1

Now

No matter how pretty the town or how nice the locals

seemed, Natasha knew there were always hidden secrets.
A darker edge. Houses on the wrong side of the tracks that
no one wanted to admit existed; people the townsfolk didn’t
want to claim as their own.
Settlers Bridge hides it well, Natasha thought as she
passed one of the nylon grocery bags to Zehra. Despite
having wandered the few aisles of the store with her, the
nine-­year-­old peered into the shopping bag, clearly hopeful
some contraband had made its way past her mum’s budget
restrictions. No such luck.
‘There’s a Regional Action Group meeting in the old
council building next week,’ the woman behind the checkout
said, continuing the ‘welcome to town’ speech she’d embarked
on as soon as Natasha started unloading groceries onto the
smooth wooden counter, and introduced herself as the new
teacher. The monologue had begun with a proud rundown
of all the local facilities—which included a yet-­to-­open

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Americana-­themed diner and not one, but two pubs—then

segued into activities that included the usual country-­town
favourites: football, netball and tennis clubs, along with line
dancing, an apparently recent addition. Now, the cashier had
moved on to service clubs and other offerings.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Natasha had paused on the cement
ramp into the IGA, taking a couple of deep breaths before
committing to entering; it had been a long time since she’d
had to go into a country supermarket. Yet, she needn’t have
worried—the quaint store was nothing like old Handsy’s
shop, back in Borgainville.
‘We’re looking at getting a skatepark set up for the kids,’
the cashier continued, putting the last couple of items into
a bag. Natasha tried not to wince at the total. There was
a definite financial toll involved in moving to the country.
‘A skate shop in Adelaide’s offered sponsorship, and we’ve
all kinds of research and design studies being done.’ Her
incredulous tone enhanced how big a deal that was. ‘But if
you notice anything else that would help us bring Settlers
Bridge back to life, you come along to the action group
meeting next week and put in your five cents’ worth, lovey.’
That didn’t sound like such a great idea. Natasha had
liked the look of her new work location on Google Earth
precisely because the small town was so sleepy. The handful
of streets either side of a wide, unpopulated main street where
the gum tree–shaded shops seemed to mirror one another,
had looked safe. Hopefully, there was a magic number where
a small population meant less judgement. Borgainville had
obviously exceeded that number.
Perhaps, as Tarik had said, she should worry less about
fitting in and more about carving her space. Not that it had
ultimately worked for him.
‘In any case,’ the cashier continued, ‘the group will be
a good opportunity for you to meet some locals. Though

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once the new term starts, I suppose that’ll all fall into place.
You’ll be going to Settlers Bridge Primary with your mum,
too, lovey?’
Zehra nodded, her blonde ponytail pooling like liquid
gold on top of the groceries in her arms.
‘Well, don’t you worry, you’ll make plenty of friends
there.’
Zehra shrugged. ‘It’s my fourth school. I’m not worried.’
As usual, the nine-­year-­old’s polite words held a directness,
a confidence, that Natasha both marvelled at and coveted.
If she’d had that innate confidence, how different would her
life have been? Without feeling a need to please, a desire to
be loved at any cost, surely she would have made entirely
different choices.
‘Oh, goodness, fourth already? That is a lot of moving
about.’
Natasha caught the interest in the woman’s tone and
registered the instinctive shut down within herself. A ridic-
ulous defensive reflex: she had nothing to hide. And Tarik
would have pointed out that by automatically throwing up
her walls, she missed a valuable opportunity to close the gap.
But Tarik wasn’t here and there was no reason for her to
explain to anyone what had brought her and Zehra to the
small South Australian town. Besides, she couldn’t verbalise
the longing that had steadily grown within her. For the last
ten years, Wollongong had offered a haven. The frenetic pace
of life, the consuming, exhausting struggle to get her qualifi-
cations, pursue a career and raise her baby single-­handedly
in the city, meant her sorrow and hurt were only permitted
to surface in the small hours of the morning, when darkness
walled the tiny space she allowed for her own feelings.
Yet, despite her determination to blend and disappear
in the city, she’d felt an increasing desire to reconnect with

