The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  But strange women turning up at the house whilst his wife’s at work and three of his children are at kindy is suspicious. Gwen’s certain she’s not a sister or a sister-in-law. Far too young. Maybe she’s his niece.

  Eric really has been gone too long, Gwen thinks, wrapping his sandwich in greaseproof paper and popping it in the fridge. She cuts up an apple and eats a slice. If Mary were still alive, she’d ring her. Eric used to pop in to see his parents all the time. Thought nothing of the hour’s drive to Dundas to say a quick hello. Invariably came home with something or other his father, Harry, had picked up from the tip. A new bike for Jonathon or a toy bassinet for Diane.

  She misses Mary and Harry. Everyone she cares about is dead or dying, dropping off one by one. Babs in March, just her and Val left from the mums on the street. They’ve had a good life here. There used to be a real sense of community. She’ll be the last woman standing. Mind you, Val’s as strong as an ox, so maybe not.

  Where on earth has Eric got to? There’s nothing for it. She’ll have to ring Diane at work. Diane will know whether they should ring the police or ring around the hospitals. The idea upsets her, but for the life of her Gwen can’t think what else to do.

  *

  ‘Hello, Diane?’

  ‘I’ll just get her for you,’ says Mrs Arnold.

  ‘Hi, Mum, what’s up?’

  In the background children laugh and shout, not a care in the world. ‘Your father’s gone missing.’ It is such a relief to say those words out loud.

  ‘What do you mean by missing? Casey Carruthers, it’s walk don’t run.’

  ‘He went to the hardware store at eleven thirty and hasn’t come back.’

  ‘That’s more than three hours ago, Mum. Why didn’t you ring me sooner?’

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you and I thought he might have gone to a different store, you know, if the first one was out of stock.’

  ‘Where? In Katoomba? Look I’ll finish up here and come straight over. I’ll have Lisbeth with me but Molly and Jasper have gone to Tiff’s for a play date. Lucy! Inside voices please.’

  Letting the worry out has made it more real. Gwen wipes the kitchen benches, peels potatoes for dinner. She sets up the ironing board by the window so she can keep an eye out, convincing herself Eric will arrive before Diane and they’ll all have a good old laugh at his adventures over a cup of tea. She has some milk arrowroots in the pantry, Lisbeth’s favourites, it’ll be fine.

  As she irons Eric’s jeans, she sees the girl clamber into her beaten-up red car and drive away. Not long after, she hears the vacuum cleaner start up as His Lordship does his usual scurry about before picking the kids up from kindy and his wife comes home. Their children will be amongst the last to be picked up, she knows this from Diane. Strange, when he doesn’t work, that their children don’t get picked up until late. What does he do with himself all day? Well, she knows what he’s done today. He’s entertained a lady friend.

  Diane’s Volvo pulls into the drive and Gwen’s heart plummets into her socks. In her mind, she’d already rung Diane saying, ‘Nothing to worry about, dear, your father just decided to . . .’ To what exactly? There is nowhere Eric could be.

  ‘Well he must be somewhere, Mum.’ Diane dunks her milk arrowroot into her coffee just as she has since childhood. Lisbeth mimics her, leaving her biscuit in too long so the bottom half collapses into the cup. Lisbeth chuckles and sticks her fingers in to retrieve it, sending milk splashing across the tabletop.

  ‘Lisbeth!’ Diane remonstrates. ‘Sorry, Mum. Pass me the sponge, will you?’

  ‘I can’t think of anywhere else he’d be,’ Gwen says, passing it to her. ‘Your father said he was going to the hardware store to get some more shadecloth.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He needs to build the fences for the new snail beds.’

  ‘Is he still going on with that? If I’d known, I’d have got the kids to collect ours and bring them over.’

  ‘It’s a bit late in the season now, dear. They’re breeding at the moment. The new beds are for the hatchlings. Apparently you have to keep the snails at a ratio of twenty per square metre.’

