The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  Outback + Outdoors

  December In the Garden with Gwen Hill

  Summer: the birds are carolling, the plants are positively bursting with life, the boughs of the fruit trees are weighed with produce. Us humans might be lazing the days away, oblivious, but the plants know the seasons are shifting. Notice your lettuces bolting to seed? They’re telling you the days are growing shorter.

  So out of your hammock! Feed azaleas, camellias, hydrangeas and citrus. Examine tub plants to ensure they remain moist. And who doesn’t enjoy wielding the secateurs for a good session of deadheading?

  With Christmas around the corner, if you are looking for a gift you can’t go past a plant. Young children love nurturing their own fruit tree or flower­ing shrub. Plants provide years of pleasure and are excellent teachers about the cycle of life (and much less work for Mum and Dad than a puppy or a kitten!) If you’re sending Christmas cards, why not include a seed packet to remind your faraway friends they are in your thoughts.

  Tip of the month

  Wondering what to do with the remains of your Christmas seafood feast? Don’t even think of sneaking across the road and disposing of the shells in the council bins. It’s such a waste when you can put prawn shells to work by digging them into the garden. Researchers say that prawn shells help control nematodes – tiny worm-like pests that attack plants from the roots. The chitin in the shells boosts the growth of soil fungi and other organisms that attack the nematodes and their eggs. Shells from any crustacean will do, just wash, dry and crush the shells before digging them into your soil.

  Gwen’s December

  The fencing contractor arrives early on the first Monday in December. It isn’t Luke. When Gwen told him the news, she heard the relief in his voice. Another contractor refused to build the fence because he didn’t want to be ‘in the middle of anything’. Neither do I, Gwen thinks, but it’s too late for that now.

  She spent Sunday removing her crab apples. Jonathon was too busy to help, something about the kids’ Christmas concert, but Diane and Simon came over. It was a tough job. After so many years, the thickened roots had to be cut to remove the trees. Gwen swore she heard them scream in protest. The trees lay in the shade of the house, their roots bound in hessian sacking, like soldiers felled in battle, victims of a pointless war. That’s what Babs would have said. The whole garden, on both sides of the boundary, is a battlefield. Next door with their scorched earth policy, theirs with the lawn dug over for snails. It wounds Gwen deep in her heart, as if she too has been ripped from the soil. This is supposed to be the season of goodwill towards all men, yet she feels goodwill to no one.

  She waters the hessian bundles and watches the fencing contractor dig holes for the posts. The box hedges are gone too. They’re in the vegetable beds for now, well-watered to counter transplant shock. She hopes they survive the ordeal.

  Eric wanders out with a mug of tea. He passes it to her. ‘It’s a sorry business, Gwennie.’

  ‘It is,’ she says, taking the tea.

  He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she rests her head on his chest. A sob catches in her throat. She remembers standing in this same spot when the crab apples were barely waist high. Her head on Eric’s shoulder, mourning the loss of another baby that had failed to cling to life past twelve weeks. Creating Jonathon had been so easy, they never counted on the losses, or that they would consider Diane a small miracle. Looking up at Eric, it seems he is taking this much better than she but then she wonders if that is because he has become so detached. Does he ever think about the miscarriages? Who knows. He’s changed since the night he got lost. He stays close to home, doesn’t want to go anywhere, not even the local shops. Gwen had insisted he visit the doctor. ‘Just for a check-up.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Gwennie,’ he’d cried but the words were hollow. Something inside him had broken.

  The doctor sent Eric off for a myriad of tests. Next Thursday’s appointment will tell them the results. The doctor suggested there might be underlying physical causes for Eric’s memory loss and vagueness. That it might not be dementia so best to rule a line through everything else before going down that path.

  The neighbour’s children are corralled on their front verandah. Amber waves to Gwen and she waves back, hoping their mother doesn’t see. As promised, Francesca had called the police. Gwen saw the patrol car, the two officers strolling up the neighbour’s driveway, relieved it was not their own. She changed into a clean blouse, brushed her hair and put on some lippie. She didn’t want the officers thinking she was some mad old bat. Old maybe, but she was no troublemaker. Why was this young couple being so awful? What was so terribly wrong with their lives that they inflicted their hurt on innocent people?

