The Christmas tree lies on its side. One branch has pierced the skin of the bass drum of Silver’s drum kit. The screen of the TV is caved in as if smashed by a mallet, so is the mirror that hangs over the fireplace. Their kitchen floor is littered with pieces of crockery, as if they have walked into the aftermath of a Greek wedding. Red paint splatters the lounge room rug and the leather couch has several slashes along its length.
‘Where are the kids’ Christmas presents?’ Frankie asks.
The Santa sacks are gone and, with them, most of the presents. Bright beads from Amber’s necklace-making kit scatter the floor. Hungry Hippos lies in several pieces. The only intact present is the karaoke machine. Thankfully, Marigold has not let go of Grow Up Daisy the entire day.
Tails wagging, Peanut and Butter press their noses to the glass sliding door.
‘Some guard dogs you are,’ Frankie mutters. But she doesn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out why the dogs let the house be trashed. Though they too know the perpetrator, they don’t share her outrage at this violent incursion. This is her sanctuary, no one has a right to be here, to lash out at them this way. The devastation of her house, the theft and destruction of their belongings, is a physical pain as if it were her body that had been violated. In large part because of the note written on the feature wall in big red letters.
‘Babe, I’m so sorry,’ Brandon says, though it seems like sorry doesn’t cover the half of what he’s feeling. Fear, anger and humiliation are battling it out for supremacy on his face.
Frankie wheels on him anyway. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me. I’m so angry I can’t speak.’
Brandon steps away, as though she might actually hit him.
Frankie shakes as tears fight with rage. ‘Here I was wondering, will he do it this time? Will he actually break up with her for good? And now,’ she gestures at the words bleeding on the wall, ‘now I guess I have my answer.’
She picks her way through shards of broken baubles and strewn tinsel towards the wall, presses her fingertips to the sticky paint. Camilla has gone to town. This isn’t some wash and wear paint easy to scrub off the obscenities scrawled on the wall. She’s used oil-based gloss for the job.
‘Mummy, what’s a slut?’ Silver asks, reaching for her hand.
She squeezes his hand tight. ‘That’s the name of the person who wrote these rude words on our wall, darling.’
‘But why’s your name there too?’ he says.
Amber might be struggling to write her own name but Silver is much more advanced than his sister. ‘Let’s go outside,’ she says, ‘and see if we can see the police car coming.’
‘Cool! Will they let us turn the siren on like last time?’ Silver bounds ahead of her.
Frankie assures him they will.
*
A much calmer Frankie tells the police of their day, explaining the relationship to Camilla. The young officers refrain from showing surprise at Brandon’s extramarital affair. A part of Frankie is angry they refuse to share her outrage, as if this kind of furious attack occurred every day.
‘Did Miss Fernandes have her own key?’ the constable directs at Brandon.
Frankie looks to Brandon, confident the answer is no. But Brandon, sunk in by humiliation, shakes his head, saying something no one can hear.
‘Can you repeat that please, sir,’ asks the polite young officer.
Frankie wonders if cases like this make it worth being rostered on Christmas Day. Whether they will go back to the station and laugh at her humiliation.
Brandon clears his throat. ‘She knows where the spare key is hidden.’ He can’t believe he’s been such a fool. When they first moved to Rosedale he was so angry at Frankie that he’d sought revenge in allowing Camilla to visit. The sex didn’t thrill him half as much as slipping beneath Frankie’s radar, undermining the control she thought she had over him. He lied to Frankie about so much, including that Camilla had never been here when the twins were home. But ever since that day Silver caught him and Camilla kissing, only kissing thank God, Brandon had been trying to push her away. She wasn’t worth the price of his family. He’d thought he’d handled it well. Clearly he was wrong.
‘Can you show us where it is, sir?’
They traipse down to the garage, along the side path to the vents in the brickwork. The constable squats and examines the alcove, taking photos with his phone. ‘So she let herself in?’ Standing, he inclines his head towards the fence. ‘What about the neighbours?’