  Diane giggles. ‘You aren’t serious, are you, Mum? You hate snails, why on earth would you let Dad ruin your precious lawn with a snail farm.’

  ‘An organic free-range snail farm, Diane. Your father doesn’t muck about.’ Gwen allows herself a small smile. She’s always considered herself lucky to have Eric as a husband. Val’s Keith and Babs’ Rohan were not the most practical of men. She remembers when Val and Keith put the pool in. Keith was going through a bit of a DIY phase – well they all were, it was the seventies – and had decided to lay his own paving. My goodness, what a mess he made of that. The pavers around the pool looked like they’d suffered an earthquake. Eric helped him pull the whole lot up and then laid them properly. ‘You’re so clever with your hands, Eric,’ Val had gushed, passing around the G&Ts as they admired the results. ‘Lucky Gwen,’ Babs had smiled into her glass.

  Diane reaches for the plate of milk arrowroots and passes another to Lisbeth, taking one for herself. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that Dad suddenly wants to grow snails? It seems out of character.’

  Gwen snorts. ‘The snails aren’t the half of it. At nearly eighty, he’s no spring chicken but he’s become quite forgetful.’ She refuses to mention the teabags, the car keys, his work boots.

  Diane isn’t stupid. She can tell her mother is holding out on her. ‘Has there been anything else?’ she says.

  Gwen drinks her tea, torn between loyalty to Eric and the overwhelming urge to share her thoughts out loud. If it was just one thing it wouldn’t be so bad, but it’s not and now Eric’s disappeared. So she tells Diane about the mediation session where Eric had launched into ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. How the Desmarchelliers had assumed Eric was taking the mickey out of them when really he was just trying to soothe the baby. ‘And he’s become more withdrawn. Your father was always a quiet man but when he had something to say, he was most definite in his opinions. He’s become … I don’t know . . .’ Gwen turns the handle on her teacup. It is disloyal saying these things out loud. She’d hoped she’d been imagining it, exaggerating his behaviour, but the truth is his behaviour has been out of character. Eventually she says, ‘He seems more easily upset by changes in routine. This fence business has really thrown him.’

  ‘It’s thrown you both. They’re a very odd couple.’

  ‘You think so too?’

  Diane bites her lip. ‘I haven’t told the parents yet, so don’t say anything, but I’m thinking of recommending that Silver and Amber be put in separate classes.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because Silver is a sly little thing and I can’t help wondering if it is a defence mechanism against his sister.’ Diane glances at Lisbeth but she needn’t worry, her youngest is onto her third milk arrowroot, the sludge growing in the bottom of her cup. Diane sighs. ‘To be honest, they’re both troublemakers. Amber’s loose with the truth and, whilst it’s not entirely unusual in children her age, she’s a bit sexually precocious. More than once, I’ve caught her doing things with the dolls that aren’t age-­appropriate behaviours.’

  Gwen remembers the day the children snuck into the garage. The lady and the man doll behaving in ways that were definitely not age appropriate. An image of the red beaten-up car springs into her mind.

  Diane checks her watch. ‘It’s after five. I hate to say this but I think we need to call the police. Dad might have had an accident.’

  Diane rings the police whilst Gwen runs Lisbeth a bath. Gwen hears her describe Eric’s appearance, giving them the registration number, make and model of their car.

  Hanging up, Diane calls out, ‘They’re sending someone around. They should be here in half an hour.’

  Gwen swishes the bubbles and squirts a purple
hippo at Lisbeth. ‘Shouldn’t they be out looking for him?’

  ‘They’re checking the traffic incident reports and alerting highway patrol. They want to ask you some questions, help narrow down where Dad might be.’

  It sounds ominous. If she had a clue as to Eric’s whereabouts, she’d have driven there herself. She sits back on her haunches. If only they still had two cars. The impotence of knowing he might be anywhere, broken and bleeding, whilst she’s been ironing his shirts. Eric, the man who had fought off the midwives in his rush to her bedside when she was in labour with Diane. Held her hand through the long hours until the pink bundle came to rest on her chest. In an era when men avoided the trials of childbirth, Eric had never left her side and had wept with joy as he held his newborn daughter in his arms.

