Agitated and unable to settle, she took herself for a long walk along the river, confident that breathing in the eucalyptus-scented air and watching sunshine and shadow playing across the water would soothe her jangles. But a brisk four kilometres later, she was back at the top of her driveway and no closer to a state of calm than she’d been when she set out. Every time she remembered how Judith and Sharon had gazumped her, frustration and anger surged and she pictured her GP tut-tutting about her blood pressure.
Helen lovingly ran her hand along the curlicue on the old decorative woven-metal gate. The cottage with its orchard was on the edge of town, bordered by the community garden, some fallow hectares and two roads—one a gravel track to the river. It was a peaceful spot and Helen treasured the space, even if the cottage was maintained at just above habitable. According to Fran at the library, after the Great War the surrounding land had been an experimental farm, helping injured returned servicemen get back on their feet. During the Second World War it had served as an internment camp, and in the following decades been leased to a variety of farmers.
In today’s climate—both weather and economic—it was no longer a large enough parcel of land to generate a farm living. The shire had divided it into three uneven parts—short-term grazing, the community garden, and the section closest to the river that was under the management and guidance of the local Landcare group along with the Indigenous community. Native grasses and tree plantings were restoring the land to what it had been before a hundred and fifty years of farming had irrevocably changed the landscape. But what really made Helen’s heart sing was, unlike their New South Wales cousins across the river, the Mookarii Shire hadn’t sold their soul to a resort. The land belonged to the community.
During her shifts at the Acropolis Café, Helen constantly heard rumours about plans for the land—anything from the shire selling it to a consortium to returning it to the Yorta Yorta people. Whenever she gazed at the paddocks, she saw a tiny housing village for women aged fifty-five and over. The year before, she’d started meeting quietly with individual councillors to test the waters and garner support for an affordable and sustainable housing project—tiny houses. Consultation was taking longer than she’d expected because, between their paid jobs and their shire commitments, the six councillors were busy and hard to pin down. Of the four she’d met with, their responses had ranged from barely lukewarm to fully invested.
Getting a meeting with the mayor, Geoff Rayson, had proved impossible and Helen couldn’t decide if he was the problem or his officious secretary. Each time she’d tried, he was either fully booked, overseas, at a local government conference or sick.
She’d been ready to give up when the deputy mayor, Vivian Leppart, had called her. ‘I’ve got good news, Helen! I’ve been working on the mayor for the last few months and he’s given his “in-principle” agreement for the tiny houses.’
‘That’s incredible! Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘What’s next?’
‘A formal submission.’
The opportunity to use her dusty qualifications was exhilarating and Helen had loved every minute of the process. She got a thrill each time she pictured a cluster of tiny houses, a communal kitchen and living space for classes and gatherings, and a large community garden. She’d researched and established strong links with the people who’d been involved in housing projects around the country and along the way she’d collected an arsenal of useful tips, including applying for a small grant to pay for draft plans so there was no ambiguity around the project. She had no intention of being stymied at any point due to lack of information. The hardest part so far was waiting to hear what the councillors who supported the project—Cynthia, Messina and Vivian—thought of the recently completed submission.
Helen walked through the orchard. It had been planted back when the land was an experimental farm. Although not technically part of the garden, it was on shire land and the garden members considered it theirs and cared for it zealously, treasuring the mix of fruit and nut trees—apricot, nectarines, peach, pear and plum, almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, macadamias and pistachios. Unlike a Melbourne community garden they’d visited, where a couple of clueless blokes had pruned fruit trees with a chainsaw, up here retired orchardists fought to be on the roster. More than once, Helen had been forced to intervene with a bottle of grappa and a sack of diplomacy. Lesson learned, she now allocated trees to members so there was little opportunity for disputes.
She checked on her bees—all busy feasting on spring blooms—then crossed the vast expanse of the cottage’s ‘lawn’—a dustbowl in the summer and potential silage and snake habitat in spring. Closing her hand around the wire on the cyclone fence that separated the block from the community garden, she sighed in frustration. The plots along the fence line were full-sized but only half of them were working at capacity. This was an ongoing source of aggravation. In the years Helen had been involved in the garden, she’d suggested gently, loudly, subtly, blatantly and often that the underutilised beds be halved so new members could join. It would be a win-win for all as a smaller bed was more manageable for the plot holder, and the ensuing new bed would provide an opportunity for new members to become involved, but the idea was consistently rejected.
After the recent committee meeting, Helen had made another round of phone calls, but no one wanted to divide their plot. Should she halve her own bed so Fiza could join? But Helen had seen the zeal burning in Fiza’s eyes for a patch of dirt of her own. A small plot wouldn’t be enough.
Helen hated how she’d raised Fiza’s hopes and was now about to dash them. It was tempting to
