The Fence (17 page)

‘Doesn't mean anything!' She launches from her stool and sweeps the forks from his hand, sending them clattering and spinning across the floor. ‘You've been calling Camilla twice a week for the last month and I'm making an educated guess that you've been calling her the month before and the month before that.'

Brandon stoops to pick up the cutlery. ‘We're friends,' he says.

Frankie grabs his arm. ‘Bullshit. I caught you in bed with her, our bed. You're still screwing her, aren't you?'

She starts crying. She doesn't mean to, doesn't want to, but great big sobs hack out of her. Releasing Brandon's arm, she says, ‘I can't believe you, Brandon. You said it was just sex, but this,' she waves the bill, ‘this is a relationship.'

‘Babe, it's not like that, I promise.' Brandon tries to hug her.

‘Don't you dare!' She scrambles away. ‘Don't you dare try and hug me. You've been sleeping with that slut in our house, in our bed with our children here.'

‘No, I haven't. She's only been over when the kids were at preschool.'

Frankie throws her hands in the air. ‘Oh that's all right then. The twins and Goldie were learning how to use scissors correctly whilst you're at home banging the barista. No wonder the house is always such a fucking mess, you're too busy.' A sudden thought stops Frankie. ‘Where was Bijoux?'

Brandon blushes, shuffling the plates into a row. ‘Asleep, Frankie. She never saw anything.'

Frankie thinks of her poor baby sleeping as her father and that contortionist were at it. ‘You disgust me,' she hisses.

‘Keep your voice down, Frankie. The kids will hear you.'

‘Well we wouldn't want that now, would we, Brandon? Imagine if the kids knew what kind of father they really have. Why did you do it? Are you that unhappy? Am I and the kids not enough for you?'

Brandon slumps onto a bar stool. There are so many answers to those questions. Unhappy? Yes. Camilla is easy, uncomplicated. She's fun. Frankie used to be fun. She used to like hanging out in clubs, dancing badly and drinking too much vodka. The Frankie who collapsed in tears of laughter at how she couldn't play a single chord on the guitar has disappeared. And that's what he'd liked about her. He'd found her hopelessness endearing. Loved the way she could always laugh at herself. Yes, he's done the wrong thing, but he can't see his Frankie anymore. Her career, the one thing she's really good at, has consumed his loving Frankie and replaced her with a woman who is all edges.

Frankie waits for him to answer, her breath coming in great heaves as if she has run for miles. Her mother taking a Wedgwood crystal decanter filled with her father's whiskey and smashing it to the floor as she and Martin ushered their sisters to the safety of her bedroom. Her father leaving for work one morning with three long gouges down his cheek. He cut himself shaving, he'd said. She had believed him.

‘Why can't you ever be happy with what you already have?' Brandon says it so quietly, it is almost a whisper. But it's true. Although Frankie will never admit it to herself.

Her mouth falls open. ‘Are you kidding me? You're fucking your girlfriend whilst I'm at work. You and I have had sex, what, twice since we moved into this house? Do you think I planned this?' He always thinks she's got something to prove. And what exactly has she got? An unfaithful husband, a demanding job and a family to juggle. Stress is the reality of their daily lives. Yet she's not screwing around.

None of this is what he wants. Any joy he feels being at home with the kids is quashed the moment Frankie walks in the door and flings her briefcase on the couch. When they agreed it made more sense for him to be the stay-at-home parent, he hadn't counted on how controlling Frankie would become the further she climbed the corporate ladder. He resents that his economic contribution goes unrecognised, his financial dependence, that housework has no value. Frankie didn't trust him even before Camilla. She never stops riding his arse. Useless, stupid, inadequate Brandon. Fuck her. There'd be no Camilla if Frankie ever admitted that she couldn't be boss at home and at work. He reaches for a fresh beer. ‘She's not my girlfriend.'

Frankie rounds on him, ‘Then what is she? She's sure as hell not the nanny. Oh I know, I'll go back to work after this baby and you and Camilla can look after it for me. There's an idea.'

‘I'm not having this conversation anymore, Frankie, you're being completely unreasonable.' He needs to get out of here, away from her screeching. He heads for the front door.

‘Don't you dare walk out on me, Brandon Boyd. You stay here and act like a proper man.'

