The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  Diane selects tomatoes from the windowsill and starts slicing them for salad. ‘So is that why they’ve put in the security cameras? Are they worried she might come back?’ She pauses. ‘Haven’t they arrested her?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. No one tells us anything.’

  Gwen assembles cutlery. ‘If they hadn’t insisted on building that stupid fence, there’d be no reason for cameras. This is a quiet neighbourhood, anything unusual gets noticed. Remember I used to be on the neighbourhood watch committee, but Val only saw it as an excuse for cake and Babs was never here. Since the Desmarchelliers turned their place into Fort Knox, you can’t see much anymore.’

  ‘Yoo-hoo, we’re here,’ Vanessa sings out from the front door.

  Diane goes to welcome her and Eric wanders into the kitchen. ‘I can’t find my glasses, Gwennie,’ he says.

  ‘They’re on your head, silly,’ Gwen says out of habit then looks up and starts. ‘Eric, what are you wearing?’

  Eric wears his dinner suit, complete with a ruffled shirt and a black velvet bow tie. He smooths the lapels of the jacket. ‘It’s my birthday, Gwennie. I thought I’d dress up.’

  Gwen examines the suit, a little tight around the middle, shiny on the knees. It must be ten years since he’d last worn it at Diane’s wedding. There’s a moth hole in one of the sleeves. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘you look very handsome, dear. The kids will be pleased to see you’ve gone to such an effort.’ No, they bloody won’t, she thinks, they’ll think you’re losing your marbles and they won’t be far off the mark. Dear, oh dear, today of all days, she had hoped Eric might be well enough to enjoy the celebrations. Pushing the thought aside, she says, ‘But you might want to do up your buttons properly, you’ve missed a hole.’

  As Eric fumbles with his buttons, Vanessa comes in, kissing Gwen on both cheeks. ‘You never told me that Frankie Desmarchelliers was your next-door neighbour.’ Vanessa’s eyes are wide. ‘I just saw her with a tribe of children in a multivan.’

  Gwen frowns. Why would she mention her neighbours to Vanessa?

  ‘We used to go to school together. One of her sisters was in my year. How weird that she’d end up being next-door neighbours to my in-laws!’ Vanessa waves her hand over her phone’s screen as if performing magic. ‘We did The Importance of Being Earnest one year. I played Gwendolen Fairfax, of course,’ here Vanessa presses a hand to her breast, ‘and Frankie was Lady Bracknell. Look, here’s some photos I dug up for the last school reunion.’ Vanessa flicks her screen, filling it with images of her and Francesca.

  How young they look, thinks Gwen. Fresh-faced, full of idealism and a blithe hope that their futures are bright. Francesca was an attractive young woman, with luscious hair and a lovely smile, though Rubenesque even then. ‘She’s very different now,’ she says.

  ‘Oh really? I think she looks marvellous. She was always a big girl but carries it well.’

  Unlike you, you stick insect, thinks Gwen. You’ll regret being thin when you’re older and all your wrinkles show. ‘Stop it, Gwennie,’ Babs pops up in her thoughts. ‘Don’t be so uncharitable.’ How Gwen wishes Babs were here today. At least Val is coming. She always knows how to jolly along an occasion.

  Eric stands at the front door blocking Jonathon’s entrance. ‘Are you expecting someone, Dad?’ Jonathon asks, juggling the trays of canapés atop a case of champagne. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he calls over Eric’s shoulder as Gwen comes to help.

  Eric starts and frowns at Jonathon, trying to recall whether he knows this young chap. He does seem familiar. ‘I thought she’d be here by now,’ he says, checking his watch though he’s not wearing one. ‘Have you the time, son?’ he asks the young man.

  Jonathon adjusts the weight of the trays and the box so he can read his watch. ‘Twelve thirty, Dad.’

  Eric taps his wrist, ‘Mine’s a bit slow then,’ and pushes past Jonathon to look outside.

  ‘But who are you waiting for, Dad? I thought today was just family,’ Jonathon asks, looking at Gwen for confirmation.

  ‘Marilyn!’ Eric snaps. ‘She promised me she’d come. I’ve dressed especially.’

  Jonathon shakes his head. ‘Where do you want these, Mum?’ He goes through to the kitchen and Gwen can hear him telling Vanessa that Jack is having a go on Molly’s skateboard. ‘It won’t be me taking him to the hospital if he breaks his arm, Jonno,’ she hears her daughter-in-law replying. Eric remains out the front, searching for this Marilyn woman.

