‘Shall I run the kids a bath?’ she says and, without waiting for an answer, escapes the chaos and Brandon, and hides in the bathroom. Pouring Hush Hush Bath Bubblez into streaming water, Frankie sits on the toilet as the bath fills, nauseated by the sickly sweet smell of coconut and mango rising in the steam.
The kids clean and asleep, Frankie lingers in the room Marigold and Bijoux share. She folds the clean clothes Brandon has abandoned on the dresser and puts them in the drawers, straightens the picture books on the shelves and pulls the door closed behind her.
In the kitchen, Brandon chops vegetables. To one side, chicken breasts are marinating and the rice cooker steams. Frankie relaxes for the first time since arriving home. She pours herself another glass of wine, Brandon has a beer within easy reach. The children’s dinner dishes haven’t made it to the dishwasher. She’ll do it later. She’s tired. Finding fault with everything her husband does is pointless. Without nannies and cleaning ladies, and with an eight month old, everything is a juggle and men are no good at multitasking. Men will never be wives.
On the stool next to her is a Brooks Brothers bag. She pulls out a fabulous cashmere sweater. ‘Did you go shopping today?’ she asks, flipping over the tag and gawping at the price. ‘Jesus, Brandy, who’s this for?’
Brandon doesn’t turn but his shoulders tense. ‘It’s for Stu. It’s his birthday next week.’
‘A three-hundred-dollar jumper for your least favourite brother?’ Frankie thinks of the latest credit card bill. With the new fence setting them back four grand, they’d agreed to live a little lean for a couple of months. Frankie doesn’t want to draw down on the mortgage any more than she has to. They, she, can’t afford three hundred dollar jumpers.
‘It’s his fortieth. I had to get him something special.’ Brandon throws the chicken in the wok.
Perhaps the wine is clouding her judgement, Frankie thinks. She has no energy for fighting. Pretending to be happy is draining. She decides to move on. ‘I saw the fencing guy was here.’
‘Mmm,’ is all Brandon says.
‘He said he’d finish cementing in the posts today. Weren’t you supposed to be helping him?’
Not answering is what gives Brandon away. He plates the chicken and sears the onions.
‘It didn’t quite go according to plan,’ he eventually says, finishing his beer and reaching for another.
Frankie notices there are already four empties in the recycling box.
‘What does that mean?’
Brandon opens his fresh beer and pokes at the onions. ‘That Mrs Hill is a real pain in the arse.’
Frankie waits.
In goes the broccoli. ‘She’s called the council to complain about the fence.’
‘What!’
‘Yeah, she denied they agreed to us building it.’
‘But you told me you spoke to her husband about it.’
‘I did but he turned around today and said we’d never had the conversation. Then she started rabbiting on about it being too high.’
The hide of them. Saying yes and then denying it. Finding fault with everything they do. The Hills were the neighbours from hell. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Frankie says. ‘Even at three metres we’ll still be able to see them from the lounge room. I just want it high enough that I can be in the garden without her spying on us.’
Brandon doesn’t mention that the fence needn’t be three metres high to avoid Frankie seeing the neighbours. Frankie is not a tall woman. She is wide hips, large breasted, short. Built to plough through life, unruffled. That’s what he loved, loves, about her. An image of Camilla naked flashes into his mind and he turns back to the stir fry hoping Frankie hasn’t noticed his erection. No, the truth of the matter is that Frankie wants to shut the world out, lock them all away, as if that alone will save them.
‘So what happens now?’ Frankie says.
‘She’s made an appointment for the council to make a site visit. I guess we’ll have to wait and see what they say.’
‘And in the meantime, we have four thousand dollars’ worth of fencing sitting in our garage and our cars are parked on the street for those bloody mynah birds to shit all over.’
Brandon pushes a plate of stir fry across the benchtop and passes Frankie some cutlery. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out as planned, babe.’ He sits opposite, swigging his beer, thinking how nothing he does ever meets Frankie’s approval. Even when she says nothing, she watches him, comes in afterwards to fix whatever he hasn’t done right in the first place. Living with Frankie is like sitting a maths exam every day of every week.
