The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  Diane leads the applause. ‘Children, your singing was delightful, wasn’t it, Mums and Dads?’

  The parents clap louder.

  ‘Now, children, we have a special morning tea today thanks to our parents, so let’s plant these beautiful seedlings and have something yummy to eat.’

  The children crow yes in a chorus far outperforming their singing efforts. Lisbeth and the younger ones are fidgety. One toddler wets her finger and pokes it in her punnet. Gwen pities the poor seedlings.

  ‘Now, let’s see if we can remember our poem for blessing the seeds,’ Diane says, as teachers align the children in a rough circle. ‘Hold our seedlings up to the sun,’ the children raise their punnets, ‘and say after me:

  ‘The dark half of the year has passed,

  ‘The days grow long and the earth grows warmer

  ‘Awakening the spirit of the seeds at last

  ‘To sprout and grow and become stronger

  ‘Today we plant you in the earth

  ‘Please bless us with your season’s wealth.’

  Gwen hates how wealth doesn’t rhyme with earth but the mothers applaud anyway. Brandon is kneeling, filming the children’s recitation in close up.

  Diane gathers the children to her. ‘Now, sit quietly on your bottoms.’ She waits until they settle before saying, ‘Close your eyes; that includes you, Amber. Can you see your plants blooming? Can you see the bright flowers with the bees buzzing around?’ Forty little heads nod. ‘I can see fruit on mine, growing bigger and bigger until it’s juicy enough to eat. Let’s breathe on our seedlings to help them grow.’ Tiny cheeks puff up and exhale as one. Gwen covers her laughter, they are so sweet at this age. ‘Now open your eyes. Bunyips and Bandicoots, please go with Mrs Arnold.’ And as the mothers lay out the morning tea, the children plant their seedlings in the community bed.

  Driving home, Gwen reflects how different it is raising children these days. People expect so much more of and for their offspring, even ones so young. When Jonathon and Diane were small, they ranged the neighbourhood, skipping preschool, unlike many of Diane’s charges who spend their waking hours away from their families. To her mind, women working is a double-edged sword. Other countries pay parents to stay home and raise their children, at least until they are of an age where socialising becomes important. As a mother, she had seen raising her children as a purpose in and of itself. This younger generation expect to have careers and motherhood at the same time, not wanting to lose one identity for another. She understands that desire. After all, she never intended to work but Rohan had mentioned her to Barry Henderson who was starting up a new title, Outback + Outdoors. With the children at school, she thought she’d give it a go. She had never expected the magazine to flourish and her little column to lead to a career. Then there are women like Vanessa who don’t have careers but still have these giant mortgages to service because housing prices are ridiculous. And now the Desmarchelliers have adopted a new model with her working and Brandon raising the kids. But he doesn’t seem happy about it. In fact, if she had to pick a word to describe Brandon, she’d pick resentful.

  She pulls into the driveway and almost hits the letterbox in her surprise. Eric is there, shovel in hand, digging up rather than mowing the lawn. Great mounds of dirt line the pathway. Gwen yanks on the handbrake and leaps from the car, shouting, ‘Eric! Eric! What on earth are you doing?’

  Eric waves, looking as pleased as punch. She scrambles over, awash in dismay, to where he stands. There, carved into her pride and joy, are five neat rectangles.

  ‘See what I’ve done, Gwennie? I’ve solved the problem.’ Eric grins at her. He knew Gwen would be surprised. He loves surprises. There was that time he organised Gwen’s fortieth birthday party. The look on Gwen’s face when they drove up the road and saw the whole neighbourhood partying on their front lawn. Val had a few too many sherbets and decided to mime along to Shirley Bassey’s ‘Hey Big Spender’ whilst stripping down to her bra and undies. It wasn’t a pretty sight even when she was thirty years younger. Keith had buried himself in his schooner. Babs had thought it hysterical, singing out encouragement – she loved a good laugh. He frowns. He has a funny feeling Gwen had been a bit put out about the party. Embarrassed by the show of good will. Goodness knows why, he’s always liked a party.

  Gwen sees that Eric is away with the fairies again. ‘Eric? Are you listening?’

  Eric shakes his head.

