The Fence (12 page)

Outback + Outdoors

In the Garden with Gwen Hill

In many ways, gardening is a lot like raising children. It's as much about nurture as it is about knowing when to apply tough love. And the family of plants that respond best to this kind of parenting are the nightshades or Solanaceae – your tomatoes, eggplants, capsicums and potatoes.

October is the month we celebrate Halloween, so it seems appropriate that this is the month to frighten your tomato seedlings into producing a luscious crop for the coming summer. The trick is to starve them and give them only enough water to keep them alive. It might seem cruel but this forces them to flower. Once they are flower­ing and beginning to fruit, you must change tactics and keep them well fed. Think compost tea. Don't let them dry out as this can lead to blossom-end rot and then all your tough love will come to nought.

It's an almost Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde relationship when it comes to your nightshades but the rewards are a bountiful crop well worth a little bit of nastiness.

Tip of the month

One of my pet hates is white cabbage butterflies. They attack not just cabbages, as the name implies, but also your broccoli, brussels sprouts, celery, beetroot, rocket and watercress. The pesky butterflies lay eggs that turn into bright green caterpillars. These little buggers chomp great big holes in the outer leaves, working their way in to the heart of the plant. You can pick them off or spray them with Dipel but if you are reluctant to spray (and your chooks aren't on top of the problem) why don't you try making your own butterflies?

Cut out butterfly shapes from white plastic containers, making sure they are around the same size as the real ones. Attach them to a stick and plunge them into various spots where you want to deter the culprits. Cabbage butterflies are territorial so seeing others already in their patch will send them on their way. Not so much a scarecrow but a scare-butterfly!

Gwen's October

From the kitchen, Gwen watches Eric poke around the back garden with her snail bucket. Crouching amongst the garden beds, he lifts up the black pots she uses to collect snails, holds each snail up to the watery dawn light, assessing it, as if it is a precious gem, before placing it gently into the bucket.

The kettle whistles and she fills the teapot. If you had asked her fifty years ago whether she would be married to a man who farmed snails, she would have laughed. But there is a lot about Eric that troubles her these days. The forgetfulness is one thing, but the old Eric would never have indulged in anything as crazy as snail farming. And there is that whole business about the fencing notice. The neighbours, she knows, consider him a doddering old fool. They said as much at the mediation.

Gwen sighs. The mediation had been a dreadful experience. After two hours, the court-appointed mediator had said they were free to suspend the session and reschedule but the Desmarchelliers were adamant they wanted the matter decided.

‘We recognise,' Gwen told the mediator at the start, ‘that we don't have a choice about the fence. Having said that, I don't see why that means we have to demolish a row of established trees nor why the fence needs to be so tall.'

That was all the ammunition Francesca needed to launch her attack. The mediator's request that they avoid inflammatory language, apportioning blame or casting judgement was ignored.

‘The trees Mrs Hill speaks of are on our property. A fence cannot be built along the boundary without destroying the trees. Mrs Hill will either have to accept that or move her precious trees wholly within her own property.'

‘That's not the only solution,' Gwen cried. ‘If we squared the fence around each tree, it could be quite an attractive feature.'

Francesca had glared at her. ‘And who's going to pay for that? You can't seriously expect us to add hundreds of dollars to the cost just to accommodate a few trees.'

‘I remember when we planted those,' Eric leaned over and said to Gwen. ‘Rohan and I had to dig the holes in that awful clayey muck. It was a hell of a job.' He chuckled. ‘And then you and I borrowed Dad's ute and we went out to that tree nursery at Dural and bought every single crab apple they had. The nursery man couldn't believe his luck.'

Gwen shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She remembered. As much as she remembered how her knees ached after hours bedding the trees in, all ten of them, staking the trunks so they grew straight and giving them a good watering to get them started. How it took years of careful clipping and pruning to get the lollipop shape into a thick tight ball. The thought of ripping them out made her want to weep.

She cleared her throat. ‘The trees are as much a feature of your property as they are of ours. People stop to comment when they walk past.'

His Lordship had smirked at that. She knew she sounded senile, but the trees were all that was left of Babs now the Desmarchelliers had finished destroying the front garden. Why did these young people not care about preserving the past?

The mediator moved the conversation around to the issue of height. Francesca went on and on about protecting her children, the risk of them getting run over.

Becoming agitated by all the tension, Eric began humming under his breath.

The mediator shot him a kindly look but one still intended to convey the inappropriateness of humming. Eric didn't notice.

‘This dispute has already cost us over five thousand dollars with the fence we wanted to erect now lying useless in our garage,' Francesca said.

