The Fence (10 page)

Brandon picks up Bijoux. ‘Are you hungry, Joux-Joux? 'Nana?' he asks, pointing at the fruit bowl.

‘Brandon?'

He puts Bijoux in her highchair and peels the banana. Breaking off a piece, he hands it to Bijoux who throws it to the ground, chortling with glee. ‘Well, the thing is,' he says, pausing to retrieve the banana. Bijoux flings it to the floor again, giggling in delight. ‘Oh you're a funny girl, Joux-Joux.' Brandon pulls a silly face at her and retrieves the mushy lump.

Frankie stops folding washing and waits for him to finish his sentence.

Avoiding Frankie's eye, he says, ‘I never gave the Hills a fencing notice.'

‘What?'

‘The website said if you had a verbal agreement there was no need.'

Frankie's mouth forms a distressed oh. ‘What do you mean? We've got forty metres of picket fencing in the garage. We're out of pocket four grand. If we haven't got a fencing notice, I'm not sure we can recoup the Hills' share of the costs.'

Bijoux, sensing the shift in mood, drops her sippy cup over the edge.

Brandon fetches it, glad to turn away from Frankie's glare. ‘Well, we can't build the fence now anyway. We'll have to send it back to the timber yard.'

The idea of flushing four thousand dollars down the toilet makes her feel sick. That Brandon couldn't be bothered to complete a fencing notice is inconceivable. She'd told him not to take Mr Hill at his word, to put it in writing. How can he bungle such a straightforward task? ‘They're not going to take it back. It's customised,' she hisses.

Brandon ploughs on, ignoring her rising temper. ‘He said we have to get quotes done by three different contractors and agree between both parties as to which quote is acceptable.'

‘There's no way the Hills will agree to that,' Frankie seethes. ‘She's not the most reasonable person.'

Nor are you, he thinks, as he passes Bijoux more banana. It wouldn't matter what he did, it would never be good enough for Frankie. Not stupid enough to share these thoughts, he says, ‘The other option is to go straight to mediation. We can explain to them that we already have the fence and we want it built as is.'

Frankie presses her fingers to her temples. ‘No, Brandon, we can't. The existing fence is not fire retardant. We can't build it anyway. That plus both parties have to agree on the fence height. We're stuffed.'

Desperate to regain lost ground, Brandon says, ‘I reckon even if we did get quotes, the Hills will still say no. We need to go straight to mediation. I'm going to ring the Community Justice Centre first thing tomorrow and set up a meeting. That'll put the wind up them. The Hills don't strike me as the sort who are used to negotiating an outcome whereas you're an expert.'

Frankie squints at Brandon, unsure if he means it as a compliment or a criticism. Then she thinks, it's all right for him, he's not the one who'll have to take annual leave. Bijoux decides she's had enough banana and begins to cry.

‘Give her to me,' Frankie says, settling herself on the couch amongst the crayons, the colouring books and Silver's Transformers.

Brandon retreats to the laundry and removes another damp load from the machine. He has no intention of hanging it out but he can't be around Frankie. Above the machine is the list Frankie pinned there. It's headed ‘The Ten Commandments of Washing', Frankie's pathetic attempt at humour. Underneath are bullet points written in her neat handwriting, starting with ‘ALWAYS separate whites from darks and colours'. The next point is, ‘DO NOT wash towels with clothes', and so it goes on. His life is dictated by Frankie and her lists, his every action a bullet point. Why can't he do things the way he wants, not be given instructions like he is some kind of idiot. She doesn't want to be the stay-at-home mum, fair enough, but he agreed to stay at home to raise the children, not be her wife. He shoves the full basket hard with his foot and it bangs into the door. Eyeing off the metal washer, Brandon resists the urge to kick it so hard it would leave a dent. Instead he puts on a load of whites and, as an afterthought, throws in one of Marigold's red skivvies.

Frankie jumps at the loud bang in the laundry. ‘What's Daddy doing now, Joux-Joux?' she whispers to her sleepy baby. ‘Did Daddy forget to hang the washing out again? Is that what he's doing? Hanging out the washing in the middle of the night?'

Frankie kisses Bijoux's feet snug in their onesie. Inhales that scent of baby – part soap flakes, lavender and milk – and hugs her close. ‘Daddy's not very good at housework, is he, Joux-Joux? Daddy's not very good at lots of things.'

Bijoux smiles in her sleep and Frankie takes that as a yes.