  Gwen sighs. At least he’s being honest. ‘I said, I can see you’ve been digging holes in my lawn like some ruddy rabbit but I’m not really seeing what problem you’ve solved.’

  Eric beams. ‘The snail problem, Gwennie. I’ve solved the snail problem.’ He drops his voice a gruff octave and mimics some gangster from a 1940s movie, ‘This way, nobody gets hurt.’

  Gwen doesn’t know what to make of Eric’s behaviour. He is normally such a predictable and sensible person. He was a quantity surveyor, for heaven’s sakes. Shaking her head, she notices rolls of shadecloth and star posts stacked against the garage wall. Eric, who specialises in the microcosm of dollhouses, has expanded way beyond his competency.

  ‘Your column inspired me,’ he says. ‘You’ll no longer have to sneak about in the dead of night and stomp on the little guys. This way they’ll be a productive member of the garden. The lemon trees beget lemons, the chickens beget eggs and the snails,’ here he embraces the lawn with his arms, ‘the snails will beget more snails.’

  ‘More snails?’ Gwen shudders with revulsion. Imagine if Babs were here. What would her response be to Eric’s antics? But for once she is at a loss to know what Babs might think.

  Eric chuckles. ‘Yes, don’t you see? Instead of murdering them, we’ll farm them. Gastronomic gastropods. Just like the French.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gwen rubs her hand over her brow, feeling a little weak. ‘And that lot?’ She points at the shadecloth and star posts.

  Eric claps his hands. ‘For the paddocks. You have to fence them in so they don’t wander off. This one,’ he points to the rectangle running along the top of the other four beds, ‘is for the flowers. It’s called a “good bug bed”.’

  ‘I know what it’s called, Eric, I wrote about it in last month’s issue,’ she snaps.

  ‘Yes, yes of course you do.’ He stomps over to the first rectangle. ‘And this one is the reproduction field. This is where the first batch of snails will go.’

  Dare she ask? Of course she must. ‘Where exactly are you sourcing these snails from, Eric?’

  ‘From our garden.’ He spreads his hands, so pleased at the neat and obvious solution. ‘Now’s the perfect time. They’re coming out of hibernation and ready to breed. Here they can breed in peace.’

  Gwen knows people farm snails, that they are a delicacy in some countries, but eating the same snails she relishes stamping out of existence on a nightly basis in no way stimulates her appetite. ‘And the other paddocks?’

  Eric strides the length of the three other rectangles. ‘They’re the growing fields, Gwennie. Right now it’s crucial to build the fields and plant a fodder crop of leafy greens. In October, we introduce the snails.’

  The scale of Eric’s project astounds Gwen. Not dozens of snails, but hundreds. She shudders at the thought. ‘But what will you do with them once they’re fully grown. You’re not proposing we farm them for people to eat, are you?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll need to set up purging pods but that’s the beauty of snail farming. It’s all in miniature.’ He draws his thumb and finger together to illustrate the point.

  And Gwen sees why the idea delights him so. ‘But, Eric, dear, the lawn.’

  ‘Well yes.’ Eric frowns. He admits that is the only flaw to his plan. When Gwennie planted out that lawn, she was as happy as a fat spider. For months the house had looked like it had been dropped in the middle of a bomb site. Until he tootled off to work one day and came
home to a sea of emerald. But times change. ‘The lawn had to be sacrificed, I’m afraid. That’s the thing.’ From his back pocket he withdraws a well-thumbed paperback. Gwen reads the title, Your Guide to Organic Free-range Snail Farming.

  ‘According to this, we need to build a perimeter fence around the paddocks as the snails have a tendency to escape and it will keep out predators. Did you know that there is such a thing as a predatory snail? It’s called,’ and here he leafs through the book until he finds his place, ‘Strangesta capillacea. Look, here’s a picture of one. The whorl on its shell is flatter and it has a hole for its umbilicus on the underside of its shell.’ He scratches his head. ‘Although, I can’t figure out how you’d be sure unless you picked one up and compared it to a snail you are certain isn’t carnivorous.’

