The Fence (8 page)

It's the word barista that sticks. She of the theatrical sexual antics. Frankie can never look at the machine without that terrible image flashing through her mind. She had hoped this desolate feeling would pass in time. Thinking of the lithe Camilla reminds Frankie she is round and saggy after four pregnancies. Since they moved here, their sex life has been virtually non-­existent. It's not like she wants anyone else but Brandon, but if she allows Camilla into her head any spark of lust dies.

Plus Frankie has no idea how to use the machine. Instead, she puts on the kettle and clears the colouring books and tablets from one end of the table before grabbing the packet of kitchen wipes and cleaning the sticky patches.

As the water boils, she stares out the window. Today is a typical Sydney winter's day – bright and sunny with a hint of crispness that will descend into full-on cold once the sun dis­appears. Leaves fill the pool but in summer it will be a different story. She notices that Brandon at least remembered to hang out the load in the machine before he left for his mother's this morning. Haphazard though his pegging is, a stiff breeze makes the rows of crisp whites dance on the line. As she stands there, Indian mynah birds hop over the fence, using the bare branches of the mulberry tree to launch themselves at the clothesline where they perch and poo on the clean clothes. Purple stains drip down the tiny singlets and underpants. Frankie's favourite cream top has a dash of purple running along its front. Forgetting the kettle, she runs outside shouting at the birds.

‘Get away, you pests!' She claps her hands. ‘Get away!'

The birds rise and perch in the branches of the mulberry tree. Their beady eyes glare at her, daring her to turn her back.

Frankie runs to the line, flinging the washing into the basket. Racing to the laundry, she throws it in the machine with a large scoop of Plush Hush nappy sanitiser. She can hear Bijoux whimpering but the only way to get the stains out is to get the clothes straight into water. Bird scarers. She cannot believe she spent her morning making bird scarers whilst right here and now she needs one hanging off her washing line.

‘What's the matter, babe?'

Frankie starts, turning to see Brandon with Bijoux clinging to his hip and a teething ring rammed in her mouth.

‘Look what those bloody birds have done.' Frankie lifts up one of Silver's singlets showing him the purple stain running down its length. ‘It's all over the washing. Something must be attracting them to the garden, they're always here.'

Brandon places Bijoux on the deck, propping her up against the wall for support. ‘It's the mulberry tree. The birds feed on the fruit in summer.'

‘They're vermin. They're worse than those bloody chickens she keeps next door.'

Bijoux lists sideways and Brandon rights her. ‘I thought we'd get chickens. I mean the kids will love collecting the eggs and they'll eat the scraps.'

‘I hate birds. I don't want chickens. What if Peanut or Butter eat them?' At the sound of their names, the dogs amble over and lick Bijoux's face, making her cry. Frankie tsks and picks her up, urging the dogs away with her foot. ‘Anyway, until we get the front yard fenced,' she emphasises the word fence. It's become shorthand for the initial confrontation with Mrs Hill who had baulked at the merest suggestion of cutting down her stupid bushes and putting up a proper fence. How on earth did she think they were going to be able to contain four children and two dogs without one? ‘Does she really think we're going to let them roam all over the street?' Frankie had said to Brandon. ‘It's a road, with cars on it. She's so irresponsible, I'm amazed her children made it to adulthood. Mind you, her daughter works in childcare so maybe she hasn't progressed that far.' Frankie had laughed, easing the tension screaming in her muscles after having to be civil to the lady next door.

Now she says, ‘Until we get the front yard fenced, there's no way we are getting chickens.'

Brandon surveys the backyard. It's not like Frankie will have to look after them. He likes chickens, their constant chatter, the way they cock their heads and eye you off. Gumnut had brought in one of those portable egg hatcheries. Marigold had been entranced watching the chicks peck their way out of their eggs. Mind you, she might feel differently if she connected eating eggs to hatching chicks. But chickens love mulberries.

The quiet is breached by the high whine of Eric Hill's jigsaw, clouds of sawdust float across the back fence on the mild breeze. Frankie snorts. Mynah birds defecating all over their clean washing, the constant noise from Mr Hill's workshop, Gwen Hill snooping around. Quiet is an illusion.

‘When you buy a house, you don't really think about who might be living next door,' Frankie says, collecting Bijoux and going inside to re-boil the kettle. ‘You're so busy worrying about pest inspections, the layout or how expensive it will be to retile the bathroom. Next-door neighbours don't come into the equation.'