  As they gather outside for lunch, Eric insists the chair next to him be kept vacant for Marilyn. Diane whispers in Gwen’s ear, ‘I thought you said Dad was okay.’

  ‘He is, dear,’ Gwen says, spooning pasta salad onto the children’s plates.

  But she can’t deny it’s odd putting out a plate and champagne for Marilyn. Diane stares first at her father and then at Gwen but Gwen is not dealing with this today. It’s Eric’s birthday after all.

  Throughout lunch Eric chats to his absent guest, bursting into laughter at odd intervals. Personally, he thinks they’re all being terribly rude to Marilyn, ignoring her and leaving it up to him to entertain her.

  ‘Would your lady friend like a spot of potato bake?’ Val asks, offering the aluminium tray and spoon, her cleavage wobbling with mirth.

  Oh now she makes an effort, thinks Eric. He’d never say it to Val’s face because he’d hate to hurt her feelings but the woman can’t cook an egg without ruining it. Best to answer on Marilyn’s behalf before Val dumps a lump on her plate. ‘No thanks, Val, Marilyn doesn’t eat carbohydrates.’ He leans forward and whispers in Val’s ear, ‘They’re not good for the figure. They make you fat.’

  Val blushes and turns and offers the tray to Vanessa. Gwen knows that Val, like her, thinks Jonathon’s skinny wife could do with a few extra pounds.

  Eric’s in the middle of telling Marilyn the story about the Queen’s Birthday weekend cracker night. ‘I think it was 1972 or thereabouts. Val’s Keith, Val’s the one in that sequinned thing next to you, yes, it is quite awful, isn’t it? Anyway, you’re going to laugh yourself silly at this, Keith being a toy importer had managed to get pounds of fireworks. The whole street was looking forward to the best cracker night ever.’

  ‘Poppa.’ Molly stands next to him holding out a bottle of soft drink. ‘Can you open this for me?’

  Eric can’t be cranky at the little girl but he can’t help wondering where she’s come from and who she belongs to. That’s the thing about this street though. Always kids coming and going.

  ‘Go on, Eric,’ Val encourages, ‘get to the good bit where Keith burnt his eyebrows off and the Catherine wheel got stuck up the tree.’

  ‘For God’s sakes, Val,’ Eric hisses, ‘now you’ve ruined the punchline. Sorry, Marilyn, some people have no manners,’ he says, shooting Val a pointed look but she’s already turned away and is telling Gwen about Luke’s new girlfriend.

  Gwen invests all her attention to Val’s news, all the better to block out Eric’s bizarre behaviour.

  After lunch, Jonathon and Diane bring out boxes of gaily wrapped gifts. Eric leans over and has an earnest conversation with the vacant chair. ‘Finally, Marilyn, they’ve decided to acknowledge you. No, don’t ask me why they’ve brought you presents but it’s the least they can do since you’ve come all this way. I hope it’s something nice.’

  The children think this is hilarious. Gwen laughs along, pretending Eric is hamming it up for their benefit.

  ‘Who is Marilyn anyway?’ Vanessa says with an anxious smile. Gwen can tell she thinks there is some joke they are excluding her from. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met her.’

  ‘Oh an old friend of ours from when we were first married,’ Gwen improvises. ‘More champagne?’ but Vanessa waves her away.

  Diane is less easily fobbed off. ‘Really, Mum?’ she says, extending her own glass. ‘I don’t recall her ever being mentioned. S
he must be important given Dad’s spent the entire lunch talking to her.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear.’ Gwen rushes to top up Simon and Jonathon’s glasses. They are the only two oblivious to Eric’s performance having spent lunch discussing why golf is damaging to the spine. ‘He’s just chatting to himself. He gets a bit flustered with so many people about. He is eighty, you know. No spring chicken.’

  ‘Are we going to sing “Happy Birthday”?’ Eric shouts, silencing the table.

  ‘Not yet, dear.’ Gwen pours a dribble into Eric’s glass but he frowns at her. Sighing, she fills it to the brim. When he keeps frowning at her, she splashes champagne into Marilyn’s glass too.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive my wife,’ Eric whispers to the empty chair, ‘she has a jealous streak.’ Marilyn whispers to him, ‘I once took a bath in champagne. Do you know it took 350 bottles to fill it up?’ Eric blushes and pats her imaginary knee. ‘Now, dear, don’t go planting such naughty thoughts in an old man’s head.’

