The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  Brandon blanches. He hates teaching. The promised twelve weeks holiday a year is an illusion. He hates the politics, the over-invested parents, the number of children with ADD or who might die at any moment from anaphylaxis. Frankie’s the one who loves her career, he couldn’t give a stuff if he never worked another day in his life. He loves hanging out with the kids, going to the beach, making stuff out of junk, teaching Silver guitar. Their life would be cruisy if they didn’t have to toe Frankie’s line. With no money of his own and no palatable way to earn it, Brandon is beholden to his wife. And she knows it. He has made a devil of a deal.

  But Brandon’s had plenty of practice at playing this game. The next day he detours via the hardware store and picks up sample pots. When Frankie arrives home from work, there are patches of paint on the bathroom wall.

  She studies them, wondering how Brandon had time to paint three blotches on the bathroom wall but not pick up the wet towels abandoned on the floor and throw them in the machine.

  She’d say something about it but there is this incessant fencing issue. Brandon’s complete mismanagement means they face ending up with a horrible paling fence that is not, as far as she’s concerned, fit for the purpose. Stacking the children’s dinner plates in the dishwasher she announces, ‘I’ve been thinking about this whole fence issue. I think we should call their bluff.’

  Brandon is not as stupid as Frankie thinks he is. He can tell she is spoiling for another fight. She’s the reason he drinks so much beer. ‘How?’

  Frankie grabs the packet of disposable antibacterial kitchen wipes and rubs hard at the benchtop. ‘As soon as we get their quotes, write them a letter. Say we don’t think the quotes are genuine and that we are going back to court to have the fencing orders changed.’

  Brandon plays with his beer bottle. Frankie never gives up. Victory over the Hills is not enough because she hasn’t got her own way. Yeah, the fence isn’t perfect but it’s fit for purpose. And she doesn’t have to deal with the Hills every day. Whingeing about the state of their bins, asking him to clean up the dog poop – and their daughter. Diane Slaughter must know they’re in dispute and by the way Val McIntyre sniffs whenever she sees him, her allegiances are clear. He smiles through it all and then has to put up with Frankie riding his arse over every tiny detail. Something has to give.

  Frankie watches Brandon staring at his beer, refusing to answer. A glance at the kitchen clock shows it is only eight o’clock. She is surprised, it feels so much later. If she stays here in the kitchen, something will give. She says, ‘I’ve had a really hard day, I’m going to bed.’

  Brandon looks up. ‘But I haven’t made dinner yet.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, deflated by the thought that, with Brandon in charge, dinner is at least an hour away.

  As she cleans her teeth, Frankie catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her skin is breaking out around her jaw. There’s another crop of pimples threatening to break through on her forehead. Great, she thinks, all this stress is catching up with me. She stops brushing. The constant visits to the toilet, the queasiness, the exhaustion. Frankie leans on the basin. She tries to remember when her next injection is due and can’t. The possibilities are awful. They’ve had sex, what? Once maybe twice since they moved here. In her bedside drawer is a spare testing kit left over from when she was pregnant with Bijoux. Frankie wonders if it is still viable.

  She takes the test, resting the plastic stick on the vanity basin and waits.

  If she is pregnant, then she can’t be more than six to eight weeks along. There are still options. Five children. Frankie does the maths. Bijoux will be sixteen months old. Just when they thought they’d be in the clear with the twins starting school next year and Marigold increasing kindy to three days a week. Frankie rests her head on her arms. She can’t afford time off work, not with the rollout of the Hush Hush Eco range. Four children are exhausting, five would be a nightmare. Frankie knows. She is the eldest of six.

  ‘You could terminate it,’ says a quiet voice in her ear. ‘No, I can’t.’ Because that’s the truth. Terminating a pregnancy would be easier without four examples of who they might turn into. It would be like killing one of them. The stick displays two pink lines. Oh my God, she thinks, resting her head against the cool glass of the mirror. What have we done. And then it dawns on Frankie that she is about to turn into the one person on the planet she never wanted to be. Jerking away from the mirror, she stares at her reflection. She is turning into her mother.