Frankie sighs. ‘I guess it’s not your fault, Brandy. The council will see that we’re not the problem. We’re entitled to build the fence the way we want it and, whatever Mr Hill might say, you gave them a fencing notice. They haven’t a leg to stand on.’
Brandon says nothing.
He eats his stir fry and thinks of Camilla; lithe, passionate, willing Camilla. Frankie is onto her third glass of wine, he is on his sixth beer. When she suggests they have an early night, Brandon is surprised. Frankie rarely instigates sex although she is the first to spout that marriage needs intimacy to grease its wheels. He misses the spontaneity from before they had children. The long Sundays spent in bed. They have a working fireplace in this new house and not once have they made love in front of it. As Brandon runs his hands over Frankie’s milky breasts, he doubts they ever will.
Frankie wakes early. Beside her, Brandon sleeps, his face relaxed without the daily grind hatched across it. She used to spend ages watching him sleep, never believing her luck that such a handsome man would want to be with her, to think her beautiful. Sex has made her feel lighter, despite the wine. They should do this more often. The rising squabble of the children reminds her of one reason they don’t. As Brandon sleeps in, she makes porridge, allowing the twins to watch Sesame Street on their tablets for the sake of peace. Even Marigold’s meltdown over wearing her pink tutu to kindy is not enough to dampen her mood. Leaving for work, she tells herself, it’s okay, our marriage might survive this after all.
It turns out that ‘reasonable’ isn’t in the council representative’s vocabulary. For starters, the man declares, do they not realise they live in a bushfire prone area? It’s against regulations for a fence to be made of treated pine. It will have to be made of hardwood or another fire retardant material such as coated corrugated iron. Frankie feels a headache coming on as soon as Brandon shares this news with her.
‘No! I don’t want a metal fence. We’re not living on Nauru for heaven’s sakes. This is the north shore.’
The council agreed with the Hills that the fence didn’t need to be three metres tall and, on that basis, the standard 1.8 metre fence applied.
‘And did you explain to him that we planned for the fence to be three metres at the garage sloping down to 1.6 metres at the front?’
‘Yes, of course I did.’ Brandon sounds tired.
‘I mean,’ she continues, folding yet another basket of washing Brandon has left on the couch, ‘you put it in the fencing notice. Can they just ignore that, can they? Bloody bureaucrats.’
Brandon rescues Bijoux from putting a button in her mouth that must have fallen off Amber’s overalls. Bijoux frowns until Brandon shoves a rattle at her which she shakes with glee.
Something is not quite right, Frankie thinks, checking the label in the blue corduroys to see if they’re Amber’s or Silver’s. Life would be so much easier if the twins didn’t insist on dressing identically. Brandon has his back to her and is making a fuss removing the button from Bijoux. She puts the folded jeans on Silver’s pile, saying, ‘What did the council say about the fencing notice, Brandy?’
Brandon picks up Bijoux. ‘Are you hungry, Joux-Joux? ’Nana?’ he asks, pointing at the fruit bowl.
‘Brandon?’
He puts Bijoux in her
highchair and peels the banana. Breaking off a piece, he hands it to Bijoux who throws it to the ground, chortling with glee. ‘Well, the thing is,’ he says, pausing to retrieve the banana. Bijoux flings it to the floor again, giggling in delight. ‘Oh you’re a funny girl, Joux-Joux.’ Brandon pulls a silly face at her and retrieves the mushy lump.
Frankie stops folding washing and waits for him to finish his sentence.
Avoiding Frankie’s eye, he says, ‘I never gave the Hills a fencing notice.’
‘What?’
‘The website said if you had a verbal agreement there was no need.’
Frankie’s mouth forms a distressed oh. ‘What do you mean? We’ve got forty metres of picket fencing in the garage. We’re out of pocket four grand. If we haven’t got a fencing notice, I’m not sure we can recoup the Hills’ share of the costs.’
Bijoux, sensing the shift in mood, drops her sippy cup over the edge.
Brandon fetches it, glad to turn away from Frankie’s glare. ‘Well, we can’t build the fence now anyway. We’ll have to send it back to the timber yard.’