  Gwen struggles to share Eric’s fascination. She’s had a long morning blessing the seedlings at Gumnut Cottage and she isn’t sure she has the energy to deal with Eric’s organic free-range snail farm. She studies her dug-up lawn and the garden stakes waving their strings of orange twine along the driveway and wonders why the gods are conspiring against her.

  Her poor lawn. Although it’s not hers alone, of course. It’s hers and Eric’s. And Eric, who never once interfered with her plans for their garden, who has dug trenches and laid sleepers, erected chicken coops and strung wire for her to espalier her fruit trees, has finally and somewhat bizarrely decided he wants his own patch. As newlyweds, he had braved the lantana that had claimed the backyard. Cutting it back, poisoning it, in desperation trying to dig it out as pregnant Gwen watched on, later tending his scratches and removing the grass ticks that had buried themselves in the soft folds of his skin. Heroic in his refusal to be defeated by the invasion but happy to withdraw and allow Gwen creative freedom. And now this, a belated enthusiastic embrace of the outdoors at the expense of her front lawn, her pride and joy for fifty years.

  She draws a deep breath, hoping to muster a skerrick of magnanimity. ‘Well, you’ve made a start. Let me know if you need a hand.’

  Eric beams and she knows this should be adequate reward. His happiness outweighs a few metres of turf. If only he had consulted her first. Walking off, she realises she’s left the car running. Gwen switches off the ignition, not bothering to move the car up the drive, and checks the letterbox. There, amongst the catalogues, is a single window envelope with a crest in the top corner. She opens it and reads the letter before letting her hand drop to her side. It seems she is to be besieged on all fronts. First Eric with his snail farm and now this. A letter from the NSW Civil and Administrative Tribunal demanding their presence in a week’s time to resolve the fencing dispute with Francesca Desmarchelliers and Brandon Boyd.

  Frankie’s September

  Frankie and Brandon arrive at the tribunal sailing on the winds of good fortune. They are prepared for this meeting, confident the judge will see things their way. The weight of paperwork alone is enough to tip the balance in their favour. Mrs Hill had agreed to mediation, which had the convenience of being held at the local court, but Frankie wasn’t persuaded. Convenience is another word for half-baked. She wants this matter resolved. Expensive picket fencing fills her garage, their cars are parked on the street and four children and two dogs are able to escape with the greatest of ease. One of them is bound to end up hit by a car or the children will find their way down to the creek where they will drown collecting tadpoles. She’s insisted they go straight to the top.

  Bijoux smiles in her buggy. ‘Hello, gorgeous girl,’ Frankie coos, although she wishes they hadn’t brought Bijoux this morning.

  Over breakfast it went back and forth, ‘Can’t your mother have her, Brandon? It’s Thursday, she doesn’t have anything on a Thursday, does she?’

  Brandon, who was wrangling Marigold into a dress with a sticky zipper, only grunted.

  ‘I would ask my mother,’ Frankie sipped her coffee, swallowing the lie along with the brew, ‘but she gets her hair and nails done on Thursdays. It’s been locked in at 11 am since I can remember. You’d swear she was a pensioner.’

  Frankie bit into a slice of five grain wholemeal sourdough topped with cashew butter and wished it were a crumpet dripping with butter and honey. She was having trouble losing the baby fat all these months after Bijoux and had started a Twenty-one Day Green Smoothie Cleanse. Apparently twenty- one days was how long it takes to break a bad habit. She wondered what would happen if she stopped at day twenty. Would she be reaching straight for the Tim Tams?

  ‘I don’t know what they do all day,’ she said, thinking of their mothers again. ‘Neither of them work and yet they are always busy, busy, busy. Every time we ask them to help out, they’ve a fundraising lunch or a tennis match or they’ve promised to read to blind people at the local aged-care facility. They’ve got time to add value to everyone else’s life but ours.’

  Frankie put down her toast and dug at a bit of kale stuck between her molars. Today’s smoothie was Berry Surprising, a blend of kale, coconut water, chia seeds, banana and mixed berries. Despite being the colour of one of Bijoux’s nastier nappies, it tasted fine but it irked Frankie to pay five bucks a litre for the coconut water. It was supposedly full of electrolytes and all sorts of nutritional goodies, which tasted like coconut when you drank it straight from the carton, but by the time you blended it with kale and whatnot, the coconut flavour dis­appeared. She suspected the whole thing was a con.