  Outback + Outdoors

  November In the Garden with Gwen Hill

  A stroll down your street will soon show you that most people are clueless when it comes to the proper way to water the garden. The art of watering is as much about preserving a precious resource as it is about ensuring your plants are getting enough to do them good.

  From now right through summer, your plants are desperate for water. If soil dries out it becomes water repellent but there are ways to avoid this annoying and difficult-to-fix situation. Use a perforated hose on your vegetable garden but steer clear of drip irrigation, which is best used on the ornamentals where it will go straight to the roots, leaving the foliage dry and less prone to developing fungal conditions.

  Unless you are prepared to stand in one spot for inordinate amounts of time, watering by hand is useless. The rule of thumb when watering is occasionally but deeply, rather than often and lightly.

  Tip of the month

  I’m always on the lookout for natural ways to control pests. So when I stumbled across this strange piece of research about the annoying aphid, I just had to share it.

  Researchers at the University of Haifa in Israel have found the most unexpected way to control the prolific aphid. Breathe on them. Yes, that’s right. The breath of mammals causes aphids to drop off plants en masse to avoid being accidentally eaten by a passing herbivore. The researchers used this technique to collect aphids for experiments they were conducting. So next time your rosebushes are thick with aphids, just remember what Slim said to Steve in the film To Have and Have Not, ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together – and blow.’

  Gwen’s November

  ‘There’s something wrong with the mulberry tree,’ Gwen says to no one in particular as Eric is out the front watering his snails.

  ‘You don’t need to water snails, Eric,’ she’d told him. ‘I’m sure it’s entirely possible for snails to get footrot from over watering.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Gwennie. I can tell they like a shower, they wave their tentacles about.’ And off he’d gone, humming to himself, to water his snail paddocks.

  At least he had allowed her to lay perforated hose amongst the three new growing beds. This was not the time of year to waste water. Now she had another problem – the mulberry tree.

  Being November, it should be covered in foliage, the fruit ripe and dropping. In years past, she made jam or froze the fruit but since the kids left home she is less bothered. The chickens enjoy the seasonal feast and Diane takes bags of leaves into kindy for their annual silkworm project as part of the science stream, although they call it Knowing Nature.

  But this year, whole branches of the tree are dying off. She’d noticed it last month and treated it with a fungicide, which did nothing to stop the leaves blackening on that one side and now whole branches are withering. She’ll have to remove them but as to why, the question remains. Researching common causes of mulberry dieback is no help. If it were rot, there’d be fungi growing on the tree trunk and the whole tree would have to go but the damage is only on one side.

  Contemplating the problem, Gwen stares out the lounge room window where she sees His Lordship hand-watering the row of blueberry bushes they’ve planted along the front fence line. ‘They’ll never get enough sun there,’ she says aloud. ‘Hand-watering is a waste of time, you fool,’ and then she realises that Eric
is happily hand-watering the snail paddocks. Backs turned, each man studiously ignores the other. Although Eric lives in a world of his own these days. The other day he forgot his dentist appointment, even though it was written in red capitals on the kitchen calendar. Last week she’d caught him with a bowl of cereal at lunchtime and when she asked him why he was eating cereal for lunch he’d laughed at her, saying, ‘It’s not lunchtime, Gwennie, I’m having my breakfast.’ So astonished was she that she’d checked the kitchen clock, which definitely said five past twelve. All this conflict with the neighbours has put Eric at odds with himself. Eric never has dealt with stress well.

  But His Lordship is a real smart alec. Gwen had put copies of Luke’s quote and one other in their letterbox last week and yesterday she’d received the rudest reply. Reading it had made her shake with anger. It said:

  4 November

  Dear Mr and Mrs Hill,

  WITHOUT PREJUDICE

  Thank you for the copies of the quotes you obtained for building a fence between our two properties. Francesca and I have discussed your quotes and must inform you that, for obvious reasons, we are deeply unhappy with them both.

  In light of our difficulties, please confirm in writing that you are happy to go with one of our three quotes, all of which have been obtained from reputable contractors who are experts at erecting fences.

  Failure to receive written confirmation by 7 November will mean we assume you are unwilling to progress and will immediately seek an urgent hearing of the matter in court.

