The Fence (22 page)

The vet shakes his head. ‘Not in the sense you mean. Theobromine is a natural chemical found in chocolate. It's a bit like caffeine but dogs have no tolerance for it which is why it can be lethal.'

‘But if someone deliberately feeds a dog a substance they know is poisonous to them, that's the same thing, isn't it?'

The vet hesitates before answering, ‘If it was deliberate, then yes, that could be a criminal offence.'

The moment they get home, Amber flounces through the door shouting, ‘You're in big trouble, Goldie.'

‘No, she's not, Amber, you're not to say that,' Frankie intervenes. ‘It's not Marigold's fault. It's the Hills',' she says to Brandon. ‘The vet reckons the dogs have been poisoned with a lethal dose of theobromine.'

‘But how did the dogs get next door? The back gate was locked.'

Frankie pauses. Brandon's words have triggered something. She goes back over this afternoon, before she and Bijoux had a swim when she was cleaning up the kitchen. The dogs were out.

Frankie calls to Amber. ‘When you said the dogs were next door,' she says gently, ‘do you remember how they got there?'

Amber sucks in her lip and shrugs.

‘Amber, this is important. How did Peanut and Butter escape? Did they jump the fence?'

She doesn't really think they'd jump the fence but hopes providing the wrong answer might elicit the right one.

Amber shakes her head.

‘Did,' Frankie exaggerates thinking about alternatives, ‘did someone let them out?'

Amber slowly nods.

‘Oh,' Frankie frowns as if she too is struggling to figure out the answer, ‘was it Bijoux?'

Amber glances up at this and shakes her head.

‘Was it Silver?'

Another headshake.

‘It must have been Marigold then. Because if it was you, you would have told me straight away, wouldn't you?'

Amber returns to studying her feet.

Frankie is tired of this charade. She already has her answer but says anyway, ‘Amber, I'm guessing it was you who left the side gate open. Am I right?'

‘They're childproof gates, Frankie,' Brandon cuts in. ‘The kids can't open them.'

Frankie snaps, ‘For God's sakes, Brandon. How many times have I told you those gates aren't childproof?'

She returns to Amber. ‘You know how Mummy knows you left the gate open?'

Amber frowns, her face contorted with misery.

‘Mummy knows because Mummy saw it open. Just a little bit,' she pinches her fingers together to show how small the opening was. ‘Did you go next door, Amber?'

‘But the front gates were locked,' Brandon says. Frankie always thinks she has the answer to everything but she's not as smart as she makes herself out to be. Like her mother, she rides rough shod over any opinion that disagrees with her own.

Frankie glares at him. Brandon is such a smart alec but he never thinks things through. It was surely obvious that the front gates can't have been locked. ‘Why did you want to go next door, sweetheart?'

‘To play with the others,' Amber blurts out.

The children next door, skateboarding in the Hills' front yard. Unsupervised.

‘But they weren't there anymore,' Amber adds.

‘And what about Peanut and Butter?'

‘They ran outside and I chased after them but they were too fast. There were lots of people so I stopped.'

‘Did you feel shy?'

Amber nods.

Frankie licks her lips, anticipating the answer to her next question. ‘Did you see the neighbours give the dogs chocolate? Amber?'

Amber stands stock still. Frankie waits. Can she be this lucky? Did Amber actually see Mrs Hill feed the dogs chocolate. ‘Amber?' she prods.

‘Yes,' Amber says, nodding her head vigorously, relieved to be able to shift the blame away from herself.

Frankie sees the relief on her face, the relief of finally telling the truth. ‘Don't you feel better now you've got that off your chest, sweetheart? In the end, it's always best to tell the truth, okay?' She hugs her tight. ‘Now off you go and find Silver. Don't worry about Peanut and Butter, I'm sure they'll be back to their old selves in no time.'

Frankie waits until she is out of earshot before ringing the vet. Peanut is still critical, Butter is lethargic but the vet is confident he'll make a full recovery within a day or so. As Frankie hangs up, she thinks about how much this will cost.

Turning to Brandon, she says, ‘I bet they did this on purpose.'

It seems a bit beyond Brandon that the Hills would be this malicious. ‘I don't know, Frankie. They're old, not nasty. Someone probably dropped a piece of cake and the dogs scoffed it. They don't own dogs so they might not have even realised it was poisonous. I'm sure they would have told us otherwise.'