  Gwen sat on the stool at the telephone table to be close to the front door when the police arrived. She ran through what she would say to them. How the children had walked through the crab apples. First Amber, then her brother and Marigold, the twins carrying a bucket between them.

  The children had walked over to where she and Eric stood and said, ‘We’ve brought some snails from our garden.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, dears,’ Gwen had said, taking the bucket from them. ‘My, there’s quite a lot, isn’t there?’

  Amber had nodded. ‘They’re from the backyard. There’s none left in the front yard ’cause Daddy killed all the plants.’

  ‘Do you like snails?’ Eric had said. The three children had nodded, which put a smile on his face.

  ‘Would you like to put them in the special snail paddock?’

  ‘It’s very small,’ lisped Silver.

  ‘Snails don’t need as much space as humans,’ Eric had said.

  And they had stood there, the children placing each snail on its own leaf. Neither Gwen nor Eric mentioned that they really didn’t need more snails because it was such a thoughtful thing for the children to have done.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy are fighting,’ announced Marigold.

  Gwen and Eric had heard the screaming. It was a quiet neighbourhood, noise travelled. She’d said, ‘Well, adults do that sometimes when they disagree.’

  The children digested this information in silence. Then Amber said, ‘Daddy hates living here. He says we live in the middle of nowhere but we don’t live in the middle of nowhere, do we?’

  Silver chipped in, ‘We live in the middle of the street.’

  Amber chewed on her thumbnail. ‘Can we still visit when the fence is built?’

  What could Gwen say? ‘If it’s all right with your mummy and daddy.’

  ‘I like playing with your dollhouses.’ Silver looked up at Eric, a smile creeping across his face.

  ‘Do you now,’ Eric beamed. ‘Would you like to see the new one I’m making?’

  Silver nodded and grasped Eric’s hand. Gwen gathered the girls and followed Eric into the garage.

  There on the bench sat Eric’s latest creation. It was a model of a manor house that had five chimneys with ornate brickwork Eric had painted on. Eric unlatched the facade of the house, opening it up for the children.

  ‘Is it for us?’ said Amber, peering inside.

  ‘Oh,’ Eric glanced at Gwen.

  The Desmarchelliers would be most unhappy. ‘Perhaps we could give it to you for Christmas?’ she’d said and the children grinned.

  ‘One each?’ said Amber, spying other dollhouses in various stages of construction.

  But they had told them they would have to share. They were back at the snail paddocks, Eric holding Marigold high so she could see over the fence, when Francesca and Brandon came running out of their house, screaming the children’s names, the dogs barking at their heels. In all the kerfuffle, Gwen hadn’t a chance to yell, ‘They’re over here!’ because the parents were charging off in different directions, shouting their heads off. His Lordship ran past Val’s place towards the park, as i
f the children would wander so far on their own. Amber’s stricken expression told Gwen that they had not informed their parents where they were going. She knew then and there that the Desmarchelliers would lay the blame at her feet.

  Gwen had tried to be reasonable, explaining how the children had just wanted to bring over their snails. She could see Francesca had had a terrible fright but it wasn’t right of her to think she could tell Gwen what to do in her own garden. And she’d threatened her. Gwen remembered that bit quite clearly, ‘I’m warning you there will be consequences.’ She’d have something to say about that to the police herself.

  Gwen sat on the little stool at the telephone table waiting for a knock on the door that never came. Her leg had a terrible cramp from sitting there so tense. Eventually, she had hobbled over to the lounge room window and stared at the space where the police car had been. So relieved was she that she was not about to be arrested that silent tears trickled down her cheeks. She stood there crying until she heard Eric stomping up the stairs. Taking a hanky from her pocket, she patted her cheeks dry then went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

  They hadn’t seen the children since that day. Well, coming and going of course, but if she saw them in the yard or going off to kindy, Gwen found something to do on the other side of the yard or popped out of sight in the garage. Until yesterday, when Diane and Simon had come round to help remove the crab apples. Molly had brought her skateboard over to practise riding it on their drive. Up and down she went until she was tired and let Jasper have a go. Gwen saw Amber peeking over the back gate. She stayed there until her mother called her away.