He wheels around. ‘A proper man? All I do is wipe children's arses all day. Buy food, cook food and clean up after the five of you. You leave me these lists of things to do as if I am one of your staff members. You even pay me like one, putting money into our joint bank account like I'm on some sort of allowance. I can't even buy myself underwear without you knowing about it. My life is fucked.'

Frankie storms over to him, quivering with the desire to slap his face. ‘How dare you? I work full-time to support this family and how do you repay me? I come home to chaos every single night then spend my weekend doing all the stuff you should have done during the week. I leave you a list because without one you do nothing. Even so, I have to ask you ten times to do anything and the few times I leave you in charge, look what happens.'

Brandon rolls the beer bottle in his hand. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

Frankie jams her hands on her hips. ‘Oh you don't know what I'm talking about? Let's start with the fence, shall we? That's been a right royal debacle, hasn't it?'

Brandon rolls his eyes. The fucking fence. Again. ‘You can't blame me for that.'

‘Then whose fault is it? If you'd bloody well given a fencing notice to the Hills in the first place, like you agreed to, we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

Brandon throws the beer. It whistles past Frankie's head, hitting the kitchen cabinets and smashing to the floor. Bijoux starts wailing and Brandon makes good his escape whilst Frankie rushes to fetch her. She curls up on the couch, cuddling Bijoux, both of them crying. This is the end, she realises, the sickness broiling in her guts. Her marriage is over. She cannot stay with Brandon. Her mother stayed, sacrificing happiness for financial security. Telling her to have another baby, move out to the sticks, patch things up. Here's Brandon thinking he's trapped. What about her? What choices does she have?

Brandon races back into the house. Frankie turns from him. She has no fight left. She just wants to stay here with Bijoux and sleep.

‘The kids are missing,' he shouts.

Frankie struggles to sit up. ‘What?'

‘They were playing in the garden but they're not there. I can't find them.'

‘Have you looked everywhere?' Frankie rushes to the backyard, visions of them floating facedown in the pool flashing through her mind. These pool gates are a joke, the children are experts at opening them – they have the same gates at kindy, at the park. The pool is empty.

‘They're not in the front yard,' Brandon yells from the house.

‘Shit, shit, shit. They must have gone up the street.'

Brandon runs off whilst Frankie grabs her phone and chases after him, Bijoux on her hip, yelling, ‘Amber! Silver! Marigold!'

Brandon goes left out of the drive, she heads up the street towards the main road, Peanut and Butter barking at her heels.

‘Oh my God, oh my God,' Frankie cries, searching the neighbours' yards, calling the children. She races up to the corner and scans the hillside, hoping they are not heading for the main road. A hand grabs her and she spins around. It's Brandon. ‘Have you found them?' she says.

He nods. ‘It's okay. They're okay. They went next door. They were at the Hills'.'

Something inside Frankie snaps. ‘What the hell are they doing there?'

As they run up the Hills' driveway, she sees the children standing next to the new vegetable patch the old man recently planted on the front lawn. A bucket swings from Amber's hand. Silver leans over the green mesh the Hills have put around the garden and Mr Hill holds Marigold up so she can see over the fence.

‘Put my daughter down!' Frankie yells, racing up to the group. They all swing around in surprise. Marigold slithers to the ground and runs over. Frankie passes Bijoux to Brandon and swings Marigold up onto her hip.

‘Mummy,' Amber says, ‘look at the snails.'

‘What are you doing with my children?' Frankie turns on Mrs Hill.

‘They came over to give Eric some snails for his garden.'

‘What?'

‘Yes, Mummy, we've been collecting snails for the garden.'

Frankie stares at Amber who is pointing into the vegetable patch. ‘They're making babies, aren't they, Eric?'

‘Yes, darling,' he beams, ruffling her hair.

‘Don't you touch her.' Frankie grabs Amber's arm and pulls her away from the old man.

‘Ow, Mummy, that hurt,' Amber shouts.

‘Mummy, can we grow snails in our garden?' Silver lisps.

‘No! All of you go with Daddy. It's time for your dinner.'

‘But it's not dark yet,' whispers Silver.

‘I want to stay here,' says Amber, pulling her arm free of Frankie's grip.

‘Can I have chocolate milk?' asks Marigold.

‘They're welcome to stay,' says Mrs Hill. ‘They're not doing any harm.' She smiles at the children. ‘And it was very nice of you to bring us your lovely snails.'