‘Rubbish. They've gone too far this time. It's bad enough that creepy old man entices our children into his yard, now they're poisoning our dogs. It's unacceptable.'

Frankie flounces into the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea before sitting at the computer. She types ‘what can I do if I think my neighbour has poisoned my dog' into the search engine and hits enter.

On the RSPCA home page, there is a box labelled ‘Report Cruelty'. Clicking on it takes her to a page with a flowchart and a number to ring. She is pleased to note that the site says any person found recklessly or intentionally poisoning an animal faces severe penalties.

Frankie rings the number and relays her suspicions to the woman on the end of the line, adding that the dogs are currently in intensive care. She isn't sure if dogs can be in intensive care but it sounds much more serious that way. The woman says she'll pass on the details to an inspector and they will undertake a preliminary investigation. Giving her contact details, Frankie hangs up and swings round to face Brandon.

‘They'll call us after they've spoken to the vet,' she says.

‘How much is this going to cost us?' Malicious or not, he'll have to endure Frankie banging on about the expense until his dying day.

Frankie smiles. ‘The Hills will be receiving the vet bills on top of whatever fines the RSPCA imposes.'

‘And if they don't charge them?' They have no real proof and only Amber's word, which being honest, can be highly unreliable.

‘It's as clear as day on the website that poisoning can be either intentional or reckless. Amber saw them feed the dogs chocolate cake. How much clearer can it be? Ow!' Clementine has kicked her in the liver. Marigold's decided to name the baby after her new friend at kindy. Frankie is yet to be convinced on calling the baby either Ruby or Clementine. She rather likes Melanie.

The following morning, whilst Frankie argues with Amber about putting on yet another pair of clean shorts, the phone rings. Brandon takes the call. When he stands in the doorway of the twins' room, his face conveys the worst of news. Frankie hands Amber the fresh shorts she so desires and follows Brandon into the hall.

‘What is it?'

‘It's Peanut,' he whispers. ‘She didn't make it.'

Frankie's hand flies to her mouth.

‘They said there was nothing they could do. It turns out she had an underlying heart condition.'

‘Oh, Brandon,' Frankie slumps against the wall. Brandon moves to hug her but she steps away. ‘The kids will be devastated. We've had those dogs since they were born.'

‘I know, babe, it's awful, right?' Brandon speaks from the safety of the opposite wall.

Frankie's mind whirs. ‘No, it's not awful, Brandon. It's criminal. The RSPCA will have to lay charges now.' Frankie fetches a cardigan from her bedroom. ‘I'm going to see that old cow now.'

‘Why?'

Does she really have to spell everything out? Just for once it would be good if they could present a united front. ‘To tell her that she is a murderer. And that I am taking criminal action against her and fully intend to recoup every cent of the vet bills.'

‘Why don't you just wait until the RSPCA comes around? Let them do the dirty work.' Frankie really is going too far this time. You can't go round confronting people on a suspicion. And even if they did do it, as if this was the way to get them to own up.

Frankie pauses. So typical of Brandon. He never takes the front foot. ‘Because I want to see her face when I tell her Peanut is dead, our children are distraught and that there is a price to pay for her negligence.'

Silver sidles up the hall. ‘Mummy, when are Peanut and Butter coming home?'

Frankie glances at Brandon. ‘I'll leave you to explain,' she says, rushing out the front door. On the way out, she slips on something. A pink skateboard with blue wheels. Frankie kicks it, sending it rolling along the verandah and tumbling into the garden below.

Outback + Outdoors

In the Garden with Gwen Hill

There is nothing more heartbreaking than stepping into the garden on an early summer's morning to find your fruit trees and precious flowers destroyed. I'm talking about possums, who unfortunately like to eat many of our favourite plants. They will happily chomp on the tender stalks of a passionfruit vine, eat the buds off your magnolias and deadhead entire rosebushes.

One effective solution is to spray whatever the possums like to eat with chilli water – but make sure you respray after rain or heavy damp. If you are after a more drastic and permanent solution, you can enclose your garden with a fence topped with some low voltage electric wire. That will keep new possums from entering the area and those trapped inside can be dealt with appropriately. Make sure you cut back any overhanging branches as well, otherwise all your good work will be undone.

But I find the biggest headache is other people's dogs. They defecate on your lawn, dig over garden beds – especially if you've just given them a feed with blood and bone. Young dogs will even pull out whole plants. It's important to remember that it's not the dog's fault but the owner's for not keeping it restrained or contained. So please don't go down the path of baits or poisons. A good squirt with the hose is a much kinder solution.