Brandon trails behind her. ‘You know what,' he says, ‘that mulberry tree of theirs is well over our back fence. They've planted it way too close to the boundary.'

‘Ha,' huffed Frankie, ‘like everything else they do.'

‘We are well within our rights to cut it back, then the mynah birds might not perch there anymore.'

‘The only way we'll get rid of the mynah birds is to kill the whole tree.'

Brandon smiles a lazy smile. ‘Maybe, but we can start by cutting it back. It might help.'

Bijoux bursts into tears as her teething ring rolls away and she falls on her face trying to retrieve it.

‘Ooh poor baby girl,' Frankie says, picking her up. ‘You must be hungry. Shall we get you some mush,' she coos at the plump bundle. ‘I'd kill for a coffee, Brandy,' she says over her shoulder.

‘In a minute,' he says but he remains outside for several more and by then Frankie is absorbed in shovelling pale pink mush into Bijoux's mouth. She doesn't notice him pick up his tablet and start googling.

Outback + Outdoors

In the Garden with Gwen Hill

As the days grow longer, there's a definite feeling of spring in the air, making August the perfect time to plant out your ‘good bug bed'.

Honeybees were introduced to Australia in 1822 but we are lucky enough to have over 1500 species of native bees that are also excellent pollinators. Add in the butterflies, the good ladybugs and a huge variety of other insects and you have the makings of organic pest control as well as the delight of a garden overflowing with beautiful flowers.

Think alyssum, Californian poppies, borage, sunflowers, cosmos, lavender, nasturtium, nigella and dianthus to name a few. These flowers will help biologically control aphids, scale, red spider mite and caterpillars by using their nectar to attract the good bugs which will control unwanted pests.

Tip of the month

Speaking of pests, my pet hate is the common garden snail, Cantareus aspersus. Whilst snails hibernate in winter, they are about to invade our gardens en masse to chow down and mate. Don't waste your time throwing them over the back fence. Apart from being unneighbourly, snails have a well-­developed homing instinct and will make their way back (albeit slowly) to your garden.

It's a lot more fun to enlist the children's help. Set up collection points around the garden (an upturned black pot will do the trick) and pay the kids a bounty for every snail collected. If you have chooks, throw the snails into a bucket of hot water to kill them before feeding your chooks a royal treat. Remember, whilst a quick stomp on a snail is satisfying, it in no way guarantees that any mature eggs they are carrying will not still hatch.

If killing snails makes you squeamish then the solution is barriers. Protect individual plants by surrounding seedlings with a circle of wood ash, sawdust, coffee grounds or crushed egg shells. The disadvantage of this method is that the first decent rainfall will wash it away and using the same sort of barrier material each time will begin changing the soil composition. If you are deadly serious about repelling snails, then the answer is copper tape. Copper tape works by giving the snail a small electric shock without actually killing it. Cut short lengths of plastic plumbing pipe and wrap the tape around it.

Of course, if you have the space and the inclination, you could always start a snail farm but remember that in order to eat your enemy, you must feed, purge and cook the snails properly before consuming them.

Gwen's August

Gwen is out early. Dawn washes the eastern sky a blushing pink, the grass is heavy with dew. She is barefoot, a secret pleasure. She doesn't mind the cold, it's worth it to feel the soft grass beneath her toes, inhale the crushed scent as good as a cut lawn in summer. However, pleasure is secondary to this morning's purpose. She is on the hunt. Some strange goings on have been occurring in her backyard over the past few weeks. Despite the fact it is the middle of winter, they are suffering a surge in snails. She can't understand it. One of the joys of a winter snail hunt is how much harder it is to find the culprits. Lifting up one of the black pots she positions around the garden, she counts ten snails. Compared to the warmer months, when a haul of twenty to thirty snails a day is normal, winter is slim pickings, but not this year.

Eric crosses the yard in his felt slippers, carrying a cup of tea.

‘Morning, love,' he says, passing her the tea.

‘Morning, dear.' Gwen wraps her hands around the warm cup. ‘You'll ruin your slippers wearing them out in the wet.'

Eric peers into the bucket. ‘There's a lot of them, isn't there?'

‘Yes and I can't understand it. Where are they all coming from?'

Eric rubs his hands together. ‘It's been a warmish winter. Perhaps they're coming out of hibernation early?'

Gwen counts the snails. ‘Seventeen!' she says, lifting a second pot.

Eric frowns. ‘Are you going to –' He gestures towards the chook pen where the girls are already stirring and poking their heads out of the shed.