Frankie’s first reaction is that he is suggesting the Hills are in cahoots with Camilla, but then he says, ‘Might they have seen or heard something?’
His colleague grabs the fence and shakes it. ‘New fence,’ he says.
Frankie nods.
They leave soon after, promising the detectives will follow. ‘Whatever you do, don’t try to contact Miss Fernandes. She might be volatile and do something regretful.’
As if she has not already, Frankie thinks.
She watches them cross over to the Hills. Frankie wonders if they, like the dogs, are so used to Camilla popping in that they wouldn’t react. It chills her to think that they knew how Brandon spent his day whilst she was at work.
Desperate to escape, she tells Brandon that she is taking the kids to the beach. ‘Once the fingerprint people have finished, you can make a start on this,’ she waves her arm to encompass the broken glass, the smashed china, the ruined Christmas presents and that violating red paint.
The children are subdued as she drives. The twins are old enough to realise something terrible has happened. Her poor children, caught in the crossfire of an unhappy marriage. And all because of Brandon. The question repeats in her head, why? What is wrong with him? He’s lied to her, been unfaithful. Not once has he said, ‘This isn’t working for me’. How can she be expected to fix things when she doesn’t know what is wrong? What has Camilla got that she hasn’t, that makes her so irresistible, and what on earth went on between them to trigger such an attack? Those awful words on the wall blaming her, calling her names. What has Brandon said about her to make Camilla write such filth? How dare Camilla think she has the right to cast judgement on their marriage.
Balmoral is crowded, its parks populated with people celebrating Christmas. Frankie breathes in the salty fresh air and it eases her pain. The children build sandcastles. Amber directs Marigold to collect shells and Silver uses the bucket from the set Noelle gave them for Christmas to fill a moat around their castle. Happy. They might move here, she thinks, her and the children, after the baby’s born. How nice to come to the seashore and dip in the waveless waters of Balmoral. There are good schools nearby and she’d be driving against the traffic to work. A fresh start. It’s what she should have done the first time instead of listening to her mother. Moving to Rosedale has not been the wake-up call Brandon needed. If anything, it has made him more miserable and she’s never enjoyed that smug feeling of vindication. Not for one moment. If anything, her insistence on the move to Rosedale has compounded their problems. In a way, she has pushed him into Camilla’s arms. She sees that now.
Frankie helps Bijoux make starfish shapes with her plastic mould. Dear little Joux-Joux oblivious to the calamitous downfall of her parents’ marriage or that she was supposed to fix it. Pregnant with the twins, Frankie and Brandon had believed they were the vanguard of the new world order. She would be the breadwinner, he would raise the children. Brandon had jumped at the chance. Neither of them questioned how much he relished the prospect of hanging out with his growing crew. ‘It’ll be a great life,’ he’d said. ‘Yes,’ she’d replied, relieved to keep her career. But she knew something he did not. That being at home full-time was a lot more repetitive and boring than he realised. That the reason women organised relentless play dates and visits to the park was so that there was at least one small chunk of their day where they could commune with other a
dults. That great freedom Brandon envisaged when he accepted the mantle of house husband had ended up shackling him to a life of monotony. And now they had both paid the price.
She hadn’t been able to let Brandon run things his own way. In the face of his hopeless disorganisation, Frankie had stepped in. But was there more to it than that? Had her need to interfere in the running of the household been more about managing her own guilt than Brandon’s ineptitude? Was cleaning bathrooms some sort of atonement for her absence as a mother? Or to show Brandon that she could muck in with the best of them? Had helping out morphed into taking over? Her inability to step back must have come from somewhere. She thinks of her mother. ‘There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Francesca,’ as Noelle disinfected the kitchen benches with pure vodka, a habit left over from her flying days. Twelve-year-old Francesca was ironing the school uniforms, struggling with the fiddly box pleats of the tunics. Spraying on the starch, making sure the iron was set to the right level for the steam to set the pleats. When her mother examined her efforts and noted Frankie’s failure to stick to the line of the pleats so they now bent to one side, she sighed, saying, ‘It will have to be done again.’ Spraying water on the tunics, Noelle took the iron from her, adding, ‘I don’t know how many times I am expected to show you, Francesca. You really are hopeless.’