The idea of flushing four thousand dollars down the toilet makes her feel sick. That Brandon couldn’t be bothered to complete a fencing notice is inconceivable. She’d told him not to take Mr Hill at his word, to put it in writing. How can he bungle such a straightforward task? ‘They’re not going to take it back. It’s customised,’ she hisses.
Brandon ploughs on, ignoring her rising temper. ‘He said we have to get quotes done by three different contractors and agree between both parties as to which quote is acceptable.’
‘There’s no way the Hills will agree to that,’ Frankie seethes. ‘She’s not the most reasonable person.’
Nor are you, he thinks, as he passes Bijoux more banana. It wouldn’t matter what he did, it would never be good enough for Frankie. Not stupid enough to share these thoughts, he says, ‘The other option is to go straight to mediation. We can explain to them that we already have the fence and we want it built as is.’
Frankie presses her fingers to her temples. ‘No, Brandon, we can’t. The existing fence is not fire retardant. We can’t build it anyway. That plus both parties have to agree on the fence height. We’re stuffed.’
Desperate to regain lost ground, Brandon says, ‘I reckon even if we did get quotes, the Hills will still say no. We need to go straight to mediation. I’m going to ring the Community Justice Centre first thing tomorrow and set up a meeting. That’ll put the wind up them. The Hills don’t strike me as the sort who are used to negotiating an outcome whereas you’re an expert.’
Frankie squints at Brandon, unsure if he means it as a compliment or a criticism. Then she thinks, it’s all right for him, he’s not the one who’ll have to take annual leave. Bijoux decides she’s had enough banana and begins to cry.
‘Give her to me,’ Frankie says, settling herself on the couch amongst the crayons, the colouring books and Silver’s Transformers.
Brandon retreats to the laundry and removes another damp load from the machine. He has no intention of hanging it out but he can’t be around Frankie. Above the machine is the list Frankie pinned there. It’s headed ‘The Ten Commandments of Washing’, Frankie’s pathetic attempt at humour. Underneath are bullet points written in her neat handwriting, starting with ‘ALWAYS separate whites from darks and colours’. The next point is, ‘DO NOT wash towels with clothes’, and so it goes on. His life is dictated by Frankie and her lists, his every action a bullet point. Why can’t he do things the way he wants, not be given instructions like he is some kind of idiot. She doesn’t want to be the stay-at-home mum, fair enough, but he agreed to stay at home to raise the children, not be her wife. He shoves the full basket hard with his foot and it bangs into the door. Eyeing off the metal washer, Brandon resists the urge to kick it so hard it would leave a dent. Instead he puts on a load of whites and, as an afterthought, throws in one of Marigold’s red skivvies.
Frankie jumps at the loud bang in the laundry. ‘What’s Daddy doing now, Joux-Joux?’ she whispers to her sleepy baby. ‘Did Daddy forget to hang the washing out again? Is that what he’s doing? Hanging out the washing in the middle of the night?’
Frankie kisses Bijoux’s feet snug in their onesie. Inhales that scent of baby – part soap flakes, lavender and milk – and hugs her close. ‘Daddy’s not very good at housework, is he, Joux-Joux? Daddy’s not very good at lots of things.’
Bijoux smiles in her sleep and Frankie takes that as a yes.
Outback + Outdoors
September In the Garden with Gwen Hill
For many of us, fencing can be a delicate issue. On the one hand, fences are an effective way of dividing property, defining who owns what. In these modern times, knowing what one has and what one does not is important for many people. After all, houses are expensive and their value can be greatly enhanced by erecting a quality, decorative border.
However, if the thought of a permanent and inflexible fence sends shivers down your spine (I know it does mine) and all you are really after is a little privacy, then there are many options.
Wide spaces between houses are best suited to mass plantings of trees, shrubs and an understory of plants in an attractive informal division that offers privacy.
Narrow spaces require an altogether different solution. A narrow space, perhaps along an existing fence, can be covered with a quick growing plant with a vertical habit. The tricky spaces are those in-between spaces. If you’re lucky enough to be on the sunny side of the fence, consider espaliering fruit trees and enjoy the double benefit of an interesting structural feature as well as, literally, the fruits of your labours.
