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Chapter One

Coast Banksia

( banksia integrifoli )

Generally a large coastal tree but does adapt well when cultivated as a Bonsai. The large leaves will resize by about two-thirds and become very compact and dense. The bark becomes fissured with age and may sound hollow when tapped.

“O h, you have got to be shitting me!” I threw the council notice at the replanting table, and stared forlornly as the paper settled onto the loose potting mix.

“What?” Lucas, the high school kid who worked on Thursday afternoons and Saturdays at Dig It, paused, then held up his hands which were encased in gloves two sizes too big so he looked like a muppet.

“There’s a Walker’s being built down the road,” I ground out, pointing aggressively at the unfolded letter.

Lucas gasped. “But they can’t!”

“Ha! Try telling that to Walker’s. They’re a bloody noxious weed.” I plucked up the paper and read aloud the relevant points. “Blah blah Walker’s Lifestyle Warehouse comprising nursery, trade, hardware, and home appliances.” I paused, then restarted. “Blah blah thirty days to lodge a complaint with the council blah blah ninety days if lodging a joint complaint on behalf of more than one business. Please contact blah blah Jesus Christ.” I looked up.

“I’m not sure he’s the bloke to chat to.” The dry response from Kahlia produced a withering look.

“Ha bloody ha. This is serious. A Walker’s nursery could wipe us out.”

Kahlia rolled her wheelchair closer to the potting bench, now repurposed as a conference table for our spontaneous board meeting. “You’ve got the complaint letter already drafted in your head, haven’t you?”

I nodded, then leant down to scratch Tough, our work dog—a rescue dog of the white and grey scruffy fur variety—on the head. He wagged his tail, which should have made me smile, but even his efforts couldn’t resolve my despair.

Kahlia grinned. “How many swear words does it have?”

“Many. It starts, ‘Dear Council of Fuckwits, don’t destroy my nursery. Signed Angel Whitlock.”

Lucas snorted, his long blonde hair flopping about his face, and removed his enormous gloves. “Down the road where?”

I shook off the remaining dusting of dirt.

“Straight across the highway by my estimation. The council’s helpfully provided an unnecessarily complex schematic map of its location, but…” I squinted at the paper. “Yep, looks like it’s right across the highway.” Then I sighed. Right across the highway if you walked a hundred metres down to the corner where our road came to an abrupt stop at a ‘T’ intersection with that very busy four-lane highway. There was a very real possibility that customers would drive into an airport-sized Walker’s Lifestyle Warehouse carpark to purchase their next Grevillia or eucalyptus seedlings rather than pop into my boutique nursery. Dig It would be digging itself out of a financial hole. Then I blinked.

“It’s right on the highway.”

Lucas shrugged. “You said.” He picked up Tough and tucked him under one arm like he was carrying a football, which was essentially what Tough resembled.

“No, Listen!” I flapped the letter at him, then waved it at Kahlia. “We really, really have to put in a complaint. That land is still semi-commercial. They can’t put the warehouse there because a Walker’s Lifestyle Warehouse is fully commercial. The zones don’t work.”

“Unless the council is rezoning.” Kahlia leant back in her wheelchair and arched her spine, then rolled her head on her neck. “I have got to get another massage soon.”

I grimaced in sympathy. According to Kahlia, now six and a half months along, pregnancy and a wheelchair were often incompatible. Then I flicked my finger, taking in both members of my attentive audience.

“They haven’t rezoned yet. They’re just announcing it like they have. Or will. Or are going to wait until the cheque from Walker’s clears because surely they’d have to be paying them under the table.” I squeezed the letter until a concertina-ed end stuck out on either side of my fist like a bad news bon bon. “I need to chat to the others.”

The others were Jules, who owned Coffee Crystals next door, which was a cafe that made money to support the lack of customers for her crystals, gems and the once-a-week Tarot readings given by Jules’ partner, Pip.

Then there was seventy-five year old Ted, whose entire life was his pre-loved books shop, Ted’s Used Books . Pushing through the door—the little bell at the top announcing your entrance—and stepping inside was like travelling back to the 1920s or so. Ted had ladders on wheels, overflowing bookshelves, a cataloguing system that made sense to Ted alone, and the musty smell created by years of literary love.

Mrs Georgopolis’s fish and chip shop was on the other side of Ted’s, and she was known far and wide for her triple-fried chips. After multiple rounds in the boiling oil, the chips were more grease and batter than actual potato, but that’s what made them so delicious. She was also known to be a right old grump but it was all bark and no bite. She told Lucas to get a haircut last week because apparently he wouldn’t find a girlfriend if he couldn’t see anyone. Then she gave him an extra scoop of chips and two more potato scallops. Her age was a mystery, but Kahlia reckoned she was sixty. Tiny five-foot-four Mr Georgopolis, who manned the chiko rolls and Dagwood dogs fry station, wore a permanent smile that lifted his moustache into a joyful bow. He was utterly devoted to his loud, larger-than-life wife.

