The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  Frankie rolls her eyes. ‘That’s hardly a surprise. How many kids have a name like Amber Desmarchelliers-Boyd? Of course it’s hard for a four year old to spell. Why don’t you work on it with her?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says sourly, ‘but the real question is, do we or don’t we send them to school next year? There’s no point if they’re already struggling. They’ll just take longer to adjust.’

  Frankie thinks of the new baby. How Brandon will change his tune once he knows he will have five at home. For his sake, and hers, she says, ‘They have to go to school next year, Brandon. There’s no other option.’

  The twins don’t need to go to school next year. Another year will allow Brandon to get Amber’s reading up to speed, allow them to mature. Plus when they go, he knows Frankie expects him to fill the hours painting and decorating. No time out for Brandy. ‘They’re February babies, Frankie, and small for their age. There’s no harm holding them back. Far better than having to repeat a year later on. I’ve seen it with other children, it can be psychologically damaging.’

  Frankie can’t believe he keeps arguing with her. She says, ‘Another year of preschool will drive them mad, Brandon. They’ll be bored and become disruptive.’

  Brandon slams his beer on the counter. It froths up the neck and foams over the clean benchtop.

  Frankie stares at him, wondering what has got into him. Surely being free of the twins five days a week would be his idea of heaven?

  Steadying his voice, Brandon says, ‘I don’t agree with you. It will make no difference if we hold them back. Goldie can stay at two days a week. Bijoux’s at home with me full-time anyway. Why send them for the sake of it?’

  Frankie laughs. ‘Oh it will make a difference all right.’

  ‘How?’

  Frankie draws a deep breath and plunges in, ‘Because I’m pregnant, Brandon. I’m bloody pregnant.’

  Brandon, who is wiping up the spilt beer, freezes at her words. His mind clenches around the word pregnant. ‘What!’

  Fire burns in Frankie’s cheeks, as if she is a teenager instead of a grown woman who should have her fertility under control. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m as shocked as you are.’

  Brandon hunches over the bench, the clutched kitchen wipe oozing beer over his fist. ‘How? You had the shot, didn’t you?’

  Frankie searches in her bag for a tissue. ‘I forgot to go to the chemist.’ She’d asked Brandon to pick up the script for her but he’d refused. She couldn’t ask her secretary, it was too personal. Then there was the doctor’s appointment.

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault, is it? Because I draw the line at picking up your dry-cleaning and filling your scripts. I’m not your dogsbody, Frankie. You do have to do some things for yourself.’ Brandon throws the wipe in the bin and reaches for his beer.

  ‘Can I get out now,’ comes a plaintive cry from the bathroom. ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘In a minute, sweetheart,’ Frankie sings out. ‘I’ll just get you a dry towel.’

  Lowering her voice, Frankie says, ‘We can’t terminate a pregnancy just because it’s inconvenient,’ wondering if she’s putting words in his mouth or giving voice to her own thoughts.

  Brandon grabs a fresh beer from the fridge and storms outside, slamming the sliding door behind him. Her first instinct is to go after him but Amber sings out again. Drying and dressing the twins, she is glad for the distraction. She can’t blame Brandon. She’s had weeks to get used to the idea. For him, it’s a shock. She wraps Amber’s hair in a towel and helps Silver do up his buttons. The truth is, they’ve both been looking forward to the twins starting school next year, despite what he says now. Five days a week, then Goldie at kindy three days, he’d have so much more free time. She thinks of the bathroom with its splotches of colour. A newborn in the house will put paid to any renovations, financially and timewise. By next May, they will have five kids aged five and under. A nightmare.

