The Fence (7 page)

‘They can always go over the top,' added Eric. ‘Kids love climbing.'

‘But would they? A fence says, “Stay out”, don't you think?'

‘Whereas a hedge . . .?' said Babs.

‘It depends what you use,' said Gwen, ‘and it's certainly more visually appealing than a fence, but it still discourages access. I can't imagine this street being turned into one where the ­children didn't feel welcome.'

‘When we were children, there was an old hedge that bordered the common,' said Rohan. ‘We used to burrow under there and play all sorts of games. We were tunnellers in the war or revolutionaries in our secret hideout.'

‘As the boys get older, they'll like that,' added Babs.

‘No more lawn though,' said Eric, ‘I spend enough of my Sundays mowing the wretched thing as it is.'

‘Do you know what we could do?' Gwen turned to the gathering. ‘I mean, if it's all right with you. We could turn your front garden into a maze with winding paths that the children could play hide and seek in or ride their scooters around and then instead of a full hedge, we could plant an intermittent one using small trees the children can duck in and out of. That way, they can pitch a tent on our lawn and then set off on adventures in your garden.'

‘Yes! Or even play cricket,' Rohan added. ‘The row of trees would be the boundary. Over the trees for a six.'

‘Mrs Hill?'

Gwen realises Francesca is talking to her. ‘I'm sorry, dear?'

Francesca tsked. ‘I'm wondering how we might fix this problem. I mean, the obvious solution is to remove the trees. You could replant them on your side of the boundary, although I see there's not much space between the boundary line and your driveway, is there? So maybe that wouldn't work.' Still that sweet smile but it is cut with steel.

‘Why must we move them at all?' Gwen argues. ‘They're doing no harm.'

‘They're on our land, Mrs Hill. That's the problem.'

‘But it was agreed, between neighbours.' And she can feel them too, Babs and Rohan, hovering in her defence.

‘Your old neighbours, Mrs Hill. This free access between properties is unacceptable. We have small children and dogs. We need to know where they are at all times.'

‘Your backyard is fenced.' Gwen is trying to be reasonable but struggles to understand why Francesca is so rigid in her thinking.

‘The backyard.' Francesca removes her gardening gloves, easing them off finger by finger and placing the pair in one of her elasticised pockets. ‘The thing is, Mrs Hill, space is limited in our backyard. Between the pool and the courtyard, there's barely enough room for the trampoline. There's certainly nowhere for the dogs to run around.'

The pool does take up most of the backyard. They both know Gwen cannot argue that point. Francesca pushes her advantage.

‘Your garage is full of all that dangerous machinery and my son Silver is a curious child – it happens with gifted children, as you may know – and it worries Brandy and I that he might wander in and hurt himself. I've noticed Mr Hill is quite relaxed about safety. He's always leaving the garage door open. Peanut came home the other day covered in sawdust. And then there's that smell!'

Gwen knows she's referring to the industrial glue Eric works with. Which is why he keeps the garage doors open so he doesn't poison himself. But he doesn't use the glue every day.

‘I don't see what any of this has to do with my crab apples,' she says.

‘They are on my property.' Francesca folds her arms and glares at Gwen.

Gwen steps forward. ‘And your dogs gallivant all over my lawn, defecating where they please. I don't come knocking on your door complaining, do I? Those animals are out of control.'

Francesca's smile thins. ‘You can't possibly expect us to chain the dogs up. That would be cruel.'

‘No, but you have a backyard. That's where the dogs should be.'

‘Our dogs are part of the family, Mrs Hill. When we're out in the garden,' here she sweeps her hand around the expanse of her fiefdom, ‘we like to have them with us. There is an obvious solution.'

Gwen doesn't like the sound of this but Francesca has hijacked the conversation. She steps away, wanting to walk off and leave this modern day Caroline Ingalls in her prairie outfit to massacre the rest of the camellias.

‘Brandy and I have discussed this at length and to our minds there is only one viable solution.'

Gwen glances up at the house where Eric potters in the garage, oblivious to the unfolding crisis.

‘I mean, the trees will still have to go of course, given they are encroaching on our property there is no way around it, but trees or no trees, the only real solution is to put up a fence.'