I’d need all of them onside if our objection was to be taken seriously. Ninety days. It was doable.

* * *

As I had predicted, Mrs Georgopolis had many opinions about the rising cost of potatoes, Covid, the Australian Prime Minister, teenagers, and Walker’s Lifestyle Warehouses.

“This they cannot do,” she said loudly from behind the counter, pointing towards the end of the road with a pair of tongs so that little pieces of batter were scattered into the air. “That giant will block the sun. I not sell lifestyle but they might sell the fish and the chips, and not as good as here. Here the customers say we are the best.”

I highly doubted that Walker’s would have a side hustle selling overly-fried food in the far corner next to the camping equipment, but I needed Mrs Georgopolis to be completely invested in our legal battle.

“They might not, Mrs G, but they could take customers away because they’ll finish their shopping at Walker’s then go through the Macca’s drive through further down the highway. It’ll have an impact,” I said, drawing circles with my finger in the salt on the formica bench. The fish and chip shop really was the poster child for the health and hygiene department regulations, because the aluminium splash backs and floor tiles gleamed. Mr G cleaned constantly, while his wife dealt with the proliferation of customers. This was an establishment that was loved, even with the salt snow on various horizontal surfaces. “And the builders doing the reno on those heritage houses two blocks away might duck across the road.” I tilted my head in sadness.

“Parking.” Mr G’s soft voice cut through the silence, and both Mrs G and I turned. “The parking at new warehouse is free and here it is the meter. People save their money.” He nodded, smiled, and returned to unpacking frozen pieces of whiting.

My mouth turned down. He was right. That was another point in Walker’s favour and I didn’t want too many points on that side of our battle.

* * *

Jules had pinned her council notice to the board behind the enormous espresso machine, and was glaring at it when I walked in.

“Have you seen this?” Jules jabbed at the air near the board, making the side ponytail of brown hair on the left side of head flick about. The right side of her head was shaved with a zig zag pattern shaved closer to the skin. It was all very cool and totally Jules.

“Yeah. It’s what I’ve come to chat about. We get ninety days if we all band together to lodge a complaint. Are you in?” I raised my eyebrows questioningly, then grinned. “Also, any chance of a medium flat white?”

“Sure, and yes to being in on the complaint.” She fiddled around with a customer’s order, snapped the lid on the cup, and shouted, “Small skinny latte for Stellar!”

I turned, stifling a smile. It took only a few seconds for a woman to look about at the various tables, then slowly leave her seat, and make her way to the counter.

“Is that order for Skylah?” she asked tentatively. Her face was a constellation of confusion.

Jules delivered a beaming smile. “Yep. That’s you.”

“But…” The woman took the cup. “Um…thanks.” She gave a wry smile, shook her head, then wandered away to sit with her friends amongst the cascades of crystals and spiritual artefacts overflowing into the seating area, effectively blending the two spaces into one.

Jules had sourced, from various locations, couches that crouched next to low coffee tables, Pip’s Tarot card reading chair and table arrangement in the corner, and mismatched seats snuggled up to circular or square tables near the counter. It was warm, inviting, and I had occasionally taken advantage of the space to bringing a book from the dust-gathering pile next to my bed, and curl up in one of the armchairs for my lunch break.

I chuckled, watching the confused customer. Jules had seen an episode of some TV show where Starbucks customers in America were constantly either having their name written incorrectly or replaced with an entirely different name on their takeaway cup. Since there wasn’t a Starbucks in Melbourne, Jules had decided to give her customers the American experience. The new names were always nice and friendly and, oddly enough, a lot of people loved it, turning up from adjacent suburbs just to respond to a disembowelled version of their own name, or their pseudonym, yelled across the space. They turned up for the coffee as well. Jules’ coffee was exceptional.

“So, do we need a lawyer or something for the complaint?” Jules wiped down the counter with a tea-towel, then tended to my order.

I hummed in thought. “I’ll say yes, because we’ll need to make sure the council takes us seriously.”

* * *

“Oh, lass. I did wonder when that great Martian landscape would be filled with industry. It looks like it will be sooner rather than later.” Ted pushed his glasses higher up his nose, stepped carefully off the bottom rung of the rolling ladder, then tilted his chin towards the back of the shop. “Do you have time for a cuppa?”

“Sounds lovely. Thanks.” I followed behind, enjoying the gentle squeaks and creaks of aged floorboards. A box of 1990s National Geographic magazines perched on the little ottoman footstool, so I picked it up and placed it on the ground beside the stool then sat, watching Ted putter about with the box of teabags, sugar, and the electric kettle.

“We’ll be the ‘overcoming the monster’ archetype,” he said, a quick smile on his lips which sent wrinkles scurrying up his cheeks to land beside his blue eyes.

I grinned. “Knew you’d find an analogy.”