‘Brandon,' Frankie snaps. He takes Marigold from her and herds the children down the driveway, across the verge and onto their property.

Frankie waits until they are out of earshot before saying, ‘I do not want you anywhere near my children, do you understand? I am going home to call the police and insist we get an order preventing you from even talking to us.'

The old lady blinks at her. ‘There's no need to do that. I can see you've had a fright. Perhaps we can talk about it later when you've calmed down.'

Frankie seethes. ‘There will be no later, Mrs Hill. The only words I will ever speak to you again will be when the fence gets built. Until that's done, I don't want to see you, I don't want to hear you and I don't want you anywhere near my family. Is that understood?'

‘I'm entitled to do what I like in my own garden, Mrs Desmarchelliers.'

‘Not with my children, you're not. If I ever see them in here again, I'll –'

‘Are you threatening me?'

‘I'm warning you there will be consequences,' Frankie hisses and turns on her heel. Anything to prevent the old lady having the last word.

Outback + Outdoors

In the Garden with Gwen Hill

Summer: the birds are carolling, the plants are positively bursting with life, the boughs of the fruit trees are weighed with produce. Us humans might be lazing the days away, oblivious, but the plants know the seasons are shifting. Notice your lettuces bolting to seed? They're telling you the days are growing shorter.

So out of your hammock! Feed azaleas, camellias, hydrangeas and citrus. Examine tub plants to ensure they remain moist. And who doesn't enjoy wielding the secateurs for a good session of deadheading?

With Christmas around the corner, if you are looking for a gift you can't go past a plant. Young children love nurturing their own fruit tree or flower­ing shrub. Plants provide years of pleasure and are excellent teachers about the cycle of life (and much less work for Mum and Dad than a puppy or a kitten!) If you're sending Christmas cards, why not include a seed packet to remind your faraway friends they are in your thoughts.

Tip of the month

Wondering what to do with the remains of your Christmas seafood feast? Don't even think of sneaking across the road and disposing of the shells in the council bins. It's such a waste when you can put prawn shells to work by digging them into the garden. Researchers say that prawn shells help control nematodes – tiny worm-like pests that attack plants from the roots. The chitin in the shells boosts the growth of soil fungi and other organisms that attack the nematodes and their eggs. Shells from any crustacean will do, just wash, dry and crush the shells before digging them into your soil.

Gwen's December

The fencing contractor arrives early on the first Monday in December. It isn't Luke. When Gwen told him the news, she heard the relief in his voice. Another contractor refused to build the fence because he didn't want to be ‘in the middle of anything'. Neither do I, Gwen thinks, but it's too late for that now.

She spent Sunday removing her crab apples. Jonathon was too busy to help, something about the kids' Christmas concert, but Diane and Simon came over. It was a tough job. After so many years, the thickened roots had to be cut to remove the trees. Gwen swore she heard them scream in protest. The trees lay in the shade of the house, their roots bound in hessian sacking, like soldiers felled in battle, victims of a pointless war. That's what Babs would have said. The whole garden, on both sides of the boundary, is a battlefield. Next door with their scorched earth policy, theirs with the lawn dug over for snails. It wounds Gwen deep in her heart, as if she too has been ripped from the soil. This is supposed to be the season of goodwill towards all men, yet she feels goodwill to no one.

She waters the hessian bundles and watches the fencing contractor dig holes for the posts. The box hedges are gone too. They're in the vegetable beds for now, well-watered to counter transplant shock. She hopes they survive the ordeal.

Eric wanders out with a mug of tea. He passes it to her. ‘It's a sorry business, Gwennie.'

‘It is,' she says, taking the tea.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she rests her head on his chest. A sob catches in her throat. She remembers standing in this same spot when the crab apples were barely waist high. Her head on Eric's shoulder, mourning the loss of another baby that had failed to cling to life past twelve weeks. Creating Jonathon had been so easy, they never counted on the losses, or that they would consider Diane a small miracle. Looking up at Eric, it seems he is taking this much better than she but then she wonders if that is because he has become so detached. Does he ever think about the miscarriages? Who knows. He's changed since the night he got lost. He stays close to home, doesn't want to go anywhere, not even the local shops. Gwen had insisted he visit the doctor. ‘Just for a check-up.'

‘There's nothing wrong with me, Gwennie,' he'd cried but the words were hollow. Something inside him had broken.