Tip of the month

Did you know that the average Australian home throws out around fifteen kilograms of waste every week? Reducing this amount by twenty percent translates into a greenhouse gas reduction of about a hundred kilograms per year. Even if your only incentive is to stop your wheelie bin overflowing, think about starting a compost heap or a worm farm. Half the material that ends up in our garbage bins is organic. Imagine only having to trundle out a half-full bin on garbage night. You might even feel a twinge of pride for reducing your environmental footprint.

Gwen's February

Gwen stands at the kerb and sighs. Once again the Desmarchelliers' bin is full to overflowing. The bags are more out than in the wheelie bin. She wrinkles her nose. Is it just her imagination or do those nappies smell overpoweringly of rotten seafood? There is something too intimate about knowing a neighbour's habits via their garbage. And the Desmarchelliers' habits are disgusting. So much waste! Why use disposable kitchen wipes when a cloth will do? Why the need to put nappies inside scented plastic bags inside another plastic bag? Supermarket shopping bags are more than adequate bin liners. Why pay good money buying them? And the amount of pre-packaged food they eat is astounding. Wheeling her own bin next to theirs on the kerb, Gwen feels a prim pinch of satisfaction at the contrast. Her neat and cleaned bin, theirs collapsing all over the verge. She glances into their yard, carefully, so the security camera won't pick up that she's having a sticky. It still looks like the aftermath of a bomb attack. Granted, they've built garden beds out of railway sleepers, which aren't square, and His Lordship has filled them with soil. He seems to be cultivating weeds, although she concedes it could be a green manure crop.

Gwen parks the paper recycling bin parallel to the general rubbish bin. The thing is, she muses, as long as the neighbours on the other side have that flowering gum, the Desmarchelliers' garden receives too little sun to grow much of anything. She's surprised they haven't tried to get it chopped down. Far better to have left the shade-loving acids Gwen had planted for Babs and Rohan that flourished under the gum's dappled canopy.

She tuts as she opens the letterbox. Is she imagining it or is her letterbox overflowing with junk mail these days. Amongst the usual catalogues, there's an extraordinary amount of marketing material. The funny thing is, the letters are personalised but Gwen never fills in forms at the shopping centre. She doesn't want loyalty cards or to hear about latest product updates. So why are all these companies suddenly writing to her? If she didn't know better, she'd suspect someone is trying to clog up her letterbox with unwanted mail. Such a waste, she thinks, throwing a wad of junk into the recycling bin. On second thought, she removes the one from the Paradise Gardens Lifestyle Village.

The doctor is concerned about Eric's deteriorating health. He can join the club. Ever since Eric's birthday party, it's been downhill. The doctor has been hinting that Gwen should explore their options should Eric need additional care. As if she is not up to the task, she bristles. Through sickness and health, they vowed. She had meant every word of it. ‘I'm perfectly capable of looking after my husband myself,' she had snapped at the young man. They're all young these days. It's a sure sign she's not. The doctor, those police officers, the chap from the council, even the man from the RSPCA who came to visit after next door's dog died. Nice enough, all of them, but with just an edge of condescension. She never feels believed. She told the RSPCA inspector about dropping the cake. How the dogs appeared from nowhere and wolfed it down before anyone could stop them.

‘Why did you drop the cake?' he'd asked, as if it were inconceivable that a cake could slide from its tray unprompted. But she'd be damned if she'd tell him what really happened. That the family had sat in stunned silence as Eric channelled Marilyn Monroe. His breathy singing stilled them all. She knows where her loyalties lie and it isn't with the next-door neighbours. Of course, she's sorry one of the dogs died. Peanut or Butter, she can never remember which one is which. It had been awful hearing the children wailing at the news. Although she isn't entirely sorry. The way they kept escaping and pooping on her lawn. Two of her crab apples are dead. She caught the dogs digging up a third, the remainder are doing a poor job surviving the hot summer. And the inspector had the hide to ask her, ‘Are the dogs ever a nuisance?'