Without thinking, Gwen turns on her heel and races towards the garage, away from this vile woman and her extraordinary ideas. It is not enough that they are desecrating Babs' memory, now they wanted to shut the world out as if, as if, they were some kind of royalty or Paris Hilton or the Kardashians trying to keep the paparazzi at bay when all they are is a couple of middle class wannabes who think they are better than ­everybody else.

Frankie's July

Frankie watches the old lady huff up the driveway flapping her arms as if taking flight. Stupid old biddy, she thinks. Did she really take Francesca for such a fool that they didn't know those trees were on their property? The plans from the real estate agent had a clear dotted line where the boundary was. At the time, Dave Henshaw had said that the trees had been there since he was a kid and, yes, technically they shouldn't be, but the neighbours had always been amicable. He had a vague memory, though don't quote him on it, that the neighbours had agreed on the trees straddling the boundary.

Frankie hadn't let it worry her then. After all, the trees were small, it wasn't like they'd be difficult to remove. Brandy could do it in-between looking after the children.

That night, she sits at her desk, checking the proofs for the ad campaign for Hush Hush's new range of baby food. Officially the line follows the corporate formula of rhyming with hush and is called Hungry Hush. Although within the office it's called Slush Mush, because you can put pictures of cute babies eating spoonfuls of organic lentils and pumpkin on the packaging but however you wrap it, when you unscrew the safety cap and squirt it into a microwave proof bowl, it still looks like baby poo. It's actually quite tasty. Many's the night Frankie has come home from work to a house strewn with toys and Brandon playing the Xbox. Too tired to argue about the state of the house or the lack of an adult meal on the table, she often supplements cold half-chewed pieces of organic chicken sausage and peas with a squirt of mashed lentils and pumpkin straight from the tube followed by blueberry and apple custard from another. At least it means she knows her product. No sly jokes like when they talk about the Eco nappy range and some smart alec can't resist saying, ‘Know how to use one of these, Frankie?' Laughing away as if it is the best joke in the world.

Tonight, Frankie wavers between selecting organic free-range chicken and sweet corn or organic beef, macaroni and broccoli. As it heats, she watches Brandon, fingers twitching over the controller, and reflects how little has changed since this move to the suburbs. In the terms and conditions she stipulated as part of Brandon's return to the family, she had insisted on something other than children's leftovers for dinner. To start him off, she signed them up to an online store that delivers all the ingredi­ents for a nutritious home-cooked meal with simple to follow recipes. Opening the fridge, she sees that tonight is supposed to be salmon fillets with ginger and shallots cooked
en papillote
with Asian greens. Grabbing the organic non-homogenised full-cream milk, she finishes off the bottle. It's a poor substitute for a bottle of white wine but the marketing and product team has agreed to do Dry July to raise funds for the Cancer Council. It's only the fifth and the effort is killing her. Life is much nicer diffused through the numbing effects of a glass or two of wine.

Eating her mush, she reads the Gumnut Cottage calendar stuck to the fridge door. The children are making bird scarers this week. They've been saving tin cans, washing them out and smoothing off any sharp edges. Tomorrow, parents will be helping the children stick mirrored beads on the cans for eyes and gluing on swishy tails made out of aluminium foil. The bird scarers will be strung up in the kindy's fruit trees and on poles in the vegetable patches to keep the birds away. Brandon has to take his mother to hospital for a colonoscopy, so she is stepping into the breach.

Taking a day off work to do stuff with the kids always fills Frankie with anxiety. Oh Klaussman & Sons say all the right things about being a family-friendly company until anyone actually asks for the day off. No matter that she is taking an annual leave day, she still feels as if she is letting the team down. If she were flying interstate for work, they wouldn't bat an eyelid. But if she didn't take the day off work, and her child­ren had no parent at kindy to help them make bird scarers, another whole group would insinuate that she was putting her career ahead of her children's wellbeing. Corralled by guilt, it was impossible to feel anything but defensive.

Frankie joins a group of women the following morning at 10 am, right after crunch 'n' sip. They gossip in casual groups, dressed in leggings and floppy cardigans or in activewear, chatting about their offspring, whilst future Gumnut attendees cling to their sides. Frankie has Bijoux in her baby capsule at her feet, a large decaf almond latte clutched to her chest.