Shaking off the memory, Frankie calls the children over and suggests fish and chips. Pulling their Christmas outfits over their salty bodies, she watches them race down the beach towards the cafe. This afternoon has calmed her. In a funny way, the awfulness of coming home today and finding a lunatic had rampaged through her house has offered the opportunity for clarity.
She should never have listened to her mother. It’s her fault they went down this path. Frankie’s fault for believing Noelle’s advice was sound. She’s made a complete mess of her marriage. If only she had let Brandon run things his own way. Stopped trying to control the inevitable chaos of life with four children. Now five. Punishing Brandon for being an inadequate wife instead of praising him for being a brilliant dad. A better dad than she is a mother. No wonder he doesn’t want to be with her. She’s turned into a complete bitch. She’s brought this whole catastrophe upon herself.
Whilst Camilla’s message made it clear that she and Brandon are over, it’s come too late to save Frankie’s marriage. It hurts though, to think Brandon ever wanted Camilla in his life. That she must have been so horrible to live with that he preferred to be with a woman capable of such nastiness. Now all she and Brandon have to do is endure the next six months. Six months and he will be free to live life as he wishes. It’s pointless to dwell on it, what’s done is done. Pushing the thought away, Frankie doles out chips to four hungry sets of fingers. But since they do have to stay in that house for another six months, the first thing she is going to do is install security cameras. Lots of them.
Outback + Outdoors
January In the Garden with Gwen Hill
Summertime at the beach: swimming, fishing, surfing, making the most of the long hot days. Whilst it’s imperative to keep the water up to the garden, front of mind should also be the fertility of your soil. Here the sea is your inspiration because seaweed, sea water and sand all improve your garden’s health.
Seaweed is nature’s soil conditioner. The amazing thing about seaweed is that it rejects salt, which means you can put it straight on your garden without washing it. It breaks down quickly, so spread it around thickly but be careful with the acid lovers, like your camellias and azaleas – they won’t like the bits of sand and sea creatures that might be lurking within the weed.
Undiluted sea water can be used as a weedkiller and, heavily watered down, used directly on your plants as a tonic because it contains trace elements.
So next time you’re by the seaside, grab a bag of seaweed and a bucket of sea water and bring the beach home to your garden.
Tip of the month
Container plants, especially those in terracotta pots, are at their most vulnerable over the long summer months. It’s a mistake to stand them in saucers of water as this encourages root rot and provides the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. It’s best to move them to a spot out of the westerly sun and keep them mulched to conserve moisture. Instead of water, use damp sand to keep your pots cool – your plants will thank you for it, even if the mozzies don’t!
Gwen’s January
Gwen is worried about her trees. Since she transplanted them, two have died and three look like they are on their last legs. It’s a sorry business all round. She’s standing there wondering how she might save them when Diane’s Volvo pulls into the drive. Out scramble Molly and Jasper, Molly carrying her precious skateboard. Diane waves hello, releasing Lisbeth who squeals to be freed. Simon fetches an enormous box from the boot wrapped in Happy 80th Birthday gift paper.
‘My goodness, dear, what have you bought your father?’ Gwen says, kissing Diane’s cheek then Simon’s.
‘It’s a surprise. Are we the first ones here? I thought we were running late. You did say noon, didn’t you?’
Gwen hugs each of her grandchildren in turn, saying, ‘Jonathon’s going via the caterers. Vanessa’s ordered canapés.’
Diane pulls a face. ‘Sounds fancy.’
Gwen takes the bowl of fruit salad from her. ‘You know Vanessa, she never does things by halves.’ Although at least her daughter-in-law can be relied upon to make an effort.