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the country. Eventually she’d accepted that, for whatever

reason, it was time to leave. Funny; she’d hated when Dad
had done that to her when she was a kid: uprooting her and
chasing the dust devils as they headed further and further
from Sydney. Though with Mum hanging around his neck
like a blotchy white yerungi stone, refusing to move beyond
what was familiar, Dad had never made it this far. Instead
he’d gotten them stuck in Borgainville. Literally and figura-
tively on the wrong side of the tracks.
‘Zehra is counting kindy, prep and junior in those four,’
she said, dragging her focus back to the conversation. ‘No
relocation required—’ her gaze grazed the woman’s name
tag, ‘—Lynn.’
‘Right you are. In any case, I guess being in the same
school will make an easier time of it for Sarah.’
‘Zehra.’
‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? Zehra.’ Lynn wrinkled her
forehead. ‘Very fancy.’
It wasn’t. It was very Turkish.
‘That school’s not going to know what’s hit it, with
two new teachers in the one year.’ Lynn shook her head, as
though she could never have imagined such big things for
the tiny town. ‘It’s a lovely little school, though. Of course,
the older kids have to bus to Mannum or Murray Bridge for
high school. But other than that, you’ll find everything you
could possibly want in Settlers Bridge.’
A swimming pool? It seemed the only sport the woman
hadn’t mentioned and the question trembled on the tip of
Natasha’s tongue, but she wouldn’t ask it. She hadn’t been
swimming for ten years. Not since . . . Tarik.
‘It does look like a lovely town,’ Natasha agreed politely.
And it did. But she’d lived in country towns for long enough
to recognise the hidden dangers; she wasn’t one of those

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parents who would let her child roam the streets, trusting to
the town to raise and protect her. In fact, she’d throw herself
into the very heart of this community simply so she could
check out every single business, every person, to make sure
her daughter was safe. It wasn’t only strangers who brought
danger. ‘When is that action group meeting?’
‘Thursday. About five. But you wander along whenever
suits you, lovey.’ Lynn glanced at her watch. ‘Elaine over at
the real estate agent will be back from lunch, if you want
to collect your house key. The fridge is on, so you can pop
your cold stuff in straight away. Not that it’s going to warm
up quickly in this weather, anyway.’ She gave an exaggerated
shiver, crossing her arms over her apron. ‘I’ve put you over
on Seventh Street.’
Natasha tensed. Was Seventh on the wrong side of the
tracks?
‘Because it’s walking distance to the school,’ Lynn contin-
ued, raking her fingers through her vibrant, spiky locks.
She looked a little like a rosella, puffy chested and brightly
plumaged against the drab greyness washing in off the winter
street. ‘Well, everywhere is walking distance around here,
really. But the cottage on Seventh is just close enough to
school, but far enough away that you can pull the blinds
down and have a sickie when the need arises. Oh, here’s
Ant.’ She beamed as a guy with a beanie tugged down to his
cheekbones strode into the IGA. ‘Did you say the removalists
are bringing your things, Natasha?’
She hadn’t said anything of the kind, but there was no
reason to be secretive. Not here. ‘They should be arriving
around two.’
‘If you need a hand unloading, sing out and Ant will pop
around and help, won’t you, lovey?’
‘Can do,’ the man responded with a friendly nod at
Natasha.

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‘Thanks, but I really don’t have much to unload.’ Zehra

had been raised in a second-­hand crib balanced on stacks
of used textbooks. When Natasha had graduated and Zehra
moved into junior school, finances finally became a little less
tight, but the habits of a lifetime, cemented by working and
studying while pregnant, meant their few bits of furniture
were all op-­shop finds and hard-­rubbish treasures. Really,
none of it was worth the cost of transporting, but in a rare
tantrum, Zehra hadn’t wanted to leave behind the remem-
brances of their lives in Wollongong. She was adamant that,
although they couldn’t bring the friends they’d made, as
much had to come with them as possible. Given that she was
uprooting her daughter, Natasha suspected she had no right
to argue; as long as she and Zehra were together, nothing
else held any importance. So she’d found the money for
the removalist and helped Zehra wrap a lifetime’s worth of
childish trinkets and memories. The only trinket Natasha
would ever care about was around her ankle, the light clasp
reinforced with a gold safety chain that she hadn’t been able
to afford, but could risk not affording even less.
Lynn smiled past her. ‘And here’s another pair of willing
hands.’
Natasha glanced toward the door. Froze. Only for a
millisecond, though. Blond and good looking, in that clean-­
scrubbed, all-­country, local-­football-­star kind of way, of
course the guy who entered wasn’t Dean.
He raised a hand in greeting. ‘Afternoon, all.’
‘Hamish, lovey, this is Natasha. And little Zehra.
­Natasha’s going to be working at the school with Charity.’
‘Hey. That school’s really having a shakedown, isn’t it?
That’s more new teachers in a few months than in all the
years I went there.’ Hamish selected a tube from the Lifesaver
stand on the counter and waggled the packet of peppermints

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at Lynn before pulling a handful of change from his pocket.

