The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘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.

  Bijou
x 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.’

  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

  August 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.