‘Good morning, everyone, thank you so much for coming,' the director Diane Slaughter says, heading towards them. ‘The children will be out in a minute. As you can see we've set up tables in the garden. There's a teacher assigned to each group to assist you. Can I please remind you that no child may use any of the tools provided unless you are supervising and that any scraps are immediately put into the cardboard box provided.'

Frankie quite likes Diane Slaughter. So different from her mother. Easygoing but with an air of authority.

‘Most of the children prefer the fun stuff so let them be liberal with the glue and glitter. When they've finished, can you write each child's name on the bottom of the tin as some children may want to take them home.' She smiles and the mothers beam back their approval. ‘I'm sure we'll have more than enough to scare the birdlife around here.'

Diane laughs and gestures towards the tables. Mothers scramble to seat themselves next to their friends in order to continue chatting.

‘You can sit with me in the shade, if you like,' Diane says, pointing at a table external to the circle. ‘I don't think I've seen you since the children were enrolled. It's Mrs Boyd, isn't it? Working mums are a rarity here so it's a double pleasure to have you today.'

Frankie's first reaction is to decline, she doesn't want to be the teacher's pet. It was bad enough at school where that bitch Nessa Lowden haunted her. But she knows no one here. Brandon manages this side of things.

‘Although I'll have to ask you to pop that coffee in the kitchen if it's not finished.' Diane catches her arm.

‘Sorry?' Frankie is manoeuvring Bijoux under a corner of the table to protect her from the children.

‘The coffee. No hot drinks allowed, I'm afraid. The staff get jealous, especially by this time of the morning.' Diane laughs, indicating she means no harm but prises the coffee from Frankie's grip.

Frankie glances at her phone. Right now, she'd be in the weekly account manager's meeting. There'd be large coffees and a plate of pastries to snack on. One of the secretaries would be taking the minutes. Frankie would be ensuring her team members had delivered to the project milestones. In control, ticking all the boxes.

But here at kindy, making bird scarers, she is out of her element. She used to love craft at school but these days all her creativity gets sucked out of her at work.

As the children burst through the door, grabbing their hats from the pegs and racing to the tables to sit with their friends, she waves in relief at Marigold and pats the seat next to her. Goldie grabs another little girl and runs over, plonking herself down.

‘And who are you?' Frankie beams at the waifish blonde with thin plaits.

‘Sahara,' she responds, seizing the nearest gluepot.

Over at a sparkly mum's table, children squabble over who can sit where. The sparkly mum has the good grace to look embarrassed and reasons with the children that there simply aren't enough seats for everyone.

Unlike Goldie, who rushed to be at her side, the twins have secured a position at another sparkly mum's table and are waving their paintbrushes around, eager to get stuck into the pot of glue.

Frankie squashes the twinge of rejection rising in her chest. There are still four chairs empty at her table.

Diane Slaughter claps her hands in a distinctive rhythm and, like forty robots, the children clap the rhythm back to her and fall into eerie silence.

‘Now children, this isn't musical chairs. There are enough seats for everyone so please make your way to the nearest chair and sit yourselves down so we can begin our craft project.'

The children mumble and complain. Several children eye off Frankie's table and fight it out for a solitary chair elsewhere but eventually her chairs fill.

Busy fingers stick on eyes and daub the tin cans with glitter. Two of the older children, who have their scissor licences, cut long strips of aluminium foil in half for the younger children to make tails. Frankie takes some of the strips of foil and concertinas them to make them more decorative. The rhythm reminds her why she used to enjoy art classes at school. There's a simple pleasure in the task whilst chatting to the children about their favourite colours and animals. The conversation flows and she doesn't mind that Diane is yet to join her table. Obviously she's noticed how well Frankie is managing alone, she thinks, folding another piece of foil.

‘Sorry I'm late, the garbage truck blocked off the whole street.' Frankie stiffens at the familiar voice.

The owner of the voice sits at the far end of her table, between Sahara and Diezel. The women glance at each other and look away. Frankie concentrates on threading wire through a tin can and the old lady bends down to the nearest child and says in an overbright voice, ‘And which bit are you up to, dear?'

