The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  A chill settles on Gwen. ‘Killed who, dear?’ she says as evenly as possible.

  ‘Marilyn,’ he shouts. ‘You killed my goddess,’ and he stomps out of the room and down to his workshop.

  Gwen doesn’t know what to think. She empties the dish­washer Diane ran whilst they were out. She notices Diane has pinned a note on the fridge.

  ‘Ring me when you get in,’ it says. ‘Also, Molly can’t find her skateboard anywhere. If you find it can you let me know? She’s beside herself.’

  She’s not the only one, Gwen thinks, walking to the telephone table.

  Frankie’s January

  Peanut and Butter run into the house, yapping, tails wagging. Seeing Frankie on her hands and knees in the kitchen, the dogs jump on her, licking her face in appreciation. ‘Get off you disgusting creatures,’ Frankie says, pushing them away. A globule of blood oozes from her finger and she runs it under the tap before removing a needle of broken china. Despite Brandon’s efforts, she keeps finding these tiny shards. That’s what she was doing after calling the dogs, searching for fragments hidden in the crevices. Fragments waiting for curious fingers in which to lodge themselves.

  From the garage erupts the sounds of Amber and Marigold screeching the lyrics to an Asian pop version of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’. The karaoke machine survived the Christmas Catastrophe, as she now refers to it. The police found the Santa sacks, complete with toys, strewn along Mona Vale Road as if they had been thrown from a moving vehicle. But Frankie didn’t want them back. They were as tainted as Christmas Day itself. Long after she and Brandon are divorced, long after the kids have forgotten all about it, she can see herself sitting on a new leather couch, with a plush rug between her toes and a glass of champagne, because she won’t be five months pregnant, and she’ll remember. Remember walking in and seeing Silver’s drum kit pierced by a tree branch. Remember how Camilla had taken the time to remove each and every glass bauble from the Christmas tree and smash them to pieces leaving the floor glittering with lethal shards. Remember the letter she wrote to Brandon painted in Dulux Red Box high gloss on the feature wall.

  Frankie sighs and searches the kitchen drawer for a bandaid. The Hills have visitors today. Their grandchildren rode their skateboards up and down the drive for hours. She’s been avoiding the backyard as they’re out there having some kind of celebration. But it seems quieter now and, if nothing else, the karaoke performance is wonderful payback. She should have suggested it to the children earlier.

  Peanut and Butter are drinking their water bowl dry. ‘Oh, you poor things,’ Frankie says, refilling the bowl. ‘It’s a bit hot today, isn’t it?’

  She checks on Bijoux who is waking from her nap, sticky with heat. Frankie changes her into a pair of Hush Hush Swim Pantz before putting on her own costume and taking her out to the pool. She picks a shady corner. The neighbours behind them have a native garden with lovely gums and lilly pillies that provide enough shade in summer for Frankie not to bother with sunscreen. She notices the mulberry tree next door seems to have recovered from whatever made it die off. ‘That tree won’t give up, like our neighbours,’ she sings to Bijoux, who gurgles and replies in a string of unintelligible babble.

  Above the noise of the karaoke machine and Bijoux’s babbling, Frankie hears the sound of a table being cleared and Diane Slaughter talking to a man. Not that she’s eavesdropping, but snatches of their conversation carry. Something about dementia, Marilyn Monroe and a dinner suit. Piecing it together, Frankie’s certain they’re discussing the old man. It wouldn’t surprise her if he did have dementia. What sane person would build a snail farm in his front yard. She’d rung the council about it three times.

  ‘But it must be illegal to farm snails in a suburban garden,’ she’d almost screamed at the clerk in frustration. ‘There must be zoning regulations preventing this kind of agricultural activity. What if they escape?’

  She didn’t mean to say that, it just popped out. There was silence at the other end of the phone. Was she on mute? ‘Hello?’ she inquired.

  There was a definite pause between her hello and the lady saying, ‘Yes, I’m here, Mrs Desmarchelliers.’

  Frankie heard the laughter infecting the woman’s voice. ‘It’s not funny,’ she’d said. ‘If the snails escape, there will be thousands of them slithering across the lawn and onto the street. We have small children. What if they slipped and fell?’

  To which the rude clerk had replied, ‘Maybe you should think about putting up a fence.’