‘Have you a better idea?' Gwen says. She fills the bucket with hot water from the laundry tap and upends the snails into it. The snails go from slipping and sliding over each other to curling up into their shells, leaving behind a slake of green and brown mucus. Eric winces.

‘Stop it, Eric. They're snails.'

‘It's cruel.'

‘It's quick and effective. I'm not getting pleasure out of this, believe me,' she trots out, knowing this is not the exact truth.

Eric isn't so sure about it either. They are all God's creatures. When he eats his soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, an image of the snails curling up and squirting out their muck comes at him. He pushes the eggs away and eats his Vegemite toast instead.

Perhaps, he thinks, I'm getting as soft as one of my eggs. He picks up a copy of
Outback + Outdoors
to distract himself from thinking about what contributes to their eggs' strong shells and nutritious yolks. Flipping through the pages, his eyes alight on a feature length article entitled ‘Gastronomic Gastropods'. As he reads, an idea forms in his mind.

Gwen is weeding the lawn when the postie pulls up on his motorbike. Eric is right about it being a mild winter. The front lawn needs its first proper mow and she's noted a nasty patch of bindi-eye sprouting in the bottom corner that needs a handful of lawn sand.

The letterbox contains supermarket catalogues for the forthcoming weekly specials and a real estate flyer offering free housing appraisals, which she tosses straight into the recycling bin. The only way she and Eric will be leaving here is in a box.

She sees His Lordship digging in the garden again, wearing that stupid tea-cosy on his head. A flatbed truck rumbles down the street and stops at number 18. Gwen lingers as the truck backs up the neighbour's drive.

His Lordship wanders over and shakes the driver's hand as he alights. There is some kind of discussion underway. Brandon disappears into his house and returns with the remote control for the garage. As the door swings open, she sees it is empty of cars and the two men begin unloading large sections of prefabricated picket fence which they stack against the garage wall. The sections seem much taller than normal fence height. And more to the point, no further conversation has occurred since the day she and Francesca argued about the crab apples crossing the boundary line.

Another truck pulls up. Along its sides are emblazoned the words ‘De Fencing Contractor'.

The new driver jumps out of his truck and joins the other men. Gwen strains to hear their conversation to no avail. With indignation bubbling inside her, Gwen storms between the crab apples, over the boundary line, and confronts Brandon.

‘Excuse me,' she says, ‘what on earth do you think you're doing?'

His Lordship turns on that electric smile of his, shooting the contractors a look that all but says, ‘Excuse me whilst I deal with the batty old lady from next door.' The two men walk down the drive and light cigarettes.

‘Mrs Hill. I talked to your husband about this. We're building the fence.'

Gwen jabs her finger in the direction of the garage. ‘That fence is enormous.'

Brandon shifts on his heels. ‘It'll step down the slope of the drive. The fence height won't exceed two metres. It'll look really nice.'

Gwen has her own ideas about the aesthetic of cream picket fences paired with the architectural features of a 1960s postmodern brick bungalow but right now that isn't the point. ‘Two metres!' She points at the stack of fencing lining the garage wall. ‘More like three metres. You can't build a three-metre-high fence. It's against council regulations.'

‘Actually we can.' His Lordship's smile dims. ‘The regulations say we can build a fence at any height but you only have to pay half the cost of a standard paling fence.'

‘But we haven't agreed to any fence.'

From the corner of her eye, she sees the fencing contractor unloading his gear and lining it up along the boundary, right next to her crab apples.

‘I discussed this with your husband weeks ago. Didn't he tell you? We have the right to erect a fence between our two properties. It's a safety issue. You can't do anything about it.'

Gwen bristles. ‘Eric would never have agreed to any fence, let alone one three metres high. What exactly are you protecting your children from?'

Brandon smirks and Gwen's hand twitches with the urge to smack the insolence off his face. She grips the roll of catalogues tighter.

Eric comes out of the garage with a confused look on his face. As well he might, Gwen thinks. She certainly cannot believe the arrogance of this young fellow. Eric will soon set him straight.

‘Gwennie,' Eric begins, ignoring Brandon and the obvious tension in the air. ‘I can't find the teabags anywhere. I've looked in all the cupboards.'

Gwen blinks. Teabags? ‘They're where they always are. In the cupboard below the kettle.'

Eric's face lights up at this revelation and he begins walking off.

‘Eric!' Gwen shouts after him. ‘Mr Desmarchelliers says you agreed to them putting up a fence.' She glances at Brandon who still wears that annoying smirk. Eric turns and she waits for him to say His Lordship has made the whole thing up.