“Can’t help it, love. It’s in my pores.” Ted passed over a mug of strong tea, then sat carefully on the armchair. “Now, joining in your council complaint sounds grand, but I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to fight that fight.” Before I could respond, he lifted a finger to point at the ceiling. “But because we’re raising an army and with your dependable leadership, lass, I think we’ll make just enough noise. So, yes. Count me in.”

I wanted to hug him, but the dust from the books always tickled my nose and if I was in the process of embracing the man, then sneezed and squeezed, I’d put him in the orthopaedic ward at Royal Melbourne Hospital. So I went with a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

“I know Walker’s won’t be selling books. Not much money in it, really. But it doesn’t matter what they sell, love. It’s what they represent. Here, all four of us are a community. It’s the same with those three shops down the other end of Jameson Street. The news agency, the op-shop, and the chemist. They’ll be affected, too. The product doesn’t matter. I like to think that we actually see our customers. Customers don’t dash in, grab an item or two, and dash out, without saying even a word to the shopkeeper. For some of our customers, even the young ‘uns, we’re a moment of connection. It was like that for my father when he ran the shop, and that’s a good enough reason to sign on.”

* * *

I bounced on the balls of my feet as I entered the nursery, pausing to admire my archway of Australian native bushes at the entrance. The grevilleas, banksia and proteas were super choices and, with Lucas’ help, they’d created an enticing portal into another world. Well, I liked to think so.

I resumed my bouncing. Everyone was on board and now we could go about the business of finding a lawyer who was thorough, could write frightening letters, and wasn’t exorbitantly expensive. That last thought popped my happy balloon. Bugger. Where were we going to find a lawyer who’d do some cheap scary letter writing? I would have to ask at the community advice centre to see of they knew some professionals who did pro bono work.

Spotting Kahlia in the tiny closet I hilariously referred to as an office, simply because it housed a laptop, a printer, and a filing cabinet, and could be locked via a flimsy hollow-core door, I strode over and delivered a double thumbs up at the entrance.

“Everyone’s on board for the petition letter,” I announced, then paused as I took in Kahlia’s pale complexion. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Angel, I’m going to have to take you up on that offer of early maternity leave. It’s getting impossible to do my job properly. I’ve been hiding it but I just can’t anymore. My blood pressure is through the roof and I can’t lift things like I should be able to.” Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes, and I rushed forward, dragging over the stool I’d made out of packing pallets last month.

I held her hand in both of my own.

“Hey. Hey. It’s fine. That’s why I offered it. I actually knew you’d been struggling and was going to mention it this week. I know the government workplace employee rights backwards and forwards and I’m supposed to offer you alternative work within the business.” I spread my arms out wide. “What alternative work is available? But even if I could offer anything, I’d pretend I couldn’t because I want you to access your maternity leave early. You get paid, I get an allowance from the government and a pat on the head, and my employee and friend is safe from commercial-grade bottles of ultra-enzymed tomato plant growth spray.”

Kahlia smiled.

I continued. “Then you come back when you’ve done your year at home after Sprout is born.”

Kahlia yanked a tissue from a nearby box. “Thanks, Angel,” she said wetly, dabbing her eyes. “It’s not just the physical stuff. Mum’s doing my head in, and I need to be at home just to save my sanity a bit. She needs to give me some space, and I know mental health is on the list of valid reasons to access early leave.”

“Of course it is.” I frowned. I didn’t facilitate a Saturday morning mental health group for no reason. Bonsai Brains was my initiative, something to be proud of, and helping kids find peace for an hour a week meant the world. I understood mental health.

“Yes, well, she’s been hovering over Derek and me. I mean, she’s been so supportive but she’s moved from support to strangulation. I can’t keep explaining to her that nappies can be changed on a lowered table and that Sprout won’t roll off. The only person who’ll be rolling around is me. But I feel really gaslit and I’m starting to doubt my ability to do this.” She patted her rounded abdomen. “Which might be adding to the high blood pressure.”

Tough, who was asleep under the chair, wriggled awake at the patting noise.

“Probably,” I agreed. “And that’s another reason to go on leave. Derek will be happier as well, because I know he’s been anxious. Your mum can get her stress feathers smoothed and maybe give you some space.”

I reached for the laptop where it sat on top of the filing cabinet, tabbed through various websites, found the government forms, sent them to the printer which sprang to life, and spat out the seemingly endless ream of paper.

“Done,” I said firmly, and Kahlia, after pulling me into a hug—the intensity of the squeeze probably indicating the level of relief—rolled off to see to the delivery of the banksia seedlings from the Yarra Valley.

Shit.

I always knew that finding a replacement for Kahlia was going to be necessary but it was much sooner than I’d planned. Tapping absently at the space next to the track pad, I eventually pulled up a blank document and began drafting a ‘Staff Required’ sign.

The potential staff member would need to be local. I gave a low hum of disagreement with that idea. Maybe not local, but Kahlia’s replacement would need to be someone who understood the idea of a boutique nursery, community, and customers as actual people. So I wasn’t going to place a link on SEEK dot com. A simple sign in the front window felt exactly right.