  Returning to the kitchen, Frankie sees the envelope Mrs Hill gave her poking out of her handbag. Glancing outside, she sees Brandon turning the skewers on the barbecue. The letter is addressed to Brandon but it is probably only a rival telco offering a deal. She slits her thumb along the gummed edge and pulls out the contents. It’s a bill for an unfamiliar mobile phone number. Perhaps it is one of those marketing campaigns offering a deal for him to transfer his business. Frankie reads the entire bill. The same number is listed every time. She types the number into her phone and presses the green button. As it rings, she watches Brandon swigging his beer, prodding the meat. The phone diverts to voicemail and a woman’s voice says, ‘Olá, you’ve reached the voicemail of Camilla Fernandes. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll call you back later. Tchau!’

  Frankie hits end call, the phone clattering to the bench. She collapses onto the stool, shaking. No wonder Brandon doesn’t want this baby. It isn’t the extra workload.

  She makes herself check the dates and times of the calls. She pulls up the calendar on her phone. He calls her twice a week or more, mostly on kindy days, but not always. What could they possibly have to discuss? Amongst the screaming and tears, he had told Frankie it was just sex, that Camilla meant nothing to him but here he is calling her every week for the last month. She looks at the total call duration, the hours they’ve spent talking. What could they possibly have to talk about?

  The sliding door opens and Brandon comes in carrying the tray of chicken. ‘I’m sorry, babe,’ he begins, ‘I guess it was the surprise. I don’t want you – us – to get rid of the baby, you know that, don’t you?’ It’s true too. It’s not a blob. Inside Frankie grows another little human, as unique an individual as their other four children. But maybe he should think about having the snip. Six would be downright crazy.

  Shaking, Frankie holds up the bill. ‘What does this mean, Brandon?’

  ‘What does what mean?’ he says, helping himself to a fresh beer.

  Frankie tries to keep her voice level. She doesn’t want to yell, not with the children in the house. ‘Does this number mean anything to you, Brandon?’ she asks, reading out the mobile number on the bill.

  He shakes his head, concentrating on fetching plates to hide his alarm. ‘Don’t think so.’

  A memory surges forward. Of her mother, in the kitchen, holding up a credit card bill, shrieking at her father. She wants to shriek too. ‘It’s a mobile phone number and this is a mobile phone bill with your name on it, so let’s not play games, shall we?’

  Brandon counts out five forks. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, Frankie.’ Holy hell, he’s in for it now. He knew he shouldn’t have agreed with Camilla that they were friends. That it was okay to meet for coffee, good for him to unburden himself. The sex was, the sex was . . .

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything!’ She launches from her stool and sweeps the forks from his hand, sending them clattering and spinning across the floor. ‘You’ve been calling Camilla twice a week for the last month and I’m making an educated guess that you’ve been calling her the month before and the month before that.’

  Brandon stoops to pick up the cutlery. ‘We’re friends,’ he says.

  Frankie grabs his arm. ‘Bullshit. I caught you in bed with her, our bed. You’re still screwing her, aren’t you?’

  She starts crying. She doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to, but great big sobs hack out of her. Releasing Brandon’s arm, she says, ‘I can’t believe you, Brandon. You said it was just sex, but this,’ she waves the bill, ‘this is a relationship.’

  ‘Babe, it’s not like that, I promise.’ Brandon tries to hug her.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ She scrambles away. ‘Don’t you dare try and hug me. You’ve been sleeping with that slut in our house, in our bed with our children here.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. She’s only been over when the kids were at preschool.’

  Frankie throws her hands in the air. ‘Oh that�
�s all right then. The twins and Goldie were learning how to use scissors correctly whilst you’re at home banging the barista. No wonder the house is always such a fucking mess, you’re too busy.’ A sudden thought stops Frankie. ‘Where was Bijoux?’

  Brandon blushes, shuffling the plates into a row. ‘Asleep, Frankie. She never saw anything.’

  Frankie thinks of her poor baby sleeping as her father and that contortionist were at it. ‘You disgust me,’ she hisses.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Frankie. The kids will hear you.’

  ‘Well we wouldn’t want that now, would we, Brandon? Imagine if the kids knew what kind of father they really have. Why did you do it? Are you that unhappy? Am I and the kids not enough for you?’