‘Did I?' Eric frowns. ‘When was that?' He looks at Brandon with an innocence Gwen cannot tell is real or feigned.

His Lordship is not amused. ‘Last month, Mr Hill. The day I found Silver in your garage handling dangerous tools.'

Gwen glances at Eric. She knows nothing of this. When had Silver been in their garage? ‘Eric?' she says.

Eric's face lights up. ‘Silver? You mean Amber, don't you? She's a frequent visitor.' He leans over to Brandon, sharing a confidence, ‘She likes to play with the dollhouses. I gave her one of my
Vintage Dollhouse
magazines and said I'd make her any one she liked.' He beams at them, pleased at his recollection.

‘Are you sure, Eric,' Gwen says, ‘it's hard to tell them apart.' There's something odd about the way the Desmarchelliers dress the twins identically and with that long blond hair of theirs it's no wonder Eric has trouble telling which one's which. Even she struggles.

‘Don't be silly,' Eric snaps. ‘Why would a little boy want to play with dollhouses?'

His Lordship stares at Eric as if he is a bit soft in the head. Gwen can't blame him, she can't see how dollhouses are central to the issue either.

Brandon says, ‘I don't care which child it is, it's not okay for any of them to be wandering about your garage unsupervised. It's dangerous.'

‘I'm always there, son, there's no need to worry. We've got children too, you know. Safety is paramount in a workshop. Amber knows the rules.' Eric nods as if the argument is done. The kids were always wandering into the workshop. Michael, Jonno, little Luke and Murray, travelling as a pack. But rules were rules. Look, but don't touch.

The fencing contractor is planting stakes up the driveway and stringing orange twine between them – right between her row of crab apples. Gwen stomps over to him. ‘Excuse me, can you stop that?'

The contractor pauses and looks to Brandon. Brandon ambles over. ‘You might want to grab a coffee, mate. Just got to sort out the neighbours.'

Gwen swears she sees him wink, the bloody hide of him.

The contractor looks from one to the other before saying ‘Righto,' and sauntering down to his truck where an eager dog barks in welcome.

The stakes and twine set Gwen's resolve. This fence is not being built, not today anyway, and when Brandon returns she says, ‘Eric, I need you to be clear. Did you agree to a fence being built and did you agree to it being three metres tall?'

Eric shakes his head. ‘No, Gwennie, I agreed to no such thing. Why would I? If we put a fence up, how will Amber come and visit?' Leaving that thought with them, Eric wanders away, mumbling about needing a cuppa.

Gwen's rising vindication flags.

The smirk on His Lordship's face is now a sneer. ‘It seems your husband has had a convenient memory loss.'

She rounds on him. ‘Now you listen to me, young man. Unless you've got something in writing to prove that you and my husband agreed to this fence, you are stopping work right now. That fence is out of all proportion to any function it might perform. Let's be clear that I,
we
, don't want a fence of any size or colour, picket or paling. There's never been a fence here because there's never been a need. Take a look up the street.' She gestures with a sweep of her arm. ‘How many fences do you see?'

‘We are well within our rights to put up a fence, Mrs Hill.'

‘And what about our rights, Mr Desmarchelliers? We moved into this street in 1962. We were the first people here and we've watched every house being built. If people wanted fences they've had fifty years to put them up. There's good reason none have.'

‘Times have changed. People don't like their neighbours knowing their business.'

Gwen blushes. She knows what he's inferring, as if she is not free to enjoy her garden. She knows the Desmarchelliers think she's a snoop. When they first moved in, she'd always sing out hello, acknowledging their presence, being neighbourly. But they barely managed a ‘good morning' before turning their backs on her efforts at civility. When Babs was alive, there was always time for a cheery welcome even when neither had the time to stop and chat. What has the world come to?

Mustering her dignity, she says, ‘I'm sad to hear you feel that way, Mr Desmarchelliers. One day you might wish you had neighbours who looked after your interests. But until that day, I insist you tell your man to stop work immediately. I am going inside to ring the council. Under no circumstances are you to build that fence.'

‘It's Boyd,' he snarls, ‘my name is Brandon Boyd not Brandon Desmarchelliers. That's my wife's name.'

Gwen shoots him a look that she hopes conveys what she thinks of married people who can't agree on a surname and strides up to the garage. She expects to see Eric in there but instead finds him upstairs in the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards. ‘Eric, what are you doing?'

‘Ah, Gwennie,' he says. ‘I'm glad you're here. I can't find the teabags anywhere.'