neighbours

My backyard is chockers with vegetable seedlings. The cos lettuces are ready to pull; some of the snowpeas should burst into flower any minute. The parsnip leaves are doubling in size each day, the tomatoes heading skyward. I pull spring weeds, broom the pavers, rip the red oxalis from between the brick paths, belt stakes in for protection, prune the lemon tree.

Somehow it’s midday before I know it. I fire up the owners corporation Masport and cut the lawns outside Units 2 and 4. Dan and Joyce’s daughter drives in. I gesture over the roar of the mower at the basket of lemons I’ve brought round. She nods eager ascent to the offer. Joyce comes out, tells me Dan went to hospital in an ambulance yesterday after several haemorrhages.   

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Stacey, the tenant is Unit 3 is in the driveway too, asking after Dan. She knocks back my offer of lemons, does a good impersonation of someone who thinks I’m a paedophile. Maybe I stepped in something. Joyce and daughter leave for the hospital.

Michelle, who bought Unit 3 from Feo and Alvena, is up a ladder clearing gutters. She moved in about a month ago, lives with her 17 year-old daughter. Neither is going to win a beauty contest. Michelle performs one outdoor task a day: trims the edges, cleans the gutters, prunes the rose bush at the front door. She is neat, competent, efficient.

I ask her what she does for a living. I’m punting that she’s a teacher, primary. She’s a mental health nurse, has been all her working life, recently Phillip Island, now East Ringwood. I tell her I present professional development for teachers around mental health and well-being.

“Ah, MM,” she says. “Are you a state project officer?”

“Indeed, I am.”

“I saw that job advertised. Nearly applied.”

She knows MM well, uses some of our stuff in her practice. We natter for a bit, then I return to weeding the driveway, reflect that things are looking up at Number 96.

Rock on.