Five thousand dollars? Gwen was sure that when this whole palaver started, the cost had been four thousand dollars. It was getting more expensive by the hour. ‘The council regulations say we only have to agree to a 1.8-metre-high fence,' she said.

‘But we are entitled to a higher fence,' countered Francesca.

‘Does the fence block light into your property, Mrs Hill?' suggested the mediator.

‘No, we're on the sunny side.'

‘So you can't possibly object then.' Francesca crossed her arms in smug victory.

‘I won't agree to anything higher,' Gwen retaliated.

Eric's humming grew louder, loud enough for Gwen to recognise the tune. Oh dear, she thought, she hoped the others didn't recognise the song. But she could see the mediator did.

‘Well, we don't want a 1.8 metre fence so I guess we have a stalemate,' Francesca raised her voice over Eric's humming.

Gwen burst out, ‘Why do you want to lock your children away? They'll come to no harm at our place.' Was it right to be hurt that this woman saw them as a threat? Were they really such awful people?

Francesca stared at Eric who had begun mumbling a few of the words to the song, trying to remember how it went. Turning to Gwen, she said, ‘We moved to Rosedale, Mrs Hill, because we wanted space and privacy. Little did we realise when we bought our home that we would have a neighbour who was constantly in the yard spying on everything we do. Only last week, I caught her snooping in our yard,' she said to the mediator.

Gwen blushed. She hadn't been snooping, she had been scattering blood and bone around the rondeletia under the front bedroom windows and around the crab apples. There was only a couple of handfuls left in the bag so she sprinkled it around the base of the Desmarchelliers' newly planted lemon tree. When she straightened up, she saw Francesca glaring at her from her lounge room window. Realising her mistake, she had scurried home. It hadn't been intentional. ‘It was years of habit, not spying,' she said.

The baby stirred and tried pulling herself upright on the struts of the pram, squealing with indignation when she realised she was strapped in. ‘Ma, ma-ma,' she shouted, throwing the dummy over the side of the pram.

‘Oh, sweetheart, here I am,' Francesca crooned, picking her up. Her mother's embrace failed to quell the baby. Gwen could tell the poor child was hungry. ‘Shush, shush,' Francesca said, rocking the child in her arms. The baby wailed even harder.

‘Do you want me to take her?' Brandon stretched out his arms.

Francesca clutched the baby tighter. ‘I can manage. She's just hungry. Get the travel bag out of the pram.' She began bouncing the child.

The mediator looked at her watch. ‘Would you like to take a five-minute comfort break, Mrs Desmarchelliers?' she offered.

‘No, we're fine. She'll settle in a minute.' Francesca passed the baby a rusk, which Bijoux threw on the table, screwing her pretty little face up in anger. It was apparent to all she was about to blow.

Eric leaned towards the child, humming his tune, pulling silly faces to urge her out of her mood.

Francesca snatched the baby away from him, gesturing at her husband for something in the nappy bag. Unhappy at this, Bijoux began to scream.

Gwen hadn't known where to look but then Eric grabbed her thigh, his face filled with delight. She knew why. He had finally remembered the lyrics. In a loud voice, doing his best Bing Crosby impression, he sang the words to his all-time favourite Cole Porter song, ‘Don't Fence Me In'. Except instead of standing under starry skies, he stood in that tiny airless room, crooning to the baby.

The baby stopped mid howl, her mouth forming an oh of delight. Just as Jonathon and Diane had when they were a similar age and Eric sang them that song. Bijoux might have been impressed by Eric's ability to carry a tune but her parents most definitely were not. Their ohs of surprise were more of the outraged kind. The mediator pretended to cough into a neat square handkerchief but Gwen saw, they all saw, she was trying not to laugh.

Now, Eric comes in with his bucket, placing it in the kitchen sink. ‘Is that a pot of tea I spy brewing, Gwennie?' he says.

‘Yes, dear.' Gwen pours him a mug.

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a small piece of timber. It has a block of wood glued to each end. Eric picks a snail out of his bucket and fits it in the gap between the blocks.

‘Ah, too small,' he says, putting the snail in the second sink before picking up another which tucks itself into its shell. ‘Oh, too big.' He smiles. ‘That's a good one,' and he places it on the draining board.

One snail after another, Eric divides them between the draining board and the sink, depending on size. Some snails peek out of their shells and begin slithering over the draining board, intent on making good their escape. Gwen retrieves a plastic ice-cream container she's been saving to make scare-­butterflies and corrals the escapees.

Eric hums as he works and when he has emptied his bucket, he makes his final count. ‘Thirty-six,' he declares.

‘And is that enough?' Gwen peers at the creatures gliding over each other in the tight space.