The doctor sent Eric off for a myriad of tests. Next Thursday's appointment will tell them the results. The doctor suggested there might be underlying physical causes for Eric's memory loss and vagueness. That it might not be dementia so best to rule a line through everything else before going down that path.

The neighbour's children are corralled on their front verandah. Amber waves to Gwen and she waves back, hoping their mother doesn't see. As promised, Francesca had called the police. Gwen saw the patrol car, the two officers strolling up the neighbour's driveway, relieved it was not their own. She changed into a clean blouse, brushed her hair and put on some lippie. She didn't want the officers thinking she was some mad old bat. Old maybe, but she was no troublemaker. Why was this young couple being so awful? What was so terribly wrong with their lives that they inflicted their hurt on innocent people?

Gwen sat on the stool at the telephone table to be close to the front door when the police arrived. She ran through what she would say to them. How the children had walked through the crab apples. First Amber, then her brother and Marigold, the twins carrying a bucket between them.

The children had walked over to where she and Eric stood and said, ‘We've brought some snails from our garden.'

‘That's very sweet of you, dears,' Gwen had said, taking the bucket from them. ‘My, there's quite a lot, isn't there?'

Amber had nodded. ‘They're from the backyard. There's none left in the front yard 'cause Daddy killed all the plants.'

‘Do you like snails?' Eric had said. The three children had nodded, which put a smile on his face.

‘Would you like to put them in the special snail paddock?'

‘It's very small,' lisped Silver.

‘Snails don't need as much space as humans,' Eric had said.

And they had stood there, the children placing each snail on its own leaf. Neither Gwen nor Eric mentioned that they really didn't need more snails because it was such a thoughtful thing for the children to have done.

‘Mummy and Daddy are fighting,' announced Marigold.

Gwen and Eric had heard the screaming. It was a quiet neighbourhood, noise travelled. She'd said, ‘Well, adults do that sometimes when they disagree.'

The children digested this information in silence. Then Amber said, ‘Daddy hates living here. He says we live in the middle of nowhere but we don't live in the middle of nowhere, do we?'

Silver chipped in, ‘We live in the middle of the street.'

Amber chewed on her thumbnail. ‘Can we still visit when the fence is built?'

What could Gwen say? ‘If it's all right with your mummy and daddy.'

‘I like playing with your dollhouses.' Silver looked up at Eric, a smile creeping across his face.

‘Do you now,' Eric beamed. ‘Would you like to see the new one I'm making?'

Silver nodded and grasped Eric's hand. Gwen gathered the girls and followed Eric into the garage.

There on the bench sat Eric's latest creation. It was a model of a manor house that had five chimneys with ornate brickwork Eric had painted on. Eric unlatched the facade of the house, opening it up for the children.

‘Is it for us?' said Amber, peering inside.

‘Oh,' Eric glanced at Gwen.

The Desmarchelliers would be most unhappy. ‘Perhaps we could give it to you for Christmas?' she'd said and the children grinned.

‘One each?' said Amber, spying other dollhouses in various stages of construction.

But they had told them they would have to share. They were back at the snail paddocks, Eric holding Marigold high so she could see over the fence, when Francesca and Brandon came running out of their house, screaming the children's names, the dogs barking at their heels. In all the kerfuffle, Gwen hadn't a chance to yell, ‘They're over here!' because the parents were charging off in different directions, shouting their heads off. His Lordship ran past Val's place towards the park, as if the children would wander so far on their own. Amber's stricken expression told Gwen that they had not informed their parents where they were going. She knew then and there that the Desmarchelliers would lay the blame at her feet.

Gwen had tried to be reasonable, explaining how the children had just wanted to bring over their snails. She could see Francesca had had a terrible fright but it wasn't right of her to think she could tell Gwen what to do in her own garden. And she'd threatened her. Gwen remembered that bit quite clearly, ‘I'm warning you there will be consequences.' She'd have something to say about that to the police herself.

Gwen sat on the little stool at the telephone table waiting for a knock on the door that never came. Her leg had a terrible cramp from sitting there so tense. Eventually, she had hobbled over to the lounge room window and stared at the space where the police car had been. So relieved was she that she was not about to be arrested that silent tears trickled down her cheeks. She stood there crying until she heard Eric stomping up the stairs. Taking a hanky from her pocket, she patted her cheeks dry then went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

They hadn't seen the children since that day. Well, coming and going of course, but if she saw them in the yard or going off to kindy, Gwen found something to do on the other side of the yard or popped out of sight in the garage. Until yesterday, when Diane and Simon had come round to help remove the crab apples. Molly had brought her skateboard over to practise riding it on their drive. Up and down she went until she was tired and let Jasper have a go. Gwen saw Amber peeking over the back gate. She stayed there until her mother called her away.