Tip of the month
This time of year offers an abundance of citrus. Leftover skins are no good for the worm farm or chickens, so here’s a tip perfect for spring. Save the scooped out halves of your grapefruits, lemon and oranges to grow seedlings in. When they are ready to plant out, there’s no need to muck about separating your seedlings, just plant the whole thing, citrus and seedling, and give your young plants a great start in life.
Gwen’s September
The children line up, hands cupped, ready to receive the grapefruit halves containing seedlings. In the background mothers hover, snapping photos on their phones or holding up iPads to preserve their special angel on video. The note sent home to parents stipulated that the children wear bright colours today to mark the Spring Equinox. Diane’s Lisbeth wears a dress covered in sunflowers.
Silver and Amber step forward, dressed in identical designer Hawaiian shirts and hot pink jeans. A little unusual for a boy, Gwen thinks, but these days people have a thing about gender stereotyping and, to be frank, with his long hair, Silver could pass for a girl. Silver cups his hands waiting for his citrus punnet whereupon his sister Amber, eager for hers, knocks her brother hard enough that his punnet crashes to the ground, crushing seedlings and spilling dirt.
‘No,’ he shouts, dropping to his knees and scraping the broken seedlings back into the punnet. His sister sails past him to join the queue. Gwen turns, expecting their father, who has captured the whole scene on video, to help the wailing boy but it is Diane who gathers up Silver and takes him to one side. She wipes away his tears and the dirt from his hands but it is too late for that as Gwen can see the smear of brown on his hot pink jeans. This pleases her. Children, even little boys dressed in pink, aren’t dolls. They are supposed to get dirty. It proves they’re alive and taking an interest. Silver’s tears dry and, given a fresh punnet, he joins his friends. His wavering smile earns him the big thumbs-up from his father.
His expensive digital camera isn’t the only thing making His Lordship stand out. The cluster of mothers have mostly dressed for the occasion in floral frocks, heels and vast hats, which not only comply with Gumnut’s ‘no hat, no play’ policy but add a festive air to the ceremony. It’s almost as if this were a day at the races.
But Brandon stands off to one side, only joining in when a mother asks him a direct question. Those who do engage him, gush the same old tripe about how lovely it is to see a father here. Gwen hears a new mother, assuming he has taken the day off work, ask ‘Is your wife sick?’ confirming that, even she, a grandmother, is less conspicuous here than a man, the children’s father.
Diane claps her hands in the distinctive rhythm that draws the children’s attention. She arches her eyebrows, widens her eyes and mouth in exaggerated silent shapes, one, two and three. For the briefest of moments, the children and parents are joined in silence, although Gwen detects an electronic whir in the background, before forty reedy off-tune voices launch into Cat Stevens’s song, ‘Morning Has Broken’.
Gwen remembers her kids singing this at Sunday school, way back when people went to church on a Sunday, not so much as an act of faith but because they always had. For years, Gwen baked a cake to take on Sundays. Babs, who hated baking, tended to bring a tray of exotic pastries from her favourite bakery in Haberfield. Val preferred the convenience of Sara Lee. After the service, all the ladies went downstairs to the room under the church that served as the Sunday school, setting out the chairs and laying out the orange cordial and cake for the kids. If it were a nice day, the parents drank tea and ate their cake on the lawn, behaving like the adults they hoped their children would someday become.
Gwen winces as the Gumnut children reach that particularly difficult patch in the song with the high notes. Even though they have a natural advantage with their high-pitched voices, the sound is cracked and thin. The parents don’t care, recording every precious moment for future twenty-first birthday parties.
Of course, as the years went by, the adults often didn’t hang around for Sunday school. As soon as the chairs were lined up and the table laid, Gwen slipped around the corner where Eric waited in the car, engine running, and they’d nip home for a little parental privacy, shooting back to Sunday school in time to pick up Diane and Jonathon. The memory glows warm in her chest.
The Fence Page 9