The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  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 Lo
rdship 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.’

  Frankie’s August

  Frankie parks her car on the street. She sees that the fencing contractor has been here today. The bushes along the front have been replaced with posts cemented into place. In a day or two, she thinks with deep satisfaction, their yard will be framed by a picket fence and secured against the outside world. Her pleasure abates somewhat as she walks up the drive and sees how the boundary fence between them and the Hills consists of a few garden stakes with orange string. The fencer promised the job would only take a couple of days. That was the supposed advantage of ordering prefabricated sections. Once the posts were in, it was whack whack with the nail gun, he said, and they would have their fence. She can’t wait. She is sick of seeing Mrs Hill snooping around the front yard every time she steps out the door. It’s like living next door to the Kravitzes.

  She laughs, remembering how she used to sneak into the family room after school with a packet of Tim Tams and watch TV. Not when her mother was home, of course, as TV was forbidden on weeknights. Frankie and Martin’s job was to supervise their sisters’ homework and it was Frankie’s job to prep dinner. But if her mother had an appointment, Frankie and Martin would sit the girls down at the kitchen table, tell them to do their homework under threat of death and sneak into the family room to watch Bewitched.

  Mrs Kravitz was always leaning over the fence hoping to catch Samantha performing magic and she’d yell ‘Abner!’ to her husband to show him what the witch next door was up to. Of course, by the time Abner Kravitz got there, nothing would be happening but that never stopped Mrs Kravitz trying to catch Samantha in the act.

  Just like Gwen Hill, observing their every move. It’s like living next door to her mother. Frankie shudders. Sometimes though, she thinks, fitting her key in the front door, it would be so nice to come home, grab a packet of Tim Tams and just veg out in front of the TV for an hour or so. She’s kidding herself. Martin and she were lucky if they got through the half hour of Bewitched before Georgette or Anabel came in wanting a Tim Tam or help with their homework. That, or Noelle’s Jaguar would purr into the driveway and it would be all systems go, switching off the TV, grabbing a couple of onions out of the basket and chopping like mad whilst Martin sat at the kitchen table and made the girls recite their two times table or practise their spelling words. Anything so that by the time Noelle walked through the door, her offspring were as she expected to find them and she would have no excuse to bite their heads off. When their father got home their mother was as smooth as silk but those hours between school and his arrival were spent making sure that his children were bathed, fed and ready for bed. Her mother knew which side her bread was buttered on.

  Frankie opens her own front door and feels her good mood evaporate. Amber and Silver are still in their kindy clothes colouring in on the floor. An ad for a Grow Up Daisy doll blares from the TV. Feed her a bottle and she wees. Press her bellybutton to make her cry, gurgle or say mama. She comes with nappies and baby clothes and her own pink stroller. The ad flashes bright images of little girls nursing their Grow Up Daisy, their dumb smiles spread across the screen. Silver and Marigold are transfixed by the ad and whine when Frankie switches the channel to ABC2.

  On the kitchen bench is a packet of Weet-Bix and spilled milk from an open bottle. She smells Bijoux. Whatever is hiding in her prototype Hush Hush Eco nappy smells peculiarly like off seafood. What on earth did Brandon feed her for lunch? Furthermore, Weet-Bix has congealed into cement on her highchair table, already decorated with blackening lumps of mashed banana.

  Brandon walks into this disaster zone zipping his fly. ‘Hi, babe, how was your day?’ He kisses her cheek.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, dropping her briefcase to the floor.

  Brandon cocks his head. ‘You look like you need a glass of wine to me.’ He grins and chucks the briefcase onto the couch littered with the pieces of a jigsaw, blocks of Duplo and what appears to be the children’s entire soft toy collection having a tea party.

  Ten
sion draws taut across Frankie’s brow. She takes a deep breath. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  Brandon shrugs, putting the milk back in the fridge. ‘I haven’t decided yet. The kids are having sausages.’

  Frankie looks at the clock on the microwave. It’s almost six thirty. The kids haven’t been fed, they clearly haven’t had their baths and the house is a disaster zone. ‘It’s getting late. If Goldie doesn’t eat soon, she’ll melt.’ Let alone me, she thinks. She can’t remember having lunch.

  Brandon grins and shrugs. Oh how that smile used to make her flush with pleasure. The smile that says, you are the centre of my universe, no one else exists. Ten years ago, she’d walked into a London bistro with her friend Chantelle who had pointed out the cute guy working the bar. He’d flashed that smile at her but she’d been too shy to speak to him. It wasn’t until a year later when she was back in Sydney that she saw him playing piano on the mezzanine level of the local mall. He was serenading an old lady who tapped along to the tune on the top of the grand piano with a jewel-encrusted hand, her eyes alight with joy. Brandon had looked up at Frankie and smiled that smile. When the song finished, and after the old lady insisted on slipping Brandon a five-dollar note, they’d gone for coffee. And that was that. But after ten years together, she knows what that smile really means. It means if I blind you with my smile you’ll forgive me my indiscretions.

  ‘She’s had Weet-Bix for afternoon tea, she’ll be fine,’ he says, handing her a glass of wine.

  Frankie takes a large gulp. ‘Take him back, put the incident with the barista behind you for the sake of your marriage and your children,’ said her mother. But the image of her husband’s head between that girl’s thighs will not let her go. Before no-fault divorce, how did women cope? How do you step through each day as if it is safe, knowing in the land beneath your feet lay mines, the debris of trust scattered about you? She has chosen this path but she questions everything Brandon says and does, knowing it undermines her efforts to keep her family together. Moving to the leafy north shore is supposed to be Brandon’s punishment, but somehow it feels as if it is hers too.