  Brandon slumps onto a bar stool. There are so many answers to those questions. Unhappy? Yes. Camilla is easy, uncomplicated. She’s fun. Frankie used to be fun. She used to like hanging out in clubs, dancing badly and drinking too much vodka. The Frankie who collapsed in tears of laughter at how she couldn’t play a single chord on the guitar has disappeared. And that’s what he’d liked about her. He’d found her hopelessness endearing. Loved the way she could always laugh at herself. Yes, he’s done the wrong thing, but he can’t see his Frankie anymore. Her career, the one thing she’s really good at, has consumed his loving Frankie and replaced her with a woman who is all edges.

  Frankie waits for him to answer, her breath coming in great heaves as if she has run for miles. Her mother taking a Wedgwood crystal decanter filled with her father’s whiskey and smashing it to the floor as she and Martin ushered their sisters to the safety of her bedroom. Her father leaving for work one morning with three long gouges down his cheek. He cut himself shaving, he’d said. She had believed him.

  ‘Why can’t you ever be happy with what you already have?’ Brandon says it so quietly, it is almost a whisper. But it’s true. Although Frankie will never admit it to herself.

  Her mouth falls open. ‘Are you kidding me? You’re fucking your girlfriend whilst I’m at work. You and I have had sex, what, twice since we moved into this house? Do you think I planned this?’ He always thinks she’s got something to prove. And what exactly has she got? An unfaithful husband, a demanding job and a family to juggle. Stress is the reality of their daily lives. Yet she’s not screwing around.

  None of this is what he wants. Any joy he feels being at home with the kids is quashed the moment Frankie walks in the door and flings her briefcase on the couch. When they agreed it made more sense for him to be the stay-at-home parent, he hadn’t counted on how controlling Frankie would become the further she climbed the corporate ladder. He resents that his economic contribution goes unrecognised, his financial dependence, that housework has no value. Frankie didn’t trust him even before Camilla. She never stops riding his arse. Useless, stupid, inadequate Brandon. Fuck her. There’d be no Camilla if Frankie ever admitted that she couldn’t be boss at home and at work. He reaches for a fresh beer. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

  Frankie rounds on him, ‘Then what is she? She’s sure as hell not the nanny. Oh I know, I’ll go back to work after this baby and you and Camilla can look after it for me. There’s an idea.’

  ‘I’m not having this conversation anymore, Frankie, you’re being completely unreasonable.’ He needs to get out of here, away from her screeching. He heads for the front door.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me, Brandon Boyd. You stay here and act like a proper man.’

  He wheels around. ‘A proper man? All I do is wipe children’s arses all day. Buy food, cook food and clean up after the five of you. You leave me these lists of things to do as if I am one of your staff members. You even pay me like one, putting money into our joint bank account like I’m on some sort of allowance. I can’t even buy myself underwear without you knowing about it. My life is fucked.’

  Frankie storms over to him, quivering with the desire to slap his face. ‘How dare you? I work full-time to support this family and how do you repay me? I come home to chaos every single night then spend my weekend doing all the stuff you should have done during the week. I leave you a list because without one you do nothing. Even so, I have to ask you ten times to do anything and the few times I leave you in charge, look what happens.’

  Brandon rolls the beer bottle in his hand. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Frankie jams her hands on her hips. ‘Oh you don’t know what I’m talking about? Let’s start with the fence, shall we? That’s been a right royal debacle, hasn’t it?’

  Brandon rolls his eyes. The fucking fence. Again. ‘You can’t blame me for that.’

  ‘Then whose fault is it? If you’d bloody well given a fencing notice to the Hills in the first place, like you agreed to, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  Brandon throws the beer. It whistles past Frankie’s head, hitting the kitchen cabinets and smashing to the floor. Bijoux starts wailing and Brandon makes good his escape whilst Frankie rushes to fetch her. She curls up on the couch, cuddling Bijoux, both of them crying. This is the end, she realises, the sickness broiling in her guts. Her marriage is over. She cannot stay with Brandon. Her mother stayed, sacrificing happiness for financial security. Telling her to have another baby, move out to the sticks, patch things up. Here’s Brandon thinking he’s trapped. What about her? What choices does she have?