  It is in both parties’ best interests that we receive a quick and finite resolution to a matter that has dragged on for far too long. We write in faith that you will put an end to this vexatious fencing dispute.

  Yours sincerely,

  Brandon Boyd

  There is nothing ‘without prejudice’ about it as far as Gwen’s concerned. Val’s Luke is a practising fencing contractor and has provided a legitimate quote. It’s cheaper than the other quotes because Luke said he can source the materials at a better price than his competitors. Without saying as much, His Lordship’s inferred their quotes are dodgy. She’s known Luke since he was born. He played under the sprinkler in their front yard, rode his BMX up and over the ramp Eric made for the boys, as if he is going to charge her full freight after all these years.

  If anyone’s being vexatious, it’s the Desmarchelliers. She’d bet London to a brick, His Lordship is behind her dying mulberry tree. From her research, she is certain the reason those branches hanging over the back fence are suffering dieback is not a result of disease or infestation. It’s glyphosate. His Lordship sprays weedkiller around like nobody’s business. His front yard reminds her of the footage of the Americans bombing the Vietnam jungle with Agent Orange. The Desmarchelliers have sold the camellias, the daphne, the agapanthus and the clivias but what remains he blitzes with poison. The fool doesn’t even wear a mask or long sleeves to protect himself, letting the kids run around whilst he’s poisoning nature. Gwen and Eric are forced inside when he is on the rampage. The Desmarchelliers are eco-terrorists.

  Eric stomps up the stairs. ‘I found four pairs mating, Gwennie. Four!’ he says, helping himself to the biscuit jar. ‘It won’t be long before we’ll have hatchlings and a new crop of snails.’

  Gwen takes some lamb chops out of the freezer for tea. She can’t fathom Eric’s enthusiasm. She misses hunting down the snails by torchlight and ending their existence. There are slugs for the chickens but, without a diet of snails, the girls are making short work of those. She has a demand and supply issue. Will Eric notice if she sneaks some snails out for the chooks?

  ‘I’m going up to the hardware store, do you want anything whilst I’m out?’ Eric says, fetching his keys from the hook near the back door.

  ‘What are you getting?’ she asks.

  ‘I need some more shadecloth. The three new beds have to be fenced before I can move the hatchlings. I don’t want to be caught on the hop.’ He pecks her cheek. ‘I’ll see you in about an hour.’

  The time, as Gwen would later tell the police, was around 11.30. After Eric leaves, Gwen takes bread out of the freezer for sandwiches then returns to examine her ailing mulberry. There is nothing else for it but to remove the affected branches and hope the tree survives. When Babs was alive, Gwen would trim back the tree now and then. Mulberries aren’t to everyone’s taste. The mynah birds love them, their droppings stain the washing, but that’s no reason to poison a lovely old tree. If His Lordship had asked, she’d have happily pruned the mulberry. Better for it to be misshapen and alive than die a lingering death.

  At twelve thirty, she makes the sandwiches, boils the kettle and cuts a couple of slices of the lemon drizzle cake she’d made yesterday. With time to spare, Gwen makes a start on next month’s column. Inspiration is slow coming, her mind sticks on fences and hedges. But she’d done Planting for Privacy earlier in the year and a December column needs an upbeat feel. Gwen goes to the lounge room window and searches for Eric’s car but the street is as quiet as always. Even next door is quiet. Val’s yellow Honda Jazz is missing, so she’s at bridge. As usual, the Hungarian couple next door is nowhere to be seen. Irritated at Eric’s delay, Gwen wanders down to check the letterbox. The red bin next door has toppled over, spewing rubbish down the drive and up the street. It’s always the same story but, after that letter, Gwen will be damned if she’ll clean up after them again. Checking the Christmas catalogues inspires her and she hurries back to the house. Reaching for her notepad, she writes, ‘Growing Gifts for Christmas’. Underneath she lists ideas – seed packets, wind chimes, luminaries, potted plants – and begins to write.

  It’s an hour later when Gwen realises the time and the alarming absence of Eric. She rings his mobile, more out of optimism than any sincere hope he might answer. Eric has Diane’s old fliptop Nokia. He had accepted it reluctantly.

