didn’t ask the awful question that crossed her mind and instead focused on the children. ‘Does Amal remember it?’

‘Of course. He did things I wish he did not have to. Even now I feel this way with what I have to ask him, but I had babies and no husband. We had to survive. I kept promising him everything would change when we got our new life. Even though that new life was going to be far from the thorn trees. Some people spend twenty years living in the camp, but through Allah’s grace, peace be upon him, and my father’s sacrifice, I was there only four years.’

Tara, whose belief in God wavered, thought it was probably more to do with Fiza’s grit and determination. ‘Your father’s sacrifice?’

‘He believed in education for women. He was a farmer and the agriculture coordinator where we lived. He scrimped and saved so I could go to university and have a more secure life. I give thanks every day for that. Without knowing French and English, my life would be so much harder. I am fortunate to be in this country and have the security of a good job.’

‘And that’s why you’re growing maize here and in the community garden?’

‘Yes. To honour my father in my new home. And to honour Idriss. I am trying hard to give our children the life we both wanted for them—one with education and opportunity. To make them appreciate how lucky we are to live in a democracy. To choose where we can go and what we can wear and who and how we can worship. It is easier with the twins. They are young and their camp memories fade. It is harder with Amal. I promised him a place where no one with guns knocks on the door in the middle of the night. A place of safety and contentment. But there are days when I feel I have swapped one warzone for another. Days when I fear for my children. Especially for Amal.’

Fiza raised her gaze to Tara’s, dignity and pride radiating from the determined tilt of her chin and her tall and graceful bearing. ‘I teach them to work hard, respect the laws and be good citizens, but it breaks my heart they need to prove they belong here. That they must work twice as hard for the same rewards.’

Strong women had always intimidated Tara, but she could no longer hide behind that as an excuse. As difficult as it was to accept, she knew she’d allowed Fiza’s dark skin to play an extra role in her antipathy towards her. Towards her son. She wasn’t proud of it, especially as from their first encounter, Fiza had only offered help and concern. Brisk help, but help nonetheless. Tara shuddered at the memory of telling her to go away, and resolved to always do better.

‘The reason I asked you to come over was because of Amal. Helen told me you moved next door so he …’ Given what Fiza had just said, how did she say this without offending her? ‘So he’s never in town on his own at night.’

Fiza stiffened as if Tara had slapped her. ‘My son has never, would never, steal anything from your shop.’

Tara met Fiza’s gaze, feeling the sparks of flint but this time understanding they were survival traits that had got her safely to Australia. ‘I believe you.’

‘He is a goo—’ Fiza stopped as if only just hearing Tara’s words. ‘Then what is this conversation about?’

‘Before we talk to Amal, we want to ask if you’re okay with him working at the store.’

Her brows pulled down. ‘But he wants to go to university.’

‘Not a full-time job. A casual job. Most teenagers have an unskilled job they do a few hours a week when they’re in year eleven and twelve.’

‘And you think Amal would do a good job for you?’

‘Yes. It’s why we’re offering. We want casuals who are bright, reliable and work hard. If he wants the job, we’ll need him weekends from early November, then pretty much full-time from