A Place Like This

Karen Howie Casey

29/03/2026

Morag left the cracked and buckled footpath and marched across my yard. The sun loomed behind her, low and dark and orange.

‘Christ’s sake, Shady, would you get off that bloomin’ chair and mow this lawn.’ She stopped at the verandah step for a breather, then rocked herself up. Two empty Vegemite jars clinked in one hand; the other held a fork and food container. Under her arm, a half-bottle of wine.

I eyed the spare chair beside me.

Morag dropped the container onto the table, knuckled it forward and threw down the fork. ‘Eat something, would you.’

I sniffed. Roast beef? I tugged the container forward and cracked it open.

Morag lined up the Vegemite jars, splashing wine into each. Taking one, she backed up to the low wall bordering the verandah. She was too round bodied to get up, so settled, eventually, half on and half off, turning away to frown at the street. A wiry, grey curl sprang free of her beanie — a loose and tattered thing now, but no one would know her without it. Her eye twitched.

‘How long are you going to sit here, Shady?’ she said.

My chewing slowed. Until the chill comes, I thought. Until that sun is dead in the sky. Until I don’t want to anymore.

Morag sighed. She glanced at the old bus in my driveway, the one Lily and I talked about buying but didn’t get to before she died. I bought it a week later, and rumours rollicked through town: ‘He’s lost his marbles,’ they said. ‘I heard he was waiting for poor Lily to die.’

Morag pointed at the bus. ‘Finished renovating?’

I nodded. Pretty much. There was a bathroom and kitchen. A bed, a couch. I’d moved some possessions in but hadn’t found a safe place for Lily’s ashes yet.

‘Well then?’ Morag said. ‘When are you off?’

I raised a brow. ‘You want me gone?’

My wild yard would be upsetting her. The bus, too, the way it stood out.

Morag swigged her wine and shot me a look that suggested I was being ridiculous.

She’d always preferred Lily’s company to mine. Those two bickered, but they also laughed. They were the fundraisers around here. The bakers. The tea makers. The big hearts. But Morag had hardened without Lily.

‘Christ’s sake, Shady,’ she said. ‘I’m not trying to get rid of you. Lily would want you to go. Wasn’t that what you two planned? To join the grey nomads? Hit the road?’

‘That was my thing. Lily didn’t really want to sell the house.’

‘Nothing’s stopping you now, then.’

We locked eyes.

‘That’s a rotten thing to say, Morag.’

‘Only speaking the truth.’ She turned and muttered into her glass. ‘Always been too bloomin’ sensitive for a place like this.’

I gulped my wine and swallowed hard. At least I wasn’t made of stone. ‘Just so happens I put the house on the market this morning.’ It wasn’t a lie. I’d made a ‘For Sale’ sign.

Morag’s head whipped around. Only a few whispered words came out. ‘Bloomin’ hell, Shady.’

I shrugged, like it was nothing. The joy of shocking Morag got ahead of me though. ‘I’m leavin’ tomorrow. Soon as I’m packed, I’ll be gone.’

It was true. I would get going. If not tomorrow, then the next day or the day after that.

Morag gave a short laugh. Standing, she threw the last of her wine over the wall.

‘About bloomin’ time,’ she said, and marched away into the dark.

I packed a few things into the bus the next morning — my radio, the toaster. Clothes. I was hanging Lily’s dress in the wardrobe when I heard scraping outside. I paused. The noise came again. Then, a whisper. A shoosh.

‘Who’s there?’ I lifted a curtain. A breeze rushed through my yard, and the long grass shimmied. Footsteps darted down the side of the bus. I ripped another curtain back, chasing the noises from window to window. But I was one step behind every time.

I stomped to the door and flung it open.

‘Surprise!’

I stumbled back. There were streamers, confetti, lamingtons on plates. The whole neighbourhood swarmed my lawn with Morag, fist to hip, at the centre of them. She jerked her head at the road.

‘Safe trip, Shady, alright?’

Before I could object, I was sharing sweets and savouries with the neighbours. Someone made tea. Morag helped me wire my ‘For Sale’ sign to the fence. There was hardly time to think before I was back in the bus, driving, losing sight of my house as the lot of them closed in behind me. I turned onto Main Street, still unsure where I wanted to go.

Ahead, the pub sat fat and empty. I swung into the car park and killed the engine. Scrambled out of the driver’s seat. Took Lily’s dress from the wardrobe and held it. My chest ached. I could see the whole of Main Street from here. One sign marked the way to the river. Another pointed home. At 8 am, the bakery was the only shop open. I could picture her — my Lil — untangling her netted bag, readying it for our Saturday morning finger buns.

I sat down and let the memories come.

Three peaceful days passed without a knock. They’d be watching me though. Thinking up stories about why I was still parked at the pub.

‘Poor Shady,’ they’d say. ‘He’s lost his marbles for sure.’

But I was happy by the window in this warm, golden spot. My radio kept me company, and at my fingertips, I had Lil. I’d draped her favourite dress over the couch.

‘I’ll be off soon, Lil. Real soon, I promise.’

Outside, footsteps crunched over gravel.

‘Who’s that?’ I called.

The noise stopped. I hurried to open the door. No one. Main Street was end-of-day quiet. As I pulled the door closed, a whisp of steam caught my eye, then my nose. My throat caught. A roast dinner, nested in gravel. Alongside it, a carefully placed napkin and fork with a peace lily laid across it.

***

Honourable mention: Karen Howie Casey

Karen is a journalist and Public Relations professional with short fiction published in The Saturday Paper and Lip Magazine. Her work has won the Henry Lawson Short Story competition, placed second in the Rachel Funari Prize for Fiction and was long-listed for an Australian Vogel Literary Award. Karen lives and works in West Gippsland.