The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  The judge is a woman, stout and apple-cheeked, dressed in a cheap navy suit that swishes when she walks. She climbs the two steps that separate her from the floor and sits at a high desk whose contents are hidden by a wooden rail. She peruses a copy of their paperwork in silence. Bijoux gurgles and Frankie stuffs in the dummy more securely. The Hills, she notices, sit with their hands in their laps. They have no paperwork but for a pocket notebook and a cheap biro.

  ‘Who is the complainant in this matter?’ the stout woman barks.

  ‘We are, Your Honour,’ Frankie responds confidently.

  ‘I am not Your Honour. This is not a court of law. Who is speaking on your behalf?’

  ‘I am Your … ma’am. I’m the majority stakeholder in the property.’ Frankie matches the assertiveness of the stout woman.

  The woman frowns at Frankie. ‘But both parties, you and Mr Brandon Boyd, are tenants in common for 18 Green Valley Avenue, is that correct?’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s just that . . .’

  ‘Fine. Why are you here today?’

  ‘Well, Your … ma’am, we were in the process of erecting a fence between the Hills’ property and ours when the Hills objected. We had to stop work until the matter is resolved.’

  ‘And what is the nature of your objection?’ The stout lady turns to the Hills. Her tone remains suspicious. ‘Who’s speaking on your behalf?’

  Gwen Hill clears her throat. ‘I am, ma’am. We have two objections. One, that there is no pre-existing fence and nor has there ever been in the fifty-four years we have lived at 20 Green Valley Avenue. And two, that in order to build this fence, the new owners wish to knock down a row of trees that were agreed to by the previous owners as a decorative and informal division between the properties.’

  ‘Neither of those are good enough reasons not to build a fence now.’ The stout lady softens her tone. ‘Have you any other reasons?’

  Frankie sees Mrs Hill’s hands shaking as she opens her pocket notebook.

  ‘Well, the Desmarchelliers started putting up the fence without consulting us first and it’s enormous.’

  Frankie rolls her eyes at Brandon, who smirks in reply. Looking up, she realises the stout adjudicator has seen this and Frankie blushes.

  ‘What height is the fence you are proposing, Mrs Desmarchelliers?’

  Frankie pretends to read her notes, hoping her blush is fading. ‘It slopes down from three metres, Your Honour.’

  ‘That’s a non-standard height. Did you issue a fencing notice to Mr and Mrs Hill?’

  Brandon stares at his lap. Frankie swallows, saying, ‘No, ma’am.’

  The stout woman glares at her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we wanted a particular kind of fence. It’s custom built. We never intended for the Hills to pay more than half the cost of a standard paling fence.’

  ‘You did not consult with your neighbours. Is that correct?’

  ‘No, that’s not true. My husband spoke to Mr Hill on our behalf and received verbal agreement to build the fence.’

  ‘Is that correct, Mrs Hill?’ the stout woman asks.

  ‘No, it is not.’ Gwen straightens, flattening her nervous hands on the table. ‘As the Desmarchelliers know, Eric has no recollection of any such discussion. He never mentioned it to me and the first I knew of their intentions was when I came home to find a fencing contractor putting stakes in our lawn.’

  The adjudicator frowns at the paperwork, shuffling the pages. Frankie glares at the audacious Gwen Hill, all but calling them liars. Why would Brandon have said he’d spoken to Eric Hill if he hadn’t? If only he had done as she had told him and backed up the verbal agreement with a fencing notice instead of being too lazy to complete the necessary paperwork, or whatever the website had said.

  ‘Mrs Desmarchelliers,’ the adjudicator interrupts her thoughts. ‘I note there has also been no attempt at mediation on this matter. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We didn’t see the point, Your Honour. We need a quick resolution as we have five thousand dollars’ worth of fencing stacked in our garage, which means we have to park our cars on the street putting our four young children’s safety at significant risk.’