  ‘I’ve already done that, thank you,’ Frankie said, slamming down the phone.

  Frankie blows bubbles in the water and Bijoux crows. Every time she rings the council about the neighbours, she is greeted with this rude bureaucratic inertia. There is a reason people like that work in councils because they wouldn’t get a job in the real world. They’d certainly never get a job working for her.

  Cooler now, Frankie wraps Bijoux in a towel. ‘Shall we get an ice block, Joux-Joux, would that be nice?’ she says, nuzzling the warm folds of Bijoux’s neck. They pass by the dogs sprawled on the deck, fast asleep, their bellies tight balls of pale skin beneath the fur. Their water bowl is empty again so Frankie refills it before taking Bijoux inside.

  It is Brandon who first notices that something is wrong with Peanut and Butter. Whilst she’s been swimming, he’s been planting their new apple tree in a sunny corner of the front yard. Since Christmas, this is how they avoid confrontation. When Frankie enters a room, Brandon leaves. When she is in the backyard, he retreats to the front. It’s a working truce. It’s not what he wants. As humiliating as the whole debacle with Camilla is, what he wants is to find a way to move forward, stay together. When Brandon comes through the sliding doors, Frankie is chopping carrots for the children’s afternoon tea.

  Brandon approaches Frankie with care. Her anger is a simmering brew that boils over at the slightest provocation. When Frankie said he could stay until after the baby was born, he was relieved. It gave him four months to try and make amends, if that was at all possible, and to hope that Frankie’s hurt and anger might cool. He deserved life without Frankie but can’t bear repeating those months without his children. Selfish as it is, he doesn’t want to give up either. He never expected Frankie’s pain to become his. He says, ‘One of the dogs has chucked on the side path. At least, I hope it’s one of the dogs.’

  Frankie follows him outside to see for herself. The smell is nauseating. ‘Hose it off, it stinks.’

  Now the dogs are running around the trampoline in manic circles. Their water bowl is empty again, so Frankie refills it.

  ‘Oh no,’ says Brandon, hose in hand.

  ‘What?’ She spins around to see poor Butter squatting on the lawn with terrible diarrhoea. Peanut chases her tail, snapping as if being bitten. She stops long enough to vomit.

  ‘It’s like they’ve been poisoned,’ says Brandon, turning the hose on the fresh patch of vomit.

  From next door, a child starts screaming about something missing. A man is asking her to calm down. Next door, Frankie thinks. The Hills don’t like Peanut and Butter. The old lady complains about the dogs pooping on the lawn and digging up her garden. They say when the Desmarchelliers are out that the dogs bark nonstop. The dogs never bark. If they did, Camilla might not have attempted the Christmas Catastrophe. Even with the fence built, and the dogs contained, Mrs Hill continues harassing them. She puts pamphlets in the letterbox about debarking your dog or toys to keep your pups busy whilst Mum and Dad are out. It must be her, otherwise it is a strange coincidence that these flyers started turning up right after Mr Hill popped over to tell them he had caught Peanut and Butter in the workshop eating sawdust. ‘Keep the garage door locked then,’ Frankie had said before closing the door in his face. Opening it again, she added, ‘And you know you’re trespassing. Don’t make me call the police.’

  Now this. What sort of despicable pers
on harms an innocent pet as an act of retaliation? And if they’re prepared to stoop that low, Frankie shudders to think what they might do to the children.

  ‘I think we should call the vet,’ Frankie says.

  ‘It’s Sunday, will they be open?’ Brandon refills the water bowl before turning off the hose.

  ‘For God’s sakes, Brandon. You just said the dogs have been poisoned. Tell the vet I’m bringing them in.’

  ‘Mummy?’ Amber comes up the side path. Peanut and Butter are whining and running in circles. Amber begins to cry. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  Frankie looks at Brandon. He shakes his head, as if she needs warning not to tell Amber the truth. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. The dogs have eaten something that disagrees with their tummies. Mummy’s going to take them to the vet and he’ll make them all better.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Amber’s bottom lip trembles.

  ‘No, sweetheart. Stay here with Daddy.’ Amber is far too young to witness such suffering.

  Amber clutches Frankie’s skirt. ‘I want to come too.’

  ‘Stop wasting time arguing and just take her, Frankie,’ Brandon pleads, placing a tarpaulin on the floor of the boot.