Outback + Outdoors

In the Garden with Gwen Hill

For many of us, fencing can be a delicate issue. On the one hand, fences are an effective way of dividing property, defining who owns what. In these modern times, knowing what one has and what one does not is important for many people. After all, houses are expensive and their value can be greatly enhanced by erecting a quality, decorative border.

However, if the thought of a permanent and inflexible fence sends shivers down your spine (I know it does mine) and all you are really after is a little privacy, then there are many options.

Wide spaces between houses are best suited to mass plantings of trees, shrubs and an understory of plants in an attractive informal division that offers privacy.

Narrow spaces require an altogether different solution. A narrow space, perhaps along an existing fence, can be covered with a quick growing plant with a vertical habit. The tricky spaces are those in-­between spaces. If you're lucky enough to be on the sunny side of the fence, consider espaliering fruit trees and enjoy the double benefit of an interesting structural feature as well as, literally, the fruits of your labours.

Tip of the month

This time of year offers an abundance of citrus. Leftover skins are no good for the worm farm or chickens, so here's a tip perfect for spring. Save the scooped out halves of your grapefruits, lemon and oranges to grow seedlings in. When they are ready to plant out, there's no need to muck about separating your seedlings, just plant the whole thing, citrus and seedling, and give your young plants a great start in life.

Gwen's September

The children line up, hands cupped, ready to receive the grapefruit halves containing seedlings. In the background mothers hover, snapping photos on their phones or holding up iPads to preserve their special angel on video. The note sent home to parents stipulated that the children wear bright colours today to mark the Spring Equinox. Diane's Lisbeth wears a dress covered in sunflowers.

Silver and Amber step forward, dressed in identical designer Hawaiian shirts and hot pink jeans. A little unusual for a boy, Gwen thinks, but these days people have a thing about gender stereotyping and, to be frank, with his long hair, Silver could pass for a girl. Silver cups his hands waiting for his citrus punnet whereupon his sister Amber, eager for hers, knocks her brother hard enough that his punnet crashes to the ground, crushing seedlings and spilling dirt.

‘No,' he shouts, dropping to his knees and scraping the broken seedlings back into the punnet. His sister sails past him to join the queue. Gwen turns, expecting their father, who has captured the whole scene on video, to help the wailing boy but it is Diane who gathers up Silver and takes him to one side. She wipes away his tears and the dirt from his hands but it is too late for that as Gwen can see the smear of brown on his hot pink jeans. This pleases her. Children, even little boys dressed in pink, aren't dolls. They are supposed to get dirty. It proves they're alive and taking an interest. Silver's tears dry and, given a fresh punnet, he joins his friends. His wavering smile earns him the big thumbs-up from his father.

His expensive digital camera isn't the only thing making His Lordship stand out. The cluster of mothers have mostly dressed for the occasion in floral frocks, heels and vast hats, which not only comply with Gumnut's ‘no hat, no play' policy but add a festive air to the ceremony. It's almost as if this were a day at the races. But Brandon stands off to one side, only joining in when a mother asks him a direct question. Those who do engage him, gush the same old tripe about how lovely it is to see a father here. Gwen hears a new mother, assuming he has taken the day off work, ask ‘Is your wife sick?' confirming that, even she, a grandmother, is less conspicuous here than a man, the children's father.

Diane claps her hands in the distinctive rhythm that draws the children's attention. She arches her eyebrows, widens her eyes and mouth in exaggerated silent shapes, one, two and three. For the briefest of moments, the children and parents are joined in silence, although Gwen detects an electronic whir in the background, before forty reedy off-tune voices launch into Cat Stevens's song, ‘Morning Has Broken'.

Gwen remembers her kids singing this at Sunday school, way back when people went to church on a Sunday, not so much as an act of faith but because they always had. For years, Gwen baked a cake to take on Sundays. Babs, who hated baking, tended to bring a tray of exotic pastries from her favourite bakery in Haberfield. Val preferred the convenience of Sara Lee. After the service, all the ladies went downstairs to the room under the church that served as the Sunday school, setting out the chairs and laying out the orange cordial and cake for the kids. If it were a nice day, the parents drank tea and ate their cake on the lawn, behaving like the adults they hoped their children would someday become.

Gwen winces as the Gumnut children reach that particularly difficult patch in the song with the high notes. Even though they have a natural advantage with their high-pitched voices, the sound is cracked and thin. The parents don't care, recording every precious moment for future twenty-first birthday parties.

Of course, as the years went by, the adults often didn't hang around for Sunday school. As soon as the chairs were lined up and the table laid, Gwen slipped around the corner where Eric waited in the car, engine running, and they'd nip home for a little parental privacy, shooting back to Sunday school in time to pick up Diane and Jonathon. The memory glows warm in her chest.