Eric grins. ‘It's a good start.' He drinks the dregs of his cold tea. ‘Shall we introduce them to their new home?'

‘What about the rejects?' she says, as the smaller snails mount the sides of the sink.

Eric sucks in his bottom lip. ‘Well there's the question, Gwennie. According to the manual, you're supposed to populate the reproductive bed with snails no less than thirty millimetres across,' here he holds the wooden tool in his palm to demonstrate his point, ‘so these other snails are surplus to requirements.'

‘Can't you put them in anyway? They might grow.'

‘Yes, but we don't want inferior snails in with the good snails because the aim is to grow the snails to an edible size. When these superior snails breed, we need to ensure the next crop of snails is similarly large.'

‘I see,' she says, ‘so I can feed these others to the chooks?'

Panic crosses Eric's face. ‘No, no, Gwennie. You can't do that.'

Gwen sighs. ‘Well what are you going to do with them?'

Eric sucks in his lip again. ‘I might just throw them in with the others then, see what happens.'

‘That sounds like a plan,' Gwen says, although to her mind the whole scheme is nothing short of preposterous. But she follows him into the garden and watches Eric walk the perimeter of his snail paddock, placing his charges amongst the silverbeet and spinach, the dandelions and the brassicas now grown to knee-height. Her lawn may be in tatters but they will have plenty of greens should the snails leave anything behind.

Gwen fetches the paper from the letterbox. There is an envelope inside too, which is odd given the postie hasn't been yet. It is addressed to them both and inside are three new quotes from various fencing contractors.

They had, in the end, reached an agreement. Not a satisfactory one, mind you, but then Gwen is sure the Desmarchelliers are equally dissatisfied with the fencing orders. The fence will be built at 1.8 metres, but at the price of her crab apples. They will have to be moved, a horrendous task, or destroyed, a heartbreaking outcome. Babs would be horrified. She loved the crab apples as much as Gwen, calling the display ‘a marvel'.

Val's Luke is coming over to quote on the fence for them and he says he has a mate who'll do them a second. Luke might help her move the crab apples. Neither she nor Eric are strong enough for such a task anymore and she can't ask Jonno or Diane to take the day off work.

Eric prods at the silverbeet. The green shadecloth is an ugly addition to her lawn but Diane's kids think the snail farm is fantastic. Diane thinks she might create a miniature version at Gumnut.

‘This is the miniature version,' Gwen had pointed out, ‘according to Eric's manual, you're supposed to build a snail farm on about a hectare. But, as I said to your father, we are in no position to produce eight thousand snails a year.'

Diane thought this was hilarious. ‘Dad isn't serious though, is he? I mean, has he lined up restaurants as potential buyers or is he planning on selling them at the growers' markets?'

Even Gwen had to laugh at that. ‘I don't think he's thought that far ahead. Perhaps you could introduce escargot to the kindy lunch menu.'

Gwen enters the garage and stops. Sitting on the work stool is the little girl from next door. She has removed all the furniture from one of Eric's finished dollhouses and is staring into the empty shell, running her finger along the wallpaper, the carpet, the built-in kitchen cabinets.

Gwen hides in the shadows, waiting to see what will happen next. The girl begins in the lounge, placing the sofa first one way then another, adding a coffee table. From a box Eric keeps on the bench, she selects two people to sit on the lounge. She starts a conversation between them, a deep voice for the man and a high-pitched one for the lady. That's when Gwen realises that it's not Amber she's watching but her twin, Silver.

‘This is a nice house you have here, Brandon,' he trills in his lispy voice.

‘I hate living here,' comes the gruff reply, ‘I miss the city.'

‘I know! It took forever to get here. Rosalita almost overheated.'

Silver jiggles the doll about, indicating the girl doll is upset. Who is the woman supposed to be, Gwen wonders. His mother? His nanna?

‘I'd love a drink, Brandy. Have you got shampoo? I could make spresso teenies?'

Shampoo? Gwen thinks hard. Oh, champagne, but she has no idea what spresso teenies are.

‘Ha, ha,' laughs the boy doll. ‘It's a bit early for me. Let's have coffee.'

The girl doll bounces along the couch towards the boy doll and lies on top of him. ‘Can we play first?' comes the sing-song voice.

Horrified, Gwen watches Silver twisting the dolls back and forth simulating them kissing. She closes her eyes against the image and hopes whoever it is with Silver's daddy plans to go no further. Eric would have a heart attack seeing his lovely miniature people getting up to such mischief.

A large clatter startles Gwen. Swinging around, she sees that Amber is here too and she has upended Eric's drill bits all over the workshop floor. Silver hastily stuffs the furniture back inside the house as Gwen steps from the shadows and announces her presence.