  ‘Why does everyone have to be available these days?’ he’d said as Diane explained the basic phone operation. ‘It’s the same with answering machines,’ he’d carried on, ignoring Diane. ‘If we rang people and they didn’t answer, we assumed they weren’t home or couldn’t get to the phone. We didn’t need a message to tell us that, we were smart enough to work it out for ourselves.’

  ‘Well, Dad, don’t use it if you don’t want to. But it might be handy in an emergency or if you find yourself out and want to make a call.’

  ‘What kind of call?’ Eric handled the phone as if it might explode.

  Diane tsked in exasperation. ‘I don’t know, Dad. Maybe to ring Mum and see if she needs something from the shops.’

  Eric pushed the handset across the dining table. ‘But I’d ask your mother that before I left. This is what I mean. It’s about being organised. And if I was that desperate to call your mother, I’d use a public phone booth. I always keep change in the car console for that exact purpose.’

  Diane had laughed. ‘Dad, you’d walk a long way to find a public phone booth these days. Take the phone with you, for my sake. Look, I’ve programmed the home phone and Mum’s mobile number under ICE.’ Diane brought up the contact list.

  ‘Why’s your mother under ice, Di? I’ll never remember to look for her there.’

  ‘Not ice, Dad – I.C.E. It means in case of emergency. Just remember that.’

  But it’s neither here nor there now, thinks Gwen. She can hear Eric’s phone ringing and traces the sound to his jacket pocket hanging on the bedroom door knob.

  Gwen eats her sandwich for no other reason than she hates the way the bread dries out. Eric’s been gone for over two hours. Perhaps he’s run into someone he knows at the hardware store and stopped for a chat. She shakes her head. More likely, they didn’t have the shadecloth in stock at the Belrose store and he had to drive to Mona Vale instead. Still, surely that wouldn’t take a whole other hour.

  Standing back at the lounge room window, Gwen wills Eric’
s return. Next door’s dogs are out again, roaming the street. The blonde one defecates on the Hungarians’ lawn. Mr Hungarian happens to be watering the garden and squirts the hose full bore on the mutt who scampers back home. His Lordship is out too, digging about in the corner. She hears a car and brightens. About time, she thinks. It’s very irresponsible of Eric to go off like that. If he said an hour then an hour it should be.

  But it’s not Eric’s car. A beaten-up red vehicle with a broken muffler pulls in across the road. Gwen doesn’t recognise it.

  A girl climbs out of the car. She doesn’t bother locking it, just slams the door and skitters up next door’s driveway. His Lordship straightens and the girl runs into his arms and kisses him in a singularly inappropriate way. To his credit, he pushes her away, his head swivelling to stare in Gwen’s lounge room window as he does. She steps back, hoping he hasn’t seen her. The girl is staring too. An attractive girl, no more than twenty-something to Gwen’s eye. She has lovely olive skin and a beautiful smile that she flashes at Gwen before following Brandon into his house.

  ‘Surely it’s innocent,’ she exclaims, sharing a knowing look with an imagined Babs. ‘I mean, he’s hardly going to advertise that he’s up to no good, is he?’ In her mind’s eye, Babs takes a long draw on her cigarette and says, ‘He is an odd fish, Gwennie.’

  Gwen couldn’t agree more. Beneath that electric smile, tension simmers. About what, she can make an educated guess. He’s not a natural housekeeper. The children always look like ragamuffins, the dogs run feral, he pegs the washing on the line the wrong way and then throws the dry washing in the basket willy-nilly crushing nature’s ironing. Eric, Rohan, Val’s Keith were the men in her generation. Work was how they defined themselves. She couldn’t imagine any of them staying at home to raise children. Especially with such a wife as Francesca, always preening, wearing her career as a badge of honour. It’s a recipe for marital unhappiness. Maybe at a deep primitive level, Brandon needs to be the hunter and to deny him that, deliberately or otherwise, was to deny him his most basic instinct. ‘Still Gwennie,’ Babs invades her thoughts, ‘look at Val’s housekeeping. Most of the time her place looks like a brothel.’ Gwen concedes this is true. ‘Maybe His Lordship hates housework as much as Val.’