  ‘Why don’t you open the presents, dear,’ Gwen snaps at him.

  ‘Yes, Dad, open your presents so we can have the cake,’ says Diane, who to Gwen’s eye is rather enjoying this charade. Perhaps she’s had too much champagne as well.

  ‘Then we’ll sing “Happy Birthday”,’ says Gwen, gesturing to the children to bring their grandfather his gifts.

  Eric harrumphs. ‘I don’t know why they’re making such a fuss of me. I don’t even know who half of them are!’

  Marilyn whispers, ‘Eric, if I’m lucky enough to make it to eighty, I don’t care who’s there to help me celebrate.’

  Her reply sets him laughing and wagging his finger at the vacant chair. The children snigger until Diane uses her teacher’s voice and tells them to behave.

  Gwen drops into her chair, overwhelmed by the strain. There is a tight kernel of a headache forming in the base of her skull. This is not how she envisaged the day unfolding. They are supposed to be celebrating a milestone birthday in Eric’s long and happy life. But she can’t help thinking that this might be the last celebration. Eric’s illness is overtaking him. Next year, when he’s eighty-one, will he remember that it is his birthday, will he remember today? There are so many milestones in a marriage as long as theirs. Will he remember their wedding day, their honeymoon at Seal Rocks, the birth of their children, their grandchildren, the look on Diane’s face when they gave her the keys to that VW Beetle when she turned eighteen. Jonno in his mortarboard, the first member of either family to go to university let alone graduate. Gwen swallows back tears, will Eric even remember who she is?

  On Marilyn’s insistence, one after the other, Eric tears the wrapping paper from the gifts, almost damaging some in his rush to get it over and done with. He barely glances at any of them.

  The largest one, from Diane, is a framed montage of Eric’s life. The children have each written a Dear Grandpa letter and drawn pictures of Eric. Surrounding the letters are photos of them with their grandfather at various stages of their lives. In addition, Diane has made a book called This Is Your Life, and in it are birthday wishes from all sorts of people they have known over the years. There’s a photo taken at one of Val and Keith’s annual New Year’s Eve parties, Eric and Keith both looking the worse for wear and Val squeezed between them. Babs, rest her soul, has a whole page to herself. There’s a photo of her in one of her ubiquitous caftans and underneath Diane has written one of Babs’ oft used phrases, ‘You’re a real card, Eric Hill’.

  Eric flicks through the book. He has no idea who any of these people are. The bird in the caftan looks vaguely familiar but he can’t put a name to the face. He shoves it under his chair. Looking up he realises everyone is staring at him. Uncomfortable, he glances at Marilyn who says, will there be cake? Eric shrugs. ‘I don’t know, dear, why don’t I ask?’ Turning, he shouts out, ‘Can we have cake now?’

  Gwen places a comforting hand on Diane’s knee. ‘It’s a really thoughtful gift, dear. I’m sure he’ll look at it later when he’s not so overexcited.’

  Diane waves her glass at Simon who rushes to top it up. Gwen wishes she could overindulge too but this afternoon is sliding out of control.

  She slips inside, ostensibly to get the cake ready but really so she can have a moment to herself. In the kitchen drawer she finds a packet of painkillers and takes three. They taste disgusting but she is beyond caring. She just wants to get this afternoon over and done with. Give Eric his cake, sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and then shuffle everyone out the door before he does goodness knows what.

  Scattering raspberries over the chocolate ganache, Gwen places a single candle in the middle. She cups her hand around it as she lights it so the flame won’t blow out. The plate is rather heavy for her to carry one-handed but if she takes her time, she should be fine. Edging the sliding door open with her foot, she stands in the doorway, balancing the cake in one hand, protecting the flame with the other, and waits for everyone to sing.