Well, what was she supposed to say. ‘Yes, they bloody well are.' They knocked down Eric's snail fences and then she'd caught one in Eric's workshop chewing on a dining table. It was sheer luck it hadn't choked. She just can't understand that Francesca Desmarchelliers. Maybe it's the hormones. God knows why they want more children when their marriage is clearly in jeopardy. She hears them at night, shouting at each other whilst the children sleep. No wonder their marriage is broken when she's at work all day, the kids in childcare and His Lordship walking around with a face like a smacked bottom. Not that it is any of her business, but marriages are hard work. Of course you can't agree on everything but screaming at each other doesn't do any good either. There needs to be a balance. She never let her career take precedence over her family, even after the children were all grown up and living lives of their own. Maybe that's why she and Eric never scream and Babs and Rohan never exchanged a single cross word. Well, not that she heard anyway. What was it that Babs always used to say? Ah yes, ‘It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.' It was a quote from some famous philosopher. Unsurprising given Babs was extremely well read.

Finishing with the bins, Gwen retrieves the
Northshore Advocate
and unfurls the paper. This can't be right. She takes her glasses from her pocket and looks again. There is a fuzzy photo of Eric waving at the camera. When had it been taken? Who was he waving at? Gwen is in the background, facing away from the camera. She must have been weeding but it looks like she's hiding. As if she'd hide from some nosy parker taking their photo. If she'd known, she would have stormed down the street and given them what for.

She reads the article, the headline ominous above the poisonous words. She screws up the paper and throws it in the bin. How dare they write such untruths about her and Eric? It's libellous is what it is. On second thought, she retrieves the paper. In the top corner it lists circulation figures of eighty-five thousand. Thousands of people reading this paper every day. People she sees at the shops, people who listen to her radio programme and read her column. People who live in this street. Gwen glances around, searching for the twitch of a curtain, someone lingering in their front yard but the street is quiet.

The headline reads, ‘Neighbourhood Stoush Ends in Death'.

Drive down leafy Green Valley Avenue in Rosedale and you'd be forgiven for thinking that this is a peaceful neighbourhood. Well-maintained gardens, the lawn edges clipped. The cars are all recent models, shiny and clean, parked in the driveways of this epitome of suburbia. But a dark story lurks behind this facade of idyllic suburban life.

For almost a year now, neighbours have been at war. ‘We moved into this street about nine months ago,' said Mrs Francesca Desmarchelliers. ‘We were looking for a quiet, safe neighbourhood in which to raise our four children but from the moment we ­arrived, it's been a living hell.'

Mrs Desmarchelliers, pregnant with her fifth child, is the account director for the popular Hush Hush baby range. She claims her elderly neighbours took an instant dislike to them. ‘It's small but persistent things. Mrs Hill is always snooping around our garden, attacking our trees, spilling our rubbish bins onto the street and Mr Hill entices the children into his workshop, despite us clearly stating that the children are forbidden to be alone with him. That's why we had to build the fence.'

The fence, erected to prevent the children from wandering next door and to end the neighbours' prying, only served to make matters worse. ‘I thought that would be the end of it but they complain constantly about the noise our children make whilst letting their own grandchildren run riot. You'd never expect elderly people to host loud parties either.'

Familiar issues to anyone with noisy neighbours but things turned sinister when the Desmarchelliers' dogs fell mysteriously ill.

‘The dogs were vomiting and running around the backyard, clearly distressed. I rushed them to the vet and it turned out they had theobromine poisoning,' explained Mrs Desmarchelliers.

Dogs are highly intolerant to theobromine, a caffeine-like substance found naturally in chocolate. It takes a large dose to kill a dog the size of the Desmarchelliers' Labradoodles, Peanut and Butter, but that is what happened. Peanut died from complications. Butter is yet to make a full recovery.

We spoke about dog poisoning to RSPCA Senior Inspector Tim Primrose. He said poisoning any animal was ‘cruel and unacceptable'. The RSPCA investigates all reported incidents of poisoning as it is a major concern to the organisation. Senior Inspector Primrose said that neighbours who are having issues with animals in their community should explore every possible avenue to resolve their dispute amicably. ‘Poisoning an animal is like shooting the messenger. If a dog is wandering, it is not the dog's fault but rather the owner's responsibility. There are processes in place to deal with such issues. Poisoning results in a protracted and painful death and is not the solution.'

Sadly for the Desmarchelliers, this advice comes too late. ‘The children are devastated,' said Mrs Desmarchelliers. ‘They have grown up with Peanut and Butter and now they are grieving. My three year old, Marigold, is having nightmares and the twins have become withdrawn.'