Diane shields her eyes from the sun. ‘God, Mum, when did they go up?’
She is pointing at the security cameras next door. There are five in total. One above the garage door, two aimed across the front verandah and another two capture the side path. There might be more but Gwen daren’t be caught on film checking over the back fence.
‘About a week ago,’ she says. ‘They’re quite intimidating, aren’t they? I’ve no idea how wide an angle they capture but I don’t like the thought of them filming our business.’
‘They’re not spying on you surely? I mean, the fence is up, you can’t see into their yard anymore. Why do they need cameras as well?’
Gwen turns away from the cameras, whispering, ‘They had a break-in on Christmas Day.’
‘No!’
She nods. ‘The police were called.’
‘Gosh, those two must be on first name terms with the cops by now.’ Diane fetches the nappy bag and passes Lisbeth her drink bottle. The little girl then toddles over to the snail paddocks and upends the contents on the plants.
‘Nanna, is it all right if I ride my skateboard on the driveway?’ Molly asks.
‘Wait till your father’s moved the car, Mol,’ Diane says, ‘then you can skate your heart out.’
Retrieving the bottle from Lisbeth, Diane shoves it back in the nappy bag and, taking her youngest’s hand, leads the way to the house.
‘Do you know what happened?’ she asks once she’s deposited Lisbeth on the kitchen floor.
Gwen fetches a jug of iced tea from the fridge and pours them both a glass.
‘Thanks, Mum. Where’s Dad? Isn’t he ready yet?’
Gwen hasn’t shared her concerns about Eric. The test results came back from the doctor and it turns out he has vascular dementia. She knows the news will upset Diane, it upsets her. Age brings with it the acceptance that something inevitably will go wrong with your health. Eric and she both agree that a short, sharp death is preferable to a lingering one. Gwen’s hoping she’ll die in her sleep but will take a knockout blow from a heart attack or a stroke if she has to. But not yet, they’re still young. She wants to see her grandchildren grow up, maybe even become a great-grandmother. Eric, at least when he behaves like his old self, is planning one last big trip. He wants to hire a mobile home and tour Tasmania, especially to see the model town of Old Hobart Town in Richmond. But Gwen doesn’t think they’ll be able to now. The years ahead are dark with uncertainty. She’s decide
d she won’t think about it. She’ll take one day at a time, that way she can play down that he isn’t his old self at all.
‘He decided he needed another shower. God knows why, but there you go. Anyway, the police came here afterwards.’
‘And?’
‘They wanted to know if we’d seen any unusual activity on Christmas Day. I pointed out that since the fence went up, the chances of us seeing anything were slim. How would we know who was coming and going?’
Diane pulls ice-cream out of the nappy bag and begins rearranging the freezer to fit it in. ‘Do they know who it was?’
Gwen nods, a wicked smile tracing her lips. ‘His girlfriend.’
Diane turns from the fridge, a packet of peas in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. ‘He has a girlfriend?’
Gwen takes the peas and shoves them on the bottom shelf, putting the ice-cream in their place. ‘Had a girlfriend. I don’t suppose you’d want her as a girlfriend after what she did to the house.’ Diane passes her the bread and Gwen squeezes it in above the trays of ice. She shuts the freezer door with a satisfying thump.
‘What did she do?’
Gwen relays the gist of her conversation with the police. About the beaten-up red car that regularly parked out the front. How she thinks she remembers seeing it parked there on Christmas Day but hadn’t given it much thought as it was there so often. There had been a racket, but wasn’t there always?
‘So are you telling me that whilst the kids were at Gumnut, he was doing the business with this girl? Gawd!’ Diane opens the fridge to put in the fruit salad she’d made for dessert and sees the chocolate cake. She swipes a finger in the icing and sucks it. ‘Yum, ganache.’
Gwen smacks her hand away and closes the fridge door. ‘Double chocolate. Cocoa in the batter and a dark chocolate ganache. I’m going to garnish it with raspberries before I serve.’
The Fence Page 19