Diane leads the applause. ‘Children, your singing was delightful, wasn't it, Mums and Dads?'

The parents clap louder.

‘Now, children, we have a special morning tea today thanks to our parents, so let's plant these beautiful seedlings and have something yummy to eat.'

The children crow yes in a chorus far outperforming their singing efforts. Lisbeth and the younger ones are fidgety. One toddler wets her finger and pokes it in her punnet. Gwen pities the poor seedlings.

‘Now, let's see if we can remember our poem for blessing the seeds,' Diane says, as teachers align the children in a rough circle. ‘Hold our seedlings up to the sun,' the children raise their punnets, ‘and say after me:

‘The dark half of the year has passed,

‘The days grow long and the earth grows warmer

‘Awakening the spirit of the seeds at last

‘To sprout and grow and become stronger

‘Today we plant you in the earth

‘Please bless us with your season's wealth.'

Gwen hates how wealth doesn't rhyme with earth but the mothers applaud anyway. Brandon is kneeling, filming the children's recitation in close up.

Diane gathers the children to her. ‘Now, sit quietly on your bottoms.' She waits until they settle before saying, ‘Close your eyes; that includes you, Amber. Can you see your plants blooming? Can you see the bright flowers with the bees buzzing around?' Forty little heads nod. ‘I can see fruit on mine, growing bigger and bigger until it's juicy enough to eat. Let's breathe on our seedlings to help them grow.' Tiny cheeks puff up and exhale as one. Gwen covers her laughter, they are so sweet at this age. ‘Now open your eyes. Bunyips and Bandicoots, please go with Mrs Arnold.' And as the mothers lay out the morning tea, the children plant their seedlings in the community bed.

Driving home, Gwen reflects how different it is raising children these days. People expect so much more of and for their offspring, even ones so young. When Jonathon and Diane were small, they ranged the neighbourhood, skipping preschool, unlike many of Diane's charges who spend their waking hours away from their families. To her mind, women working is a double-edged sword. Other countries pay parents to stay home and raise their children, at least until they are of an age where socialising becomes important. As a mother, she had seen raising her children as a purpose in and of itself. This younger generation expect to have careers and motherhood at the same time, not wanting to lose one identity for another. She understands that desire. After all, she never intended to work but Rohan had mentioned her to Barry Henderson who was starting up a new title,
Outback + Outdoors
. With the children at school, she thought she'd give it a go. She had never expected the magazine to flourish and her little column to lead to a career. Then there are women like Vanessa who don't have careers but still have these giant mortgages to service because housing prices are ridiculous. And now the Desmarchelliers have adopted a new model with her working and Brandon raising the kids. But he doesn't seem happy about it. In fact, if she had to pick a word to describe Brandon, she'd pick resentful.

She pulls into the driveway and almost hits the letterbox in her surprise. Eric is there, shovel in hand, digging up rather than mowing the lawn. Great mounds of dirt line the pathway. Gwen yanks on the handbrake and leaps from the car, shouting, ‘Eric! Eric! What on earth are you doing?'

Eric waves, looking as pleased as punch. She scrambles over, awash in dismay, to where he stands. There, carved into her pride and joy, are five neat rectangles.

‘See what I've done, Gwennie? I've solved the problem.' Eric grins at her. He knew Gwen would be surprised. He loves surprises. There was that time he organised Gwen's fortieth birthday party. The look on Gwen's face when they drove up the road and saw the whole neighbourhood partying on their front lawn. Val had a few too many sherbets and decided to mime along to Shirley Bassey's ‘Hey Big Spender' whilst stripping down to her bra and undies. It wasn't a pretty sight even when she was thirty years younger. Keith had buried himself in his schooner. Babs had thought it hysterical, singing out encouragement – she loved a good laugh. He frowns. He has a funny feeling Gwen had been a bit put out about the party. Embarrassed by the show of good will. Goodness knows why, he's always liked a party.

Gwen sees that Eric is away with the fairies again. ‘Eric? Are you listening?'

Eric shakes his head.

Gwen sighs. At least he's being honest. ‘I said, I can see you've been digging holes in my lawn like some ruddy rabbit but I'm not really seeing what problem you've solved.'

Eric beams. ‘The snail problem, Gwennie. I've solved the snail problem.' He drops his voice a gruff octave and mimics some gangster from a 1940s movie, ‘This way, nobody gets hurt.'