The fence man spends the day cementing in the brutal steel posts. He's a nice enough fellow. Gwen brings him a cup of tea and a slice of the chocolate cake she's trialling for Eric's upcoming eightieth birthday party. She doesn't stay to chat, she doesn't want Francesca misinterpreting her actions. The next day, the fencing man returns with his nail gun echoing across the valley as he secures the hardwood palings. He does a good job, the fence is solid and complies with the fencing orders to the letter. By the end of the day, the paling fence runs the length of their yard, the harsh orange of the new timber raw as a fresh scar.

‘It's bloody ugly, isn't it, Gwennie?' Eric comes out of the garage wiping his hands on a rag. He's spent the last two days finishing the dollhouse for the children next door.

Gwen had warned him that the parents would never allow such a gift inside their house, but Eric had insisted. ‘Consider it a peace offering, Gwennie.'

It's a Christmas present, they can't say no. Christmas has always been a street affair. Keith likes to go the whole nine yards with the house festooned in lights. Winking Santas, reindeer galloping off the roof, candy canes lining the driveway. Eric wonders why he hasn't bothered this year.

But Gwen thinks the Desmarchelliers can and will say no. She says, ‘Isn't it strange that the man from the tribunal insisted the fence be built this way?'

Eric nods, tucking the rag in his pocket. ‘It's a good fifteen centimetres inside their boundary line.'

‘At least,' she says. ‘How much land do you think they've lost?'

Eric does the sums in his head. ‘I reckon about twenty grand.'

Gwen hadn't thought it would be that much. ‘It's like he's punishing them for making such a fuss.'

Eric goes over to the fence, peeks over the other side before returning to Gwen. ‘It's going to be tricky to get the passenger- side doors of the car open, that's for sure.'

‘How terribly awkward.' Gwen smiles. Eric smiles too and they burst out laughing. She's not a mean-spirited person, neither of them are, but there is poetic justice in this newly executed fence. It might stop them seeing into the Desmarchelliers' yard and it might stop the children popping in for a visit but it will also serve as a permanent reminder to the Desmarchelliers of why it doesn't pay to be belligerent.

‘Did you see what they did on the other side?' she says, curbing her joy.

The fencing orders also stipulated that the palings were to be nailed on Gwen and Eric's side of the fence. Theirs is the smooth side. Gwen had said to Mrs Desmarchelliers that it made more sense if the palings were nailed on the other side, ‘So the children can't use the struts to climb over.' Francesca had glared at her with that same look on her face as that day in court when she'd called them despicable and said, ‘We are following the fencing orders to the letter.'

What could Gwen say? It was Francesca's choice to cut off her nose to spite her face.

After the fence had technically been completed, the Desmarchelliers paid the fence man to nail another row of palings so their side was smooth as well.

‘I wonder how much extra that cost them?' she says.

‘Hardwood's an expensive option.'

But it will last a lifetime. Long enough to see Gwen and Eric in their graves. Gwen hopes Francesca realises that. She says, ‘It would have been cheaper to put up wire and grow a vine over it.'

‘Mmm, but it'd still be hard to get the car in and out.'

They laugh again. ‘We shouldn't laugh, Eric,' Gwen says. ‘If I'd realised the fencing orders included building the fence fifteen centimetres into their property, I wouldn't have needed to move my crab apples.'

Eric wraps an arm around her shoulder. ‘It's all right, love. We'll put them back and hide that awful fence. If the fence had been built on the boundary line you wouldn't have had the room, so in a way, you've had a victory.'

Classic Eric, forever the pragmatist. Gwen hugs him harder and glows when he squeezes her back.

Luke swings by and they spend the afternoon digging new holes for the trees, back filling them with a rich mix of compost and blood and bone to give them the best chance of recovering from their ordeal. Gwen waters them in, hopeful they can now put the last six months behind them. The hardwood timber will fade to a lovely silvery grey and she's sure there will come a day when they won't remember when it was never there. Her trees have survived, no one is hurt and in a few weeks time it will be Christmas.