They haven't seen each other since the argument about the crab apples. Well, that's not quite true. Every time Frankie stands at the lounge room window or steps into the garden, Gwen is there, pretending to be weeding, pruning her bushes or collecting her mail.

One day, Frankie had put the children to work removing the pebbles from the paths and piling them near the garage door. There stood Mrs Hill, pretending to scour the contents of a catalogue as she spied on their every move.

Brandon had advertised the plants from the garden online. People came, bringing hessian sacks with which to transport the plants to their new homes. Mrs Hill catalogued every camellia, agapanthus and clivia's removal, accounting for each loss. The children wanted to go and say hello but Frankie had distracted them with offers of juice and biscuits, ushering them into the house.

‘How are we going here?' Diane interrupts Frankie's thoughts.

Put off by Gwen Hill's arrival, Frankie has been oblivious to the children on her table. Tiny bubbles of annoyance effervesce in Frankie's brain and she feels a headache coming on.

‘I think we're good, thanks,' she smiles at Diane, one boss to another.

‘We might just move the pinking scissors to the other end of the table so Diezel and Sahara can have a turn, what do you think, Eden?' Diane slips the shears from the little boy's grasp and Frankie realises what he's done. Slivers of aluminium foil festoon the table, each with a zigzag edge. A bare tin can sits in front of him. Whilst Frankie has been fuming about Gwen Hill, Eden's been destroying all the birds' tails.

Frankie grabs the glue and glitter and attacks Eden's can. Gwen Hill says nothing but Frankie sees Diezel and Sahara's bird scarers complete, lying on their sparkly sides waiting for the glue to dry. Marigold is licking glue from her paintbrush.

‘Stop that, Goldie,' Frankie hisses.

Bijoux wakes from her nap with a wail. The upside is that Frankie has a good excuse to leave the table. The downside is Gwen Hill bustles over to Frankie's still warm seat saying, ‘Now let's get these bird scarers finished by morning tea, shall we?' as she removes the paintbrush from Marigold's fingers. All Frankie's warmth and goodwill dribbles away in the face of her failure.

Driving home, Frankie curses Gwen Hill, for her familiarity with the Gumnut way, for her experience in working with small children, for her ability to make Frankie feel pathetic and useless. When she decided to take today off work, the trade-off was that she would make up the lost time this afternoon proofreading the marketing material for the new organic range. The new nappies are the big deal but there are also the Teerz Free bath products. Anything apple blossom scented is out and coconut, acai and boysenberry are in. In private, Frankie admits there is no scientific evidence proving the health benefits of these superfoods can be absorbed through hair follicles but sales spiked when they added them to the organic snack pouches so they are banking on the toiletries range being as big a success. Replacing rice flour with quinoa flakes in their gluten-free range of cereals had earned her a massive bonus.

Bijoux sleeps on in the capsule. For a baby conceived as an insurance policy, Bijoux is a joy. Placid and watchful not search and destroy like her older sisters. Frankie parks in the drive and carefully removes the capsule from the back seat. Bijoux starts, her pudgy hands making starfish, but settles immediately. Frankie carries her into the house, thinking of her laptop and wishing for a strong cup of coffee after the lukewarm tea and a tiny corner of the hedgehog slice Gwen Hill brought in for the helpers' morning tea. The house is still. With the twins starting school next year, this is how it will be. Maybe she should angle for a work-from-home day once a week, she thinks, easing Bijoux's capsule onto the floor. Yeah, like Tony would ever agree to that. The kitchen remains in fallout mode from the breakfast bomb. Cereal, milk and sugar coat the benches; cups and bowls fill the sink. She eyes the coffee machine longingly. She had almost killed Brandon when he brought it home from Peter's of Kensington. Or rather, she'd almost killed him when she saw the machine had cost over two thousand dollars.

‘If I'm going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, I deserve a decent cup of coffee when I want one,' he'd huffed.

‘But look at it!' she'd yelled. ‘It's a proper coffee-shop machine. You need a degree to use it.'

Brandon had folded his arms across his chest and eyed her coolly. ‘Number one, a real coffee-shop machine costs between eight and fifteen grand and number two, this machine comes with a free one-day barista course at the factory.'