Gwen doesn't know what to make of Eric's behaviour. He is normally such a predictable and sensible person. He was a quantity surveyor, for heaven's sakes. Shaking her head, she notices rolls of shadecloth and star posts stacked against the garage wall. Eric, who specialises in the microcosm of dollhouses, has expanded way beyond his competency.

‘Your
column
inspired me,' he says. ‘You'll no longer have to sneak about in the dead of night and stomp on the little guys. This way they'll be a productive member of the garden. The lemon trees beget lemons, the chickens beget eggs and the snails,' here he embraces the lawn with his arms, ‘the snails will beget more snails.'

‘More snails?' Gwen shudders with revulsion. Imagine if Babs were here. What would her response be to Eric's antics? But for once she is at a loss to know what Babs might think.

Eric chuckles. ‘Yes, don't you see? Instead of murdering them, we'll farm them. Gastronomic gastropods. Just like the French.'

‘Oh,' Gwen rubs her hand over her brow, feeling a little weak. ‘And that lot?' She points at the shadecloth and star posts.

Eric claps his hands. ‘For the paddocks. You have to fence them in so they don't wander off. This one,' he points to the rectangle running along the top of the other four beds, ‘is for the flowers. It's called a “good bug bed”.'

‘I know what it's called, Eric, I wrote about it in last month's issue,' she snaps.

‘Yes, yes of course you do.' He stomps over to the first rectangle. ‘And this one is the reproduction field. This is where the first batch of snails will go.'

Dare she ask? Of course she must. ‘Where exactly are you sourcing these snails from, Eric?'

‘From our garden.' He spreads his hands, so pleased at the neat and obvious solution. ‘Now's the perfect time. They're coming out of hibernation and ready to breed. Here they can breed in peace.'

Gwen knows people farm snails, that they are a delicacy in some countries, but eating the same snails she relishes stamping out of existence on a nightly basis in no way stimulates her appetite. ‘And the other paddocks?'

Eric strides the length of the three other rectangles. ‘They're the growing fields, Gwennie. Right now it's crucial to build the fields and plant a fodder crop of leafy greens. In October, we introduce the snails.'

The scale of Eric's project astounds Gwen. Not dozens of snails, but hundreds. She shudders at the thought. ‘But what will you do with them once they're fully grown. You're not proposing we farm them for people to eat, are you?'

‘Why not? I'll need to set up purging pods but that's the beauty of snail farming. It's all in miniature.' He draws his thumb and finger together to illustrate the point.

And Gwen sees why the idea delights him so. ‘But, Eric, dear, the lawn.'

‘Well yes.' Eric frowns. He admits that is the only flaw to his plan. When Gwennie planted out that lawn, she was as happy as a fat spider. For months the house had looked like it had been dropped in the middle of a bomb site. Until he tootled off to work one day and came home to a sea of emerald. But times change. ‘The lawn had to be sacrificed, I'm afraid. That's the thing.' From his back pocket he withdraws a well-thumbed paperback. Gwen reads the title,
Your Guide to Organic Free-range Snail Farming
.

‘According to this, we need to build a perimeter fence around the paddocks as the snails have a tendency to escape and it will keep out predators. Did you know that there is such a thing as a predatory snail? It's called,' and here he leafs through the book until he finds his place, ‘
Strangesta capillacea
. Look, here's a picture of one. The whorl on its shell is flatter and it has a hole for its umbilicus on the underside of its shell.' He scratches his head. ‘Although, I can't figure out how you'd be sure unless you picked one up and compared it to a snail you are certain isn't carnivorous.'

Gwen struggles to share Eric's fascination. She's had a long morning blessing the seedlings at Gumnut Cottage and she isn't sure she has the energy to deal with Eric's organic free-range snail farm. She studies her dug-up lawn and the garden stakes waving their strings of orange twine along the driveway and wonders why the gods are conspiring against her.

Her poor lawn. Although it's not hers alone, of course. It's hers and Eric's. And Eric, who never once interfered with her plans for their garden, who has dug trenches and laid sleepers, erected chicken coops and strung wire for her to espalier her fruit trees, has finally and somewhat bizarrely decided he wants his own patch. As newlyweds, he had braved the lantana that had claimed the backyard. Cutting it back, poisoning it, in desperation trying to dig it out as pregnant Gwen watched on, later tending his scratches and removing the grass ticks that had buried themselves in the soft folds of his skin. Heroic in his refusal to be defeated by the invasion but happy to withdraw and allow Gwen creative freedom. And now this, a belated enthusiastic embrace of the outdoors at the expense of her front lawn, her pride and joy for fifty years.