  ‘But we live in a cul-de-sac,’ Eric whispers to Gwen, loudly enough for Frankie and the adjudicator to hear. Gwen presses a finger to her lips, urging him to be quiet.

  ‘Be that as it may, Mrs Desmarchelliers, this tribunal requires that both parties attempt to find a mutually agreeable solution on their own. You are neighbours and that would indicate that you have to live next door to each other for the foreseeable future and thus conflict is not acceptable for either party. Am I correct in that assumption?’

  ‘Well yes, Your Honour, it’s just that –’

  Bijoux, perhaps sensing the rising tension in the room, begins whimpering and thrashing about. The adjudicator throws a despairing look at the buggy.

  ‘Mrs Desmarchelliers, it states quite clearly on the website and in our printed materials that you are not to bring children to the hearing. For their own sakes as much as everyone else’s.’

  Frankie’s cheeks grow hot. She’s a school girl again, called to account by the headmistress.

  The adjudicator continues. ‘Please remove yourselves to the reception area whilst I make arrangements for you to see a mediator. Once you have found a mutually agreeable solution, you can return here and I will make the fencing order. Is that clear?’

  Gwen and Eric Hill smile at the stout woman. As well they might, Frankie thinks. This is what they wanted all along. Nothing could be more tedious than sitting in a room with these people and some fluffy old duck mediating whilst they go round and round in circles because their obstinate neighbours do not want a fence. People, who just because they have lived in a neighbourhood for half a century, do not want change and refuse to see another person’s point of view.

  Some hours later, after Frankie has made a frantic phone call begging her mother to pick up the kids from kindy, Frankie, Brandon and the Hills leave the building. Each has a copy of the adjudicator’s legally binding fencing order instructing them to build a fence, no higher than 1.8 metres along its entire length, in hardwood.

  Furious, Frankie ignores Brandon all the way home. Worse, she has to endure her mother’s snide comments about the state of their house. The TV is off, the children sit at the dining table eating dinner whilst Noelle folds washing into neat squares. Her mother’s way of reminding Frankie that she is a failure. Brandon ignores the criticism, pouring his mother-in-law a glass of wine as he tells her how lovely her hair looks. Frankie endures her mother flirting with Brandon until Noelle realises the time and rushes out the door to be home before Frankie’s father.

  Outback + Outdoors

  October In the Garden with Gwen Hill

  In many ways, gardening is a lot like raising children. It’s as much about nurture as it is about knowing when to apply tough love. And the family of plants that respond best to this kind of parenting are the nightshades or Solanaceae – your tomatoes, eggplants, capsicums and potatoes.

  October is the month we celebrate Halloween, so it seems appropriate that this is the month to frighten your tomato seedlings into producing a luscious crop for the coming summer. The trick is to starve them and give them only enough water to keep them alive. It might seem cruel but this forces them to flower. Once they are flower­ing and beginning to fruit, you must change tactics and keep them well fed. Think compost tea. Don’t let them dry out as this can lead to blossom-end rot and then all your tough love will come to nought.

  It’s an almost Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde relationship when it comes to your nightshades but the rewards are a bountiful crop well worth a little bit of nastiness.

  Tip of the month

  One of my pet hates is white cabbage butte
rflies. They attack not just cabbages, as the name implies, but also your broccoli, brussels sprouts, celery, beetroot, rocket and watercress. The pesky butterflies lay eggs that turn into bright green caterpillars. These little buggers chomp great big holes in the outer leaves, working their way in to the heart of the plant. You can pick them off or spray them with Dipel but if you are reluctant to spray (and your chooks aren’t on top of the problem) why don’t you try making your own butterflies?

  Cut out butterfly shapes from white plastic containers, making sure they are around the same size as the real ones. Attach them to a stick and plunge them into various spots where you want to deter the culprits. Cabbage butterflies are territorial so seeing others already in their patch will send them on their way. Not so much a scarecrow but a scare-butterfly!