  Diane is standing at the end of the table taking photos of the birthday boy. Vanessa holds her phone up recording Gwen’s arrival. Jonathon and Simon raise their glasses. The children form a semi-circle around their grandfather. And in that moment, in that briefest of moments, Eric begins to sing. Everyone freezes mid-action, except Vanessa, who swivels around filming Eric’s rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Eric rises to his feet, gesturing with one arm in a sexy, languorous way. He swivels his hips and preens for Vanessa as he delivers a breathy rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ in a sultry falsetto. It’s an appalling imitation of his fictitious guest. Gwen remembers seeing the footage on the tellie. It was the early sixties. She and Eric watched it, him in his dinner suit, her in a sequinned dress that left nothing to the imagination. That is who Eric has been flirting with throughout lunch. The Marilyn who has not touched a morsel of food on her plate nor drunk her champagne, who has listened to Eric’s jokes and asides in Gwen’s back garden, is Marilyn Monroe.

  Stunned, Gwen trips over the step. The tray tilts, sending the cake splattering over the tiles. Great chunks of cake spread around her and ganache smears the cream tiles. She watches the raspberries roll under the table, wondering what she can say about Eric to Diane and Jonathon now. How unwell their father really is. He’s ruined his own birthday party. Made a goose of himself. No one will ever forget it, that’s for sure. Eric’s eightieth. The day Dad channelled Marilyn Monroe. And blasted Vanessa has captured the whole fiasco on her stupid phone, no doubt itching to upload it and share it with her 693 bloody Facebook bloody friends.

  A great barking comes up the side path and Peanut and Butter erupt into the garden, gambolling and skidding across the tiles, heading straight for the cake. Before anyone thinks to stop them, they have gobbled the lot. Cake, raspberries and chocolate ganache demolished in seconds. They lick the icing from the tiles with their lolling pink tongues, tails wagging, their brown eyes smiling. When they are done, they sniff around the table searching for leftovers and from over the fence, Gwen hears their names called.

  ‘Peanut! Butter!’ Francesca shouts. ‘Who left the side gate open?’ she scolds her children. ‘Where’s Amber got to? Amber! Amber!’

  Hearing their names, the dogs gallop back down the side path. Simon rushes after them to shut the gate. Gwen, realising she still holds the cake plate, goes inside and puts it on the kitchen bench. Hands trembling, she checks the pantry to see if she has anything she can whip up for dessert.

  Jonathon walks past her. ‘I might put some music on, hey, Mum?’

  Gwen knows what he means. Anything to hide the appalled silence. Diane rests her hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum,’ she says gently. ‘There’s the fruit salad, remember? We can have that with ice-cream instead.’

  Gwen nods, springing back to life. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘the children will probably prefer that anyway.’

  Diane
squeezes her shoulder. They stand there, looking out the kitchen window where Simon is telling Vanessa some story. She listens with the kind of avid attention reserved for occasions when one is avoiding talking about the one thing everyone wishes they could. Jonathon joins them and the sound of Burt Bacharach drifts out after him. The children have run off after the dogs. Eric is trying to undo his bow tie, pulling wretchedly at his neck.

  ‘I should clear the table first,’ Gwen says, grabbing the sponge and rinsing it under the tap.

  Diane puts a hand on her arm to stop her. At her touch Gwen bursts into tears. She feels so helpless in the face of Eric’s illness. If he had physical pain, she could soothe it but this mental anguish, the way the real Eric is locked away in a part of his brain she cannot access, makes her powerless. The doctor has given her the facts of Eric’s impending decline but they don’t stop the hurt at knowing that she will become a stranger to him. The man she has loved and laughed with for over fifty years is leaving her. ‘He’s not going to get better, is he?’ she cries.

  ‘I can ring the doctor if you like?’ Diane takes the sponge from her mother’s hand and turns off the hot water.

  Gwen shakes her head. ‘It’s Sunday. He doesn’t do house calls anymore. I’ll ring the surgery in the morning.’

  ‘I think he’ll make an exception for you. I’ll call him now.’

  Gwen hears Diane in the hallway. Hears her confirm that they’ll be there in half an hour. When she returns, Diane says, ‘I can come with you if you like, for the company.’

  Gwen pats dry her damp cheeks. ‘No, dear. We’ll manage. He probably just needs to adjust Eric’s medication.’

  The doctor says Eric’s blood sugar is very low. Gwen thinks of the wasted cake. Previous tests for diabetes were negative. This drop in blood sugar is asymptomatic but fixable, says the doctor. Eric is morose on the drive home. He remains silent until they are in the kitchen and Gwen puts the kettle on. When she turns around, Eric is glaring at her. He says, ‘You’ve killed her, you know.’