  The fence man spends the day cementing in the brutal steel posts. He’s a nice enough fellow. Gwen brings him a cup of tea and a slice of the chocolate cake she’s trialling for Eric’s upcoming eightieth birthday party. She doesn’t stay to chat, she doesn’t want Francesca misinterpreting her actions. The next day, the fencing man returns with his nail gun echoing across the valley as he secures the hardwood palings. He does a good job, the fence is solid and complies with the fencing orders to the letter. By the end of the day, the paling fence runs the length of their yard, the harsh orange of the new timber raw as a fresh scar.

  ‘It’s bloody ugly, isn’t it, Gwennie?’ Eric comes out of the garage wiping his hands on a rag. He’s spent the last two days finishing the dollhouse for the children next door.

  Gwen had warned him that the parents would never allow such a gift inside their house, but Eric had insisted. ‘Consider it a peace offering, Gwennie.’

  It’s a Christmas present, they can’t say no. Christmas has always been a street affair. Keith likes to go the whole nine yards with the house festooned in lights. Winking Santas, reindeer galloping off the roof, candy canes lining the driveway. Eric wonders why he hasn’t bothered this year.

  But Gwen thinks the Desmarchelliers can and will say no. She says, ‘Isn’t it strange that the man from the tribunal insisted the fence be built this way?’

  Eric nods, tucking the rag in his pocket. ‘It’s a good fifteen centimetres inside their boundary line.’

  ‘At least,’ she says. ‘How much land do you think they’ve lost?’

  Eric does the sums in his head. ‘I reckon about twenty grand.’

  Gwen hadn’t thought it would be that much. ‘It’s like he’s punishing them for making such a fuss.’

  Eric goes over to the fence, peeks over the other side before returning to Gwen. ‘It’s going to be tricky to get the passenger- side doors of the car open, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How terribly awkward.’ Gwen smiles. Eric smiles too and they burst out laughing. She’s not a mean-spirited person, neither of them are, but there is poetic justice in this newly executed fence. It might stop them seeing into the Desmarchelliers’ yard and it might stop the children popping in for a visit but it will also serve as a permanent reminder to the Desmarchelliers of why it doesn’t pay to be belligerent.

  ‘Did you see what they did on the other side?’ she says, curbing her joy.

  The fencing orders also stipulated that the palings were to be nailed on Gwen and Eric’s side of the fence. Theirs is the smooth side. Gwen had said to Mrs Desmarchelliers that it made more sense if the palings were nailed on the other side, ‘So the children can’t use the struts to climb over.’ Francesca had glared at her with that same look on her face as that day in court when she’d called them despicable and said, ‘We are following the fencing orders to the letter.’

  What could Gwen say? It was Francesca’s choice to cut off her nose to spite her face.

  After the fence had technically been completed, the Desmarchelliers paid the fence man to nail another row of palings so their side was smooth as well.

  ‘I wonder how much extra that cost them?’ she says.

  ‘Hardwood’s an expensive option.’

  But it will last a lifetime. Long enough to see Gwen and Eric in their graves. Gwen hopes Francesca realises that. She says, ‘It would have been cheaper to put up wire and grow a vine over it.’

  ‘Mmm, but it’d still be hard to get the car in and out.’

  They laugh again. ‘We shouldn’t laugh, Eric,’ Gwen says. ‘If I’d realised the fencing orders included building the fence fifteen centimetres into their property, I wouldn’t have needed to move my crab apples.’

  Eric wraps an arm around her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, love. We’ll put them back and hide that awful fence. If the fence had been built on the boundary line you wouldn’t have had the room, so in a way, you’ve had a victory.’