The
Northshore Advocate
contacted the vet who attended the animals but he declined to comment. Mr Hill, one of the neighbours in question, said the dogs were a nuisance and escaped the neighbour's yard all the time.

Senior Inspector Tim Primrose pointed out that in this case, no charges were laid against the Hills but concluded by saying that if people see any suspicious behaviour they should contact the RSPCA. He warned that any person or persons found guilty of poisoning an animal, intentionally or otherwise, can face a maximum penalty of five years imprisonment and fines up to $50,000.

There is no mention of the Desmarchelliers' failure to contain the dogs, nor that they have used these manufactured claims as an excuse to install security cameras everywhere. It must be a pretty slow news week for the paper to even consider such a story. The photo makes her and Eric look guilty when in truth they've done nothing. And how convenient that the journalist had no trouble interviewing Francesca Desmarchelliers when she works five days a week. They must have arranged a meeting. Yet she and Eric, who are always home, hadn't been interviewed. Gwen wishes she could storm over there and give the Desmarchelliers a piece of her mind but, as tempting as it is, she knows it will fuel the fire. Instead, she does the sensible thing and calls her solicitor. He will write the Desmarchelliers and the newspaper a stern rebuke, threaten them with proceedings about libel and the lot. Because there is no point trying to reason with people like the Desmarchelliers. She has learned that in the past nine months. Francesca Desmarchelliers is a bald-faced liar.

*

The neighbours are unusually quiet, Gwen thinks, as she potters about the back garden. It is hot yet she can't hear the children screaming in the swimming pool, banging a tennis ball against the fence or singing bad karaoke in the garage. Their house is still. Their bins have been left out and their letterbox overflows. Strange to go away without making arrangements for such matters but they are very strange people. When Babs was alive, God rest her soul, they always kept an eye out for each other. Watered the garden, brought in the bins, collected the mail. Same with Val when she was away on one of her cruises. Gwen glances at the sky, sees threatening clouds. On this morning's news, the bureau warned of an east coast low moving in. She doesn't need the radio to tell her bad weather is coming. The kookaburras chortle their warning, other birds disappear to their nests. This will be a bad storm.

That night, as Gwen lies in bed fretting about the newspaper article, the front arrives. The wind howls, the windows creak. The whole house groans on its foundations. There is a crash as a terracotta pot goes over. The trees whip and whine as the wind shakes them to their roots. Amidst the frenzy she senses a presence at her bedroom door.

‘Mary, I'm frightened,' Eric says, ‘can I get into bed with you?'

‘Of course,' Gwen says, shifting over to make room for him. Dressed in the flannelette pyjamas he insists upon despite the hot nights, he is an overgrown version of the little boy he once was. His mind is worsening, she doesn't need him calling her his mother's name to confirm that. Eric climbs in and rolls his back to her so she can wrap herself around him. Gwen rests her hands on his strong shoulders, feels him snuggle his bottom into her lap. He feels like Eric, she wishes he was Eric. This dramatic change in personality is frightening. Not the confusion with his mother, but the way he hangs around the house like a lost child, or stands for hours in the garden watching his snails grow. Moments of lucidity are a gift rarely given. And often only when he talks of the past. Today he remembered that caravan trip when the children caught chicken pox.

Every school holidays they went caravanning. They'd pack up the van and off they'd go – north, south or west, exploring a little bit of Australia each time. Eric's handiness meant their van was extremely comfortable. That trip they took Babs' Michael along. It was the July holidays, this was back in the days when the school terms were three a year instead of the four they have now. Three weeks in front of them and they were off across the Blue Mountains and out to Orange. Barry Henderson, who founded
Outback + Outdoors
, had an ongoing commission with Gwen to write articles on the Great Australian outback on these trips. She'd take her Nikon SLR and her notebooks and off they'd go. They must have visited every open garden, botanic garden and national park from Sydney to Broken Hill.

One holiday, they made it as far up the coast as the Daintree where those enormous cassowaries live. Turds the size of wombats and nasty creatures to boot. One chased Eric and he ran for his life with Gwen yelling, ‘Climb a tree, Eric, climb a tree.' He scrambled up a mangosteen and clung there as Gwen clicked her camera and waved her arms to scare the bird away. When other tourists arrived, the bird wandered after them in search of food and Eric slithered down to safety. ‘I didn't know cassowaries could run that fast,' Gwen said, brushing bark and leaves from Eric's clothes.