  Opening the front door, the first thing Gwen notices is that the police constables are very young. They have tiny black notebooks in which they inscribe everything Gwen tells them about the day, the time Eric left, when she had expected him home. They take his car details again and ask for a list of hardware stores he frequented.

  ‘How often does your husband do this, Mrs Hill?’ asks the first policeman.

  Gwen doesn’t like his tone. As if they’re discussing an inveterate gambler sneaking off to the TAB, not a forgetful old man. ‘Never. Eric always tells me where he’s going.’

  ‘Does he have a mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes, he uses Diane’s old one.’

  Diane nods from where she is feeding Lisbeth mashed potato and a bit of sausage she’d found in the fridge.

  ‘And did he take it with him today?’

  Gwen explains about finding it in his jacket pocket.

  The second police officer asks to see it. ‘Is it password protected?’

  Gwen shakes her head and the policeman checks the call registry. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Eric might have called his mobile whilst she was on the phone to Diane. He might have been trying to reach her for hours.

  The phone yields no clues and then the first policeman asks Gwen, ‘Is there any reason Mr Hill might not want to come home?’

  It’s a slap in the face. Indignation floods Gwen to the core. ‘No!’

  ‘Why would you ask that?’ Diane interjects.

  ‘We have to explore every avenue, Miss.’ The policeman presses on. ‘Do you have any financial worries that might be weighing on your husband’s mind?’

  Gwen is offended. Money is a private matter not fodder for public consumption. Eric can’t even use an ATM. He insists on going into the branch where he knows the tellers by name. They stamp his passbook, the Hills’ finances printed in neat purple lines, satisfying Eric’s need to know that every penny is accounted for. She says, ‘Our only trouble is with our new neighbours. We’re in dispute over a fence they want to build.’

  The second policeman leans forward. ‘Tell me about that.’

  So Gwen does, in detail, though she fails to see how it will help find Eric.

  ‘Has there been a confrontation or an argument with the neighbours?’ asks the officer.

  ‘No! Though they’ve done plenty to antagonise us. Their dogs defecate on my lawn and their garbage bins overflow onto the street. I’m sure the husband has poisoned my mulberry tree. I can show you if you like.’

  They stand there, observing the tree’s decaying limbs. As she’s explaining her theories as to the tree’s demise, the first police officer interrupts, saying, ‘All right, Mrs Hill, we’ll have a word with your neighbour, he might know where your husband is.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Gwen doesn’t like the idea of the Desmarchelliers knowing their business. If Babs were still alive, she would have been the first person Gwen ran to. There were no secrets between them. When Rohan had had his first heart attack, Babs had appeared at Gwen’s back door at three in the morning. Gwen had thought nothing of being by Babs’ side in a crisis. She shuddered at the thought of such intimacy with Francesca Desmarchelliers.

  The second policeman looks up from his notebook. ‘If the worst has happened, Mrs Hill, not that I’m suggesting it has, do you or anyone else you know of, stand to benefit from Mr Hill’s death?’

  ‘Oh c’mon,’ says Diane at the same time Gwen says, ‘How dare you!’ She hopes the neighbours can’t hear this.

  Diane lapses into her teacher’s voice. ‘My parents have been married for over fifty years. You’re standing on the only thing they own. Dad’s super isn’t worth it. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  Gwen is glad she is here. Diane is her reliable child. Someone to stand between her and this policeman with that intense and suspicious look on his face.

  The first police officer’s radio crackles and he wanders away. Gwen stares after him. Is this what the world has come to? One where a 74-year-old woman kills off the man she loves for a few measly thousand?

  ‘They’ve found him,’ reports the officer.

  ‘Oh thank God.’

  ‘Where is he? Where did he go?’