  Gwen’s October

  From the kitchen, Gwen watches Eric poke around the back garden with her snail bucket. Crouching amongst the garden beds, he lifts up the black pots she uses to collect snails, holds each snail up to the watery dawn light, assessing it, as if it is a precious gem, before placing it gently into the bucket.

  The kettle whistles and she fills the teapot. If you had asked her fifty years ago whether she would be married to a man who farmed snails, she would have laughed. But there is a lot about Eric that troubles her these days. The forgetfulness is one thing, but the old Eric would never have indulged in anything as crazy as snail farming. And there is that whole business about the fencing notice. The neighbours, she knows, consider him a doddering old fool. They said as much at the mediation.

  Gwen sighs. The mediation had been a dreadful experience. After two hours, the court-appointed mediator had said they were free to suspend the session and reschedule but the Desmarchelliers were adamant they wanted the matter decided.

  ‘We recognise,’ Gwen told the mediator at the start, ‘that we don’t have a choice about the fence. Having said that, I don’t see why that means we have to demolish a row of established trees nor why the fence needs to be so tall.’

  That was all the ammunition Francesca needed to launch her attack. The mediator’s request that they avoid inflammatory language, apportioning blame or casting judgement was ignored.

  ‘The trees Mrs Hill speaks of are on our property. A fence cannot be built along the boundary without destroying the trees. Mrs Hill will either have to accept that or move her precious trees wholly within her own property.’

  ‘That’s not the only solution,’ Gwen cried. ‘If we squared the fence around each tree, it could be quite an attractive feature.’

  Francesca had glared at her. ‘And who’s going to pay for that? You can’t seriously expect us to add hundreds of dollars to the cost just to accommodate a few trees.’

  ‘I remember when we planted those,’ Eric leaned over and said to Gwen. ‘Rohan and I had to dig the holes in that awful clayey muck. It was a hell of a job.’ He chuckled. ‘And then you and I borrowed Dad’s ute and we went out to that tree nursery at Dural and bought every single crab apple they had. The nursery man couldn’t believe his luck.’

  Gwen shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She remembered. As much as she remembered how her knees ached after hours bedding the trees in, all ten of them, staking the trunks so they grew straight and giving them a good watering to get them started. How it took years of careful clipping and pruning to get the lollipop shape into a thick tight ball. The thought of ripping them out made her want to weep.

  She cleared her throat. ‘The trees are as much a feature of your property as they are of ours. People stop to comment when they walk past.’

  His Lordship had smirked at that. She knew she sounded senile, but the trees were all that was left of Babs now the Desmarchelliers had finished destroying the front garden. Why did these young people not care about preserving the past?

  The mediator moved the conversation around to the issue of height. Francesca went on and on about protecting her children, the risk of them getting run over.

  Becoming agitated by all the tension, Eric began humming under his breath.

  The mediator shot him a kindly look but one still intended to convey the inappropriateness of humming. Eric didn’t notice.

  ‘This dispute has already cost us over five thousand dollars with the fence we wanted to erect now lying useless in our garage,’ Francesca said.

  Five thousand dollars? Gwen was sure that when this whole palaver started, the cost had been four thousand dollars. It was getting more expensive by the hour. ‘The council regulations say we only have to agree to a 1.8-metre-high fence,’ she said.

  ‘But we are entitled to a higher fence,’ countered Francesca.

  ‘Does the fence block light into your property, Mrs Hill?’ suggested the mediator.

  ‘No, we’re on the sunny side.’

  ‘So you can’t possibly object then.’ Francesca crossed her arms in smug victory.

  ‘I won’t agree to anything higher,’ Gwen retaliated.

  Eric’s humming grew louder, loud enough for Gwen to recognise the tune. Oh dear, she thought, she hoped the others didn’t recognise the song. But she could see the mediator did.

  ‘Well, we don’t want a 1.8 metre fence so I guess we have a stalemate,’ Francesca raised her voice over Eric’s humming.

  Gwen burst out, ‘Why do you want to lock your children away? They’ll come to no harm at our place.’ Was it right to be hurt that this woman saw them as a threat? Were they really such awful people?

