‘Forms?’ Wariness replaced Fiza’s eager anticipation.
Helen wondered how many forms Fiza must have been required to complete to come to Australia. ‘It’s just your phone number and your address to prove you live in town.’
‘We have been in Serenity Street for five months.’
Helen understood why Fiza wanted to move. ‘Would you like to take home some carrots? Green beans?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve got plenty.’
Helen dug up some carrots and encouraged Fiza to pick double the amount of her initial bean harvest.
‘Thank you, Helen. I will come at three o’clock.’
‘Great. See you then.’
The committee members were now drifting into the garden, heading straight to the ‘kitchen’. It was really just a shelter with a barbecue, wood-fired pizza oven, running cold water, a sink, power and a kettle. Someone would have brought lamingtons or a plate of Anzacs for afternoon tea and the members would be keen not to miss out.
‘Afternoon, Helen.’ Bob Murphy swung off his pushbike and leaned it up against the fence. His border collie sat, panting from his run. ‘I’ve been tinkering with the mower and she’s running like a dream. Thought I’d drop her back this time tomorrow?’
Helen knew that was code for ‘and I’ll stay for a cup of tea’. Bob was a relatively new member and as much as Helen appreciated him taking on the task of keeping the community garden’s mower going, she preferred having cups of tea with people in public settings, not inside her cottage.
‘Thanks. If I’m not around, just pop it in shed two.’
‘Hello, Bob. Helen,’ Judith, the president, called out, waving a bright red folder and tapping her watch. ‘We’re ready to start.’
Helen stifled a sigh. She wasn’t a huge fan of the monthly committee meeting. Often it took far too long to achieve very little.
A smile creased the grey stubble on Bob’s weather-worn face and he winked at her, acknowledging Judith’s obsession with meeting protocol.
Helen ignored the gesture for two reasons. As the caretaker of the community garden, she couldn’t be seen to side with anyone. As a woman, she had no desire to give any man even a hint of being interested.
She joined the committee around the large wooden table and scanned the agenda. Thankfully, it looked straightforward.
‘I did the equipment audit,’ Bob said. ‘A fair bit needs replacing, and a few things are a tetanus hazard and should be thrown out.’
Judith looked at Helen. ‘Will the shire pay for replacement tools?’
‘They gave us a large grant last year for the water tanks, but I’ll run it past Messina and Vivian. Unlike some of the councillors, they’re very supportive of the garden.’
‘We could always apply for a Saturday sausage sizzle at Hoopers,’ Bob said. ‘That’d raise a few hundred dollars. I’ve made my own snags for years. Happy to make a batch using the herbs from the garden. Might be an extra selling point.’
‘Thanks,’ Helen said. ‘That’s certainly an idea worth considering. We could also sell some produce. Since we installed the watering system, almost every plot is groaning. I’ve been offering my lettuces, carrots and coriander to all and sundry, but everyone’s in the same boat. I think it’s time to formalise a plan for surplus food.’
‘Good idea,’ Dot said.
‘What did you have in mind?’ Bob asked.
Helen was torn between her two passions—helping those in need and raising necessary funds for the garden. ‘Donating it to the food bank. Having a stall at the farmers’ market. Or both.’
Judith pursed her lips. ‘The garden’s not a collective. People have different reasons for having a plot.’
Helen couldn’t deny that. Initially, her plot had been all about survival. Not that anyone in Boolanga knew that. Homelessness made people uncomfortable, including herself, so it was easier to pretend it had never happened.
‘That’s true,’ she said to Judith, ‘but the garden’s a community and communities work together.’
‘We do work together. We have a mowing roster and working bees—’
‘And rotting vegetables in some plots when people have more produce than they can use or give away to family. Isn’t it better to donate it to the food bank?’
‘I have a big family so I never have leftovers,’ said Vin.
‘Obviously, any food donations would be voluntary,’ Helen said.
‘Best to minute that, Sharon,’ said Judith. ‘We never quite know with Helen.’
Helen didn’t react. She was used to this sort of slap from Judith and refused to be deterred. ‘The Liparis have resigned due to ill health and are currently in Shepparton. Are there any objections to me harvesting their plot for the next farmers’ market and generally tidying it up?’
There was a mumble of ‘no’, ‘that’s fine’, and ‘tidy is good’, before Judith said, ‘Any monies raised will go towards new tools.’
‘Of course. And I’ll put a poster on the noticeboard offering people the opportunity to donate surplus food to the stall. Anyone like to join me on the day?’
‘Be happy to,’ Bob said.
‘Thanks.’ But Helen would prefer it if someone else came along too. ‘Anyone else? Any time you can offer between eight and eleven would be appreciated and very welcome.’
‘Bit short notice, Helen,’ Sharon said.
‘Busy day, Saturdays. Got the grandkiddies and their sport,’ Vin said.
Dot was staring off into the distance and didn’t reply.
‘Sorry, Helen. Commitments,’ Judith added.
‘No worries. Maybe next time?’
‘Before you go planning this as an ongoing event, it’s something that should be discussed with the general membership. Minute that, Sharon, for the next AGM.’
Helen clenched her jaw. The AGM was months away and this was Judith’s way of sidestepping any issue she didn’t agree with, hoping time would bury it.
‘I’m happy to pilot it for three months and write a detailed report for the AGM,’ she offered.
Judith winced, clearly torn between her love of a report and the fact it might come back to bite her. ‘If you want to take it on, Helen, that’s up to you, but there are no guarantees it will be ongoing.’
‘It might be a