  ‘Somebody rang Mona Vale station and reported a car parked at the end of Booralie Road in Terrey Hills. They got worried because the man was crying and they were concerned he might harm himself. We’re bringing him home now.’

  ‘How is he? Is he all right?’ Gwen leans into the warmth of Diane’s embrace, glad for the arm that stills her trembling.

  ‘He’s in one piece, Mrs Hill. Nothing to worry about.’

  But when Eric comes through the front door, he doesn’t look fine. He grasps Gwen in a tight hug, saying, ‘I took a wrong turn, Gwennie. I didn’t know where I was and the street directory was all lines and I didn’t have my glasses. I took a wrong turn.’

  She squeezes him tight and leads him over to the dining nook where Diane passes him a mug of hot sugary tea, saying, ‘You’re all right, Dad. You’re home safe now.’

  After they put Eric to bed, Gwen walks Diane and Lisbeth to the car. As she starts the ignition, Diane winds down the window and clasps her mother’s hand. ‘I think you should take Dad to the doctor’s tomorrow. He’s clearly not himself. Maybe there’s more to it than this stupid fence issue.’

  Diane is overreacting, Gwen thinks as she waves her goodbye. She doesn’t understand just how stressful this whole fencing business has been. Neither of them are sleeping well. Just the other day she forgot to put the bins out! Eric took a wrong turn, that’s all.

  Frankie’s November

  The morning of the hearing they are running late. Silver had a nightmare and woke them in the middle of the night. His piercing scream woke Amber who shouted in fright, which woke Goldie, who normally sleeps the sleep of the innocent. Bijoux slept through the whole thing and after Frankie had resettled everyone, she found she could not sleep at all.

  She lay awake from 2 am, her thoughts flicking between her yet-to-be announced pregnancy and the forthcoming confrontation with the Hills. There was something going on with those two. The police had been around. Brandon said he’d heard them in the backyard, accusing him of poisoning their mulberry tree and something about how they – they being Frankie and Brandon – were causing trouble over the whole fencing issue. How dare they? Did they think they could intimidate them by getting the law involved? As if Brandon would have poisoned their mulberry tree. Sometimes Frankie wished they were still in Annandale, a happier place in happier times. They must get through this. Together forever, that’s what they’d vowed in the chapel of Brandon’s old school. How he’d squeezed her hand and mouthed I love you as the reverend read the vows. Once the fence is sorted out, that was where they must get back to.

  The Hills are already in the courtroom by the time Frankie and Brandon arrive. They’ve taken the same seats as last time and Frankie wheels Bijoux’s buggy between them both. It is a male adjudicator this time. He wastes no time telling them he is unhappy they have returned to court.

  ‘Last tim
e you were here, Mrs Desmarchelliers, this court issued a fencing order. Why has the fence not been built?’

  ‘Well, sir, there are a number of problems. Our neighbours have not provided satisfactory quotes.’

  He grunts and flicks through the paperwork in front of him. ‘I see five quotes here, which ones are provided by you?’

  Frankie tells him and he glances through the quotes. ‘They look fine to me.’ He picks up the photos Frankie has provided. ‘What are all these for?’

  They fall like a pack of cards from his hand. He picks one up and examines it front and back before saying, ‘There are rules about the presentation of evidence, Mrs Desmarchelliers, rules you appear to have ignored. These photos aren’t dated or numbered. What are they supposed to be telling me?’

  Frankie clears her throat. It had been Brandon’s job to put their evidence in order. She’d assumed he had enough nous to realise the photos should have been dated. It is too late now. She says, ‘They are photos of the fences in our neighbourhood, sir. It’s proof that many houses have existing fences. The Hills’ claim that this is not part of our streetscape is incorrect and irrelevant.’

  The tribunal man frowns at her. ‘But that is also irrelevant to today’s proceedings. Did you provide these other two quotes, Mrs Hill?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ The old lady has the floral notebook out again. Mr Hill is playing with a wooden block under the table.