She squatted, wrapped her hand around it and pulled. She stilled, staring at the fine roots as if she’d never seen a bare-rooted plant before.
This was it! This half-dead plant screamed solution.
Fifteen minutes later and panting slightly, Helen stood on Serenity Street. She’d heard some of Boolanga’s locals refer to Serenity and its intersecting streets as ‘The Ghetto’, despite having never visited. During her university placements, she’d spent time in some dodgy parts of Melbourne and, although the lack of tended gardens in Serenity Street gave it a down-and-out feel, it lacked the rubbish and used syringes of its city counterparts.
A few kids played on the road—some riding old bikes assembled from a mishmash of pre-loved parts, while others kicked a well-worn soccer ball.
A small group of women wearing headscarves stood chatting on the concrete ramp in front of a block of flats. They fell silent as Helen approached and a few looked as if they wanted to shrink into the brick walls.
She smiled at them. ‘Hello. Lovely day.’
They smiled shyly and nodded.
One of them pointed at Helen’s hand. ‘You want pot?’
Helen was surprised to see she was still clutching the canola. ‘Oh, no, thanks. I’m not going to plant it.’
‘So why you carry it?’
‘I forgot I was holding it.’
The younger woman’s eyes scanned her as if she was checking for signs of dementia. ‘You are lost?’
Helen laughed. ‘No. I’m Helen Demetriou from the community garden. I’m looking for Fiza. Do you know her?’
The woman shook her head. ‘What is community garden?’
‘It’s a place where people without a garden can grow things.’
‘Where is this?’
‘Riverfarm Road. Near the caravan park and the oval.’
‘Ah. I know this garden, but I think it belongs to people.’
One of the other women said something in a language Helen didn’t recognise, and then the woman who’d been speaking earlier said, ‘Please. Come.’
Helen followed the women into a ground-floor flat and they showed her the tiny outside space. Almost every available centimetre was filled with small black pots of neatly cut chives and chaotic coriander. Tomatoes trailed up the fence.
‘Wow! I’ve never seen so many chives.’
‘We use in our food, but this our only garden for many families.’
‘What’s your name?’ Helen asked.
‘Aima. And this is Kubra and Baseera.’
‘Hello. What language do you speak?’
‘Dari and Hazaragi. We are Hazara.’
‘From Afghanistan?’
Aima smiled. ‘You know it?’
‘I know where it is on the map.’
‘A long way from here,’ Aima said wistfully, before adding urgently as if she may have caused offence, ‘But Australia is good to us.’
‘Is it?’ Helen wondered out loud and immediately saw Aima’s confusion. ‘Tell me, what would you grow if you had a bigger garden?’
‘This is easy. Chives, coriander, lettuces, cucumbers, chilli, mint,’ Aima said.
‘What if you had lots of space? What else would you grow?’
Aima asked the other women something and translated their replies. ‘Spring onions, potatoes, beetroot, carrots, garlic and sunflowers.’ She put her hand on her heart. ‘And you say dream, so I say nut trees. Almonds, walnuts and pistachios. Oh! Grapevines too. Then we make all our foods.’
Helen laughed. ‘That sounds wonderful.’
‘It would be. We do this in your garden?’
Helen looked at the wilting canola and remembered what had propelled her to Serenity Street. ‘The community garden’s full, but there’s land next to it where we can extend. But we’d be starting from scratch. It would be a lot of work.’
Aima’s forehead wrinkled. ‘We have to scratch the dirt? You mean dig?’
Helen laughed. ‘Yes, dig and mulch and water. We’ll have to build the garden beds. Are your friends interested?’
Aima spoke to Kubra and Baseera and there was lots of smiling and nodding. Then a gabble of voices broke out and they were talking over the top of each other.
‘We say yes,’ Kubra said softly.
‘Thank you,’ Baseera said.
‘Excellent!’ They exchanged phone numbers and Helen left with an arrangement to meet them at the cottage the following morning after school drop-off.
Flying high on the buzz of a new idea, not to mention a way of putting it up the garden committee, Helen returned to looking for Fiza’s flat. The numbers she had on her phone didn’t match those on the street. Had Fiza transposed the flat and street number?
Helen texted her and waited five minutes. When Fiza didn’t reply, Helen crossed the road and retraced her steps. She stopped outside a classic pale brown brick 1970s’ unit complete with arches. The wooden gate under the arch was jagged and rotting at the bottom. Faded sheets hung across the front windows and weeds grew along the concrete drive. But there was a cracked terracotta pot close to the front door containing a riot of cerise geranium flowers, which tumbled over each other despite a collection of cigarette butts in the soil. Then again, a nuclear explosion may not be enough to kill a geranium. In the face of the surrounding building decay, Helen recognised the presence of the plant said ‘I care’.
The shrill cry of a baby jarred the air. Despite the passage of years Helen shuddered, remembering Nicki’s screams, her own powerlessness to comfort her and the unending sense of failure. She pushed the thoughts down deep where they belonged and knocked on the door.
The baby stopped crying and a young woman cracked the door open just enough for Helen to glimpse white skin and muddy blonde hair. It was unlikely this was Fiza’s house.
‘Hello, I’m Helen from the community garden and—’
‘You selling stuff?’
‘Ah, no. I’m looking for Fiza. Does she live here or in one of the other units?’
‘What’s a Fiza when it’s at home?’
‘Fiza’s a woman.’ Helen hesitated then added, ‘She’s from somewhere in Africa.’
‘I see African kids at Tranquillity.’ At Helen’s confusion she added, ‘It’s the park