  Classic Eric, forever the pragmatist. Gwen hugs him harder and glows when he squeezes her back.

  Luke swings by and they spend the afternoon digging new holes for the trees, back filling them with a rich mix of compost and blood and bone to give them the best chance of recovering from their ordeal. Gwen waters them in, hopeful they can now put the last six months behind them. The hardwood timber will fade to a lovely silvery grey and she’s sure there will come a day when they won’t remember when it was never there. Her trees have survived, no one is hurt and in a few weeks time it will be Christmas.

  Frankie’s December

  Frankie parks the Volkswagen multivan as far to the right of the driveway as possible. Although the picket fence has finally been disposed of and they can technically park in the garage again, the multivan and the BMW convertible don’t fit. She hadn’t thought of that when they’d traded the Merc for the Volkswagen. Every time the kids slide open the car door, they tumble into the convertible. The problem is, parking in the driveway means the kids have to climb out the driver’s side as there is no room with the new fence.

  After Amber and Silver clamber out the rear passenger door, Frankie climbs in and undoes Marigold’s seatbelt, then crawls over to Bijoux to undo hers as well. She seats the baby on the floor of the van until she has wiggled out and can lift Bijoux to the ground.

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I am going to be able to do this, Joux-Joux. You’re getting so big and I’m getting so fat.’

  Bijoux giggles, as though Mummy wriggling around is a huge lark.

  Amber and Silver run over to where Brandon is building garden beds out of railway sleepers. Frankie ignores him and takes the two youngest up to the house.

  ‘I want a divorce,’ she’d told him after that fiasco with the pregnancy and the telephone bill and the kids escaping next door.

  Brandon looked ready to cry. ‘Frankie, I’ll end it with Camilla, I promise.’

  Frankie snorted. ‘Heard that before, Brandon.’ She tapped her head as if trying to recall exactly where and when. ‘Oh wait, yes, it’s coming to me. Sixteen months ago when I walked in on you having sex with her on our marital bed.’

  ‘Frankie, I’m sorry, okay?’ Brandon pleaded.

  ‘Sorry you have been unfaithful or sorry you got caught? Because from where I’m standing
, continuing the affair after we moved here would indicate you aren’t sorry at all.’

  Alone in their bed that night, she’d reviewed her options. Brandon’s snoring kept her company. He’d proceeded to drink himself stupid after they’d rescued the children, sitting on the couch staring morosely at repeats of Peppa Pig, much to the children’s delight. The inevitable conclusion was that she could not live with a man she did not trust. Once trust went, everything went with it. To continue as they were was to perpetuate a farce.

  She pretty much said those exact words to Brandon. ‘What’s in this for me, Brandon? My value to you is that I bring in the money, full stop. In return, I come home, the house is a mess, the kids aren’t fed or they’re eating cereal for dinner. We have seven, count them, seven baskets of washing on our bedroom floor waiting to be folded. The lawns aren’t mowed and I’m still waiting for you to paint the bathroom. The list goes on and on.’

  Despite everything – the weight of Frankie’s unending disapproval, the brittle shell she has erected around herself to close him out – Brandon does not want his life to change. Frankie has no idea how many times he’s told Camilla, ‘This has to end’, but she keeps turning up on the doorstep and insinuating herself into his arms. She is the well he fills with his frustration all the time knowing she is worth less than his love for his family. ‘I’ll change, Frankie. We can’t get a divorce, think of the kids. They can’t grow up in a broken home.’

  But she looked at him as if he were the smallest bug in the room. Where was the girl who’d ring him from work to whisper that she was not wearing any underwear? Once, they used to make love every day, but now she acts as if his touch revolts her. Why can’t she see how miserable he feels?

  Frankie bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying. Brandon didn’t want them to stay together for their sakes, but for the children. She just came with the package. They rarely made love. She obviously wasn’t attractive to him anymore. Work has become an escape from the chaos of home, and the chaos of life with four children is a wall of noise behind which they both hide. Swallowing her pain, she had said, ‘Our home is already broken, Brandon.’