‘You’re living in town, then, Natasha?’ He unwrapped the
package, offering it to Zehra. Zehra looked to Natasha, who
nodded permission.
‘On Seventh, apparently,’ Natasha said, though she raised
an eyebrow at Lynn, checking.
Hamish tilted the Lifesaver packet toward her. His hands
were like Dad’s, bearing the telltale stains of a life spent under
the hood of a vehicle. Still, that didn’t make him Dean. She
had to remember that. Had to remember that a decade had
passed now. It was time to focus on making good memories
in this new life she’d chosen.
‘That’s one of your places, Lynn?’ Hamish continued. ‘It’d
have to be, right? Reckon you’re keeping Elaine in business
with all your investments in Settlers.’
The lolly packet continued doing the rounds and Natasha
suppressed an urge to giggle. Four adults and a child, sucking
candies while they gossiped about the town. Couldn’t get
more country than this.
‘That one’s leased to the Education Department as teacher
housing, but as Charity won’t be needing it, it works out well
for Natasha here. Though, it’s not only me keeping Elaine
in business,’ Lynn said around her lolly. ‘I’m sure you’d
have heard that Tracey was looking at turning Tractors and
Tarts into an upmarket op shop kind of thingy? Well, now
it seems she’ll have to consider using the old bank building
instead.’ She hollowed her cheeks around the lolly, examin-
ing her audience as though waiting on a reaction.
Ant frowned. ‘Why’s that? Tractors and Tarts has been
empty for years.’
Lynn smiled fondly, as though he deserved an award for
asking the correct question. ‘Right?’ But Elaine said this
morning that she’s had some interest in the shop.’

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‘No way!’ Hamish said, jamming one hand in his jeans

pocket, cocking an eyebrow. ‘I’ve not heard anything round
the traps. Mind you, I’ll be stoked to be able to get a decent
pie and a vanilla slice again. Things haven’t been the same
since Ploughs and Pies closed down. Nothing against your
frozen stuff, Lynn.’ He gestured to the back of the small
store, where three tall refrigerator units hummed busily.
‘But it’s not really a country town without a bakery, is it?’
‘I’m with you, lovey. But the thing is, interest from who?
If it was anyone from around here, we’d know.’
‘It can’t be anyone from not around here, either,’ Ant put
in. ‘Because, why?’
‘Exactly!’ Lynn said. ‘Unless it’s someone driving in from
Murray Bridge each day. But why would they bother? No
one’s going to buy from someone they don’t know.’
Natasha hid a chuckle. These people would starve if they
found themselves in the city. ‘Well, nice meeting you all,’
she said, catching Zehra’s eye and tilting her head toward
the door.
‘Are you coming to the opening of Christine’s Diner on
Saturday, lovey?’ Lynn asked. ‘It’s in the shop that used to
be our cafe. Well, not that that means anything to you. But
you can’t miss it. Christine will be playing rockabilly loud
enough for the whole street to hear.’
There was a faint note of censure in the words and Natasha
suspected that country music may have been considered more
acceptable. It would be interesting to see who this Christine
was, apparently brave enough to flout the unwritten rules
of a small community. Although Natasha had embraced
the anonymity of city life for a few years, she’d finally
acknowledged the intrinsic loneliness in being unknown
and unrecognised, just another face on another street. Now,
more mature, she could appreciate the comforting familiarity

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of the small-­town mentality that made it okay to have an

expectation of knowing each other’s business. Maybe if she’d
taken advantage of that quirk in Borgainville, instead of
working so hard to keep people locked out, things would
have played out differently. Now she had to do better than
that for Zehra. Had to show her daughter how to be better,
live better. Love better.
‘We might,’ she said to Lynn as she made for the door.
‘What do you think, Zehra? Hamburgers and Elvis sound
good for a Saturday treat?’
‘Hamburgers, yes, but what’s an elvis?’ Zehra said. ‘I’d
rather have fries.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find those there, too,’ Lynn said. ‘You
can’t miss the diner, just a few shops down the street, toward
the river. Hopefully the weather will pick up by then, but
regardless, everyone will be there. It’s so long since we’ve
had a new shop in town—though, you’re right, Hamish, it
is such a shame we had to lose Sam’s cafe.’
Although the cashier looked nothing like Gloria, Lynn’s
friendliness sent a jolt of nostalgia through Natasha, a
longing for one of her previous employer’s unstinting hugs.
She couldn’t allow herself to be seduced by memories though;
while the owner of the Borgainville cafe had been one of so
few good things in her youth, this place would be better.
Settlers Bridge would be everything for Zehra that Borgain-
ville had failed to be for Natasha.
Because, after so many years of planning how to escape
the country, Natasha had returned. And this time she wasn’t
a prisoner.

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