  ‘How can women who stay home all day have no spare time? It’s like their activities expand to fill the available space, a bit like a handbag,’ she said, digging in hers for the floss.

  Brandon argued with Amber over her desire for rice bubbles and his insistence she have porridge or Weet-Bix. Bijoux wore her porridge in her hair. Silver sat in the corner drawing ferociously with a black texta on a scrap of paper that she knew he would soon offer her and she would thank him and add it to her collection on the corkboard at work. Marigold sat at the fridge door eating strawberries straight from the bowl.

  ‘Goldie, shut the fridge door, sweetie. You’re letting out all the cold air.’ Frankie sighed and nibbled at her toast. It would taste so much better if they put chocolate in it. Chocolate was good for you now. ‘I mean it’s different with you, Brandon. I know what you do all day.’ Each night Frankie wrote Brandon a list for the following day as he seemed to struggle without one. Brandon was in charge of childcare, washing, cooking, taking out the recycling and garbage, the pool, mowing the lawns and any general repairs. Although, for reasons she could not fathom, he drew the line at cleaning, ironing and trips to the chemist to fill her scripts. He said it was demeaning but Frankie knew other people’s wives did it. She suspected it was in retaliation for her sacking the cleaning/ironing lady when they left Annandale. Outside of his day-to-day duties, his current project was the fence. Frankie, being the breadwinner, handled, well, winning bread, paying bills and managing their investments, including their self-managed super scheme. Frankie insisted Brandon had superannuation and insurance. As the primary caregiver, his economic contribution needed to be recognised. They had to be prepared for the awful reality that if something happened to either of them, the million dollar payout would cover the costs of home help and contribute to the children’s education.

  Frankie often thought about what she’d do if something happened to Brandon. Those three months apart last year had been a powerful wake-up call. Finding your husband’s face buried between the naked thighs of a Brazilian barista tended to do that. Three months juggling motherhood and a career made one question the point of it all. To be a stay-at-home mother she needed a reliable income source and Brandon had never been that. To keep her career on track, she needed a reliable wife and Brandon failed at that too. Stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, she had chosen the lesser of two evils. She managed Brandon the way she knew best, with daily task lists and regular reviews of their family goals and objectives. It saved a lot of conflict
but having to maintain a disciplined approach both at work and at home exhausted her.

  The lift doors open and Brandon juggles the buggy out whilst she follows behind. The NSW Civil and Administrative Tribunal is a bland, empty space. There isn’t even a receptionist on the front desk. There are rows of chairs in that cheap scratchy fabric government offices insist upon. Sitting in the middle are Mr and Mrs Hill. Frankie notes they have not dressed for the occasion, albeit Mrs Hill is wearing clean slacks, the sort with an elasticised waist, and a cardigan over her blouse. Mr Hill wears old man pants and a jumper over a shirt with a collar but no tie. This is going to be easy.

  Frankie and Brandon stand in the opposite corner near the water cooler. Brandon fetches her a cup of water. The icy cold hits her stomach, mingling with the Berry Surprising and the nut butter toast. She feels a wave of queasiness.

  A clerk arrives, ushering them into a room that functions as the court. Frankie and Brandon sit on the left-hand side so there is space for Bijoux’s buggy. The Hills sit opposite under a ceiling panel with an ominous brown stain. Whilst they wait for the judge to arrive, Frankie fetches her briefcase from the buggy and pulls out the materials Brandon has assembled for today’s hearing. She smooths and straightens the corners, calm and well prepared. At work, her coolness is legendary. They call her the perfumed steamroller. She likes the nickname, it acknowledges her skills as a negotiator, as a person who gets things done. With her recent promotion to account director for Hush Hush, she is now accountable for Klaussman & Sons, biggest and most profitable brand.

  Top of the pile is a copy of their dividing fences application followed by three quotes from three different contractors, a copy of the survey of the property indicating where the Hills’ trees cross their boundary and, for good measure, a series of photos Frankie had Brandon take of every house in the neighbourhood that had an existing fence. There are no photos of the houses along Green Valley Avenue without front fences, she isn’t stupid. She’s here to win their case, not support the Hills’.