  Francesca stared at Eric who had begun mumbling a few of the words to the song, trying to remember how it went. Turning to Gwen, she said, ‘We moved to Rosedale, Mrs Hill, because we wanted space and privacy. Little did we realise when we bought our home that we would have a neighbour who was constantly in the yard spying on everything we do. Only last week, I caught her snooping in our yard,’ she said to the mediator.

  Gwen blushed. She hadn’t been snooping, she had been scattering blood and bone around the rondeletia under the front bedroom windows and around the crab apples. There was only a couple of handfuls left in the bag so she sprinkled it around the base of the Desmarchelliers’ newly planted lemon tree. When she straightened up, she saw Francesca glaring at her from her lounge room window. Realising her mistake, she had scurried home. It hadn’t been intentional. ‘It was years of habit, not spying,’ she said.

  The baby stirred and tried pulling herself upright on the struts of the pram, squealing with indignation when she realised she was strapped in. ‘Ma, ma-ma,’ she shouted, throwing the dummy over the side of the pram.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, here I am,’ Francesca crooned, picking her up. Her mother’s embrace failed to quell the baby. Gwen could tell the poor child was hungry. ‘Shush, shush,’ Francesca said, rocking the child in her arms. The baby wailed even harder.

  ‘Do you want me to take her?’ Brandon stretched out his arms.

  Francesca clutched the baby tighter. ‘I can manage. She’s just hungry. Get the travel bag out of the pram.’ She began bouncing the child.

  The mediator looked at her watch. ‘Would you like to take a five-minute comfort break, Mrs Desmarchelliers?’ she offered.

  ‘No, we’re fine. She’ll settle in a minute.’ Francesca passed the baby a rusk, which Bijoux threw on the table, screwing her pretty little face up in anger. It was apparent to all she was about to blow.

  Eric leaned towards the child, humming his tune, pulling silly faces to urge her out of her mood.

  Francesca snatched the baby away from him, gesturing at her husband for something in the nappy bag. Unhappy at this, Bijoux began to scream.

  Gwen hadn’t known where to look but then Eric grabbed her thigh, his face filled with delight. She knew why. He had finally remembered the lyrics. In a loud voice, doing his best Bing Crosby impression, he sang the words to his all-time favourite Cole Porter song, ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. Except instead of sta
nding under starry skies, he stood in that tiny airless room, crooning to the baby.

  The baby stopped mid howl, her mouth forming an oh of delight. Just as Jonathon and Diane had when they were a similar age and Eric sang them that song. Bijoux might have been impressed by Eric’s ability to carry a tune but her parents most definitely were not. Their ohs of surprise were more of the outraged kind. The mediator pretended to cough into a neat square handkerchief but Gwen saw, they all saw, she was trying not to laugh.

  Now, Eric comes in with his bucket, placing it in the kitchen sink. ‘Is that a pot of tea I spy brewing, Gwennie?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, dear.’ Gwen pours him a mug.

  Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a small piece of timber. It has a block of wood glued to each end. Eric picks a snail out of his bucket and fits it in the gap between the blocks.

  ‘Ah, too small,’ he says, putting the snail in the second sink before picking up another which tucks itself into its shell. ‘Oh, too big.’ He smiles. ‘That’s a good one,’ and he places it on the draining board.

  One snail after another, Eric divides them between the draining board and the sink, depending on size. Some snails peek out of their shells and begin slithering over the draining board, intent on making good their escape. Gwen retrieves a plastic ice-cream container she’s been saving to make scare-­butterflies and corrals the escapees.

  Eric hums as he works and when he has emptied his bucket, he makes his final count. ‘Thirty-six,’ he declares.

  ‘And is that enough?’ Gwen peers at the creatures gliding over each other in the tight space.

  Eric grins. ‘It’s a good start.’ He drinks the dregs of his cold tea. ‘Shall we introduce them to their new home?’