  Brandon races back into the house. Frankie turns from him. She has no fight left. She just wants to stay here with Bijoux and sleep.

  ‘The kids are missing,’ he shouts.

  Frankie struggles to sit up. ‘What?’

  ‘They were playing in the garden but they’re not there. I can’t find them.’

  ‘Have you looked everywhere?’ Frankie rushes to the backyard, visions of them floating facedown in the pool flashing through her mind. These pool gates are a joke, the children are experts at opening them – they have the same gates at kindy, at the park. The pool is empty.

  ‘They’re not in the front yard,’ Brandon yells from the house.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit. They must have gone up the street.’

  Brandon runs off whilst Frankie grabs her phone and chases after him, Bijoux on her hip, yelling, ‘Amber! Silver! Marigold!’

  Brandon goes left out of the drive, she heads up the street towards the main road, Peanut and Butter barking at her heels.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ Frankie cries, searching the neighbours’ yards, calling the children. She races up to the corner and scans the hillside, hoping they are not heading for the main road. A hand grabs her and she spins around. It’s Brandon. ‘Have you found them?’ she says.

  He nods. ‘It’s okay. They’re okay. They went next door. They were at the Hills’.’

  Something inside Frankie snaps. ‘What the hell are they doing there?’

  As they run up the Hills’ driveway, she sees the children standing next to the new vegetable patch the old man recently planted on the front lawn. A bucket swings from Amber’s hand. Silver leans over the green mesh the Hills have put around the garden and Mr Hill holds Marigold up so she can see over the fence.

  ‘Put my daughter down!’ Frankie yells, racing up to the group. They all swing around in surprise. Marigold slithers to the ground and runs over. Frankie passes Bijoux to Brandon and swings Marigold up onto her hip.

  ‘Mummy,’ Amber says, ‘look at the snails.’

  ‘What are you doing with my children?’ Frankie turns on Mrs Hill.

  ‘They came over to give Eric some snails for his garden.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, we’ve been collecting snails for the garden.’

  Frankie stares at Amber who is pointing into the vegetable patch. ‘They’re making babies, aren’t they, Eric?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ he beams, ruffling her hair.

  ‘Don’t you touch her.’ Frankie grabs
Amber’s arm and pulls her away from the old man.

  ‘Ow, Mummy, that hurt,’ Amber shouts.

  ‘Mummy, can we grow snails in our garden?’ Silver lisps.

  ‘No! All of you go with Daddy. It’s time for your dinner.’

  ‘But it’s not dark yet,’ whispers Silver.

  ‘I want to stay here,’ says Amber, pulling her arm free of Frankie’s grip.

  ‘Can I have chocolate milk?’ asks Marigold.

  ‘They’re welcome to stay,’ says Mrs Hill. ‘They’re not doing any harm.’ She smiles at the children. ‘And it was very nice of you to bring us your lovely snails.’

  ‘Brandon,’ Frankie snaps. He takes Marigold from her and herds the children down the driveway, across the verge and onto their property.

  Frankie waits until they are out of earshot before saying, ‘I do not want you anywhere near my children, do you understand? I am going home to call the police and insist we get an order preventing you from even talking to us.’

  The old lady blinks at her. ‘There’s no need to do that. I can see you’ve had a fright. Perhaps we can talk about it later when you’ve calmed down.’

  Frankie seethes. ‘There will be no later, Mrs Hill. The only words I will ever speak to you again will be when the fence gets built. Until that’s done, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to hear you and I don’t want you anywhere near my family. Is that understood?’

  ‘I’m entitled to do what I like in my own garden, Mrs Desmarchelliers.’

  ‘Not with my children, you’re not. If I ever see them in here again, I’ll –’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I’m warning you there will be consequences,’ Frankie hisses and turns on her heel. Anything to prevent the old lady having the last word.