  Frankie glares at him. He’s treading a very fine line using that tone with her.

  Amber sits in the car, tears damp on her face. Frankie winds down all the windows to combat the stench of vomit and diarrhoea but it does nothing to alleviate her own nausea.

  Though the journey only takes fifteen minutes, by the time they arrive at the clinic, the dogs’ condition has worsened. Peanut continues vomiting and has unending diarrhoea. Butter whines and shakes, lying along the back seat, his eyes glazed with pain. The vet and his nurse help carry the dogs through to the surgery. By the concerned look on the vet’s face, Frankie knows she’s done the right thing. He checks the dogs’ hearts and shines a light in their eyes, ordering the nurse to set up IVs.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ Frankie asks, Amber clutching at her skirt.

  ‘They’ve been poisoned,’ the vet says.

  ‘I knew it.’ God help the Hills now. If either of these dogs die, she’ll have them charged.

  ‘People entertain more at this time of year,’ he continues. ‘It’s easy for dogs to be exposed to foods they wouldn’t normally eat.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, grapes, chocolate, even alcohol if glasses are left lying around.’

  Amber sobs into the folds of Frankie’s skirt.

  Frankie rubs her head. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, the vet will save Peanut and Butter.’

  The vet shoots her a warning look but what does he expect her to say to a four year old?

  ‘I’m giving them medication to control their heart rate and prevent seizures. My guess is they’ve eaten chocolate.’

  ‘Chocolate? Surely they’d have to eat a tonne of it to get this sick?’ she says. At this point, Amber’s sobs turn into wails.

  The vet glances at her. Frankie agrees Amber’s crying isn’t helping the situation and she begs her to calm down.

  The vet says, ‘Breeds like this can be quite greedy, it’s easy for them to overdose.’ He examines Amber’s stricken face. ‘Did you see the dogs eat chocolate?’

  Amber stares at her grubby feet in their thongs.

  ‘Amber?’ Frankie bends over and forces Amber to look her in the eye. ‘Did Peanut and Butter eat any chocolate?’

  Amber snivels and gives a small nod. Frankie takes her hand. ‘Tell Mummy what happened.’

  Amber whispers, ‘Marigold fed them chocolate money.’

  The gold coins Noelle had given the children for Christmas. Frankie had assumed they’d all been eaten. Silver had scoffed his down in one sitting. Although she’s not surprised Marigold’s have survived. After their annual Easter egg hunt, when all the eggs have been found, the children empty their baskets into one big pile and share them out equally. By lunchtime, Amber and Silver’s would be gone but Marigold likes to put hers on her chest of drawers and eat one a day. Weeks after Easter she has eggs left – as long as Amber or Silver haven’t bribed them out of her.

  ‘When did you see her do that?’ Frankie asks. She was so sure it was the Hills. But one of her own?

  Amber shrugs and continues studying her feet.

  ‘When did she give the dogs chocolate, Amber?’ She sounds sterner than she means to but Frankie suspects there is more to this story than Marigold stuffing the dogs with chocolate. It makes no sense.

  ‘The dogs are having a severe toxic reaction, Mrs Desmarchelliers. A few chocolate coins wouldn’t have been enough,’ the vet says. ‘They weigh in at about forty kilos. To be this sick, I’m guessing they’ve been exposed to either dark chocolate or cocoa.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘The levels of theobromine are much higher in unsweetened chocolate which means a small amount will make them severely ill. They’d have to have eaten about a kilo of chocolate coins. Does that seem likely?’

  ‘No. The children only had one net of coins each.’

  ‘Have you had a birthday party with chocolate cake?’

  ‘No, the last birthday we’ve had was the baby’s in December and she’s too little for chocolate.’ Frankie thinks of the party the Hills held today. Some woman had sung ‘Happy Birthday’, she’s sure of it. Turning to Amber, she says, ‘Have the dogs eaten any other chocolate? Apart from Marigold’s coins?’

  Amber looks up from studying her feet. ‘It wasn’t me, Mummy.’

  Frankie rocks on her heels. ‘Well who was it, sweetheart? Was it Silver?’

  Amber hesitates but shakes her head.

  ‘Amber!’ Frankie says.

  Amber whispers her reply.

  ‘Say that again, Amber, I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘Next door,’ Amber whispers.

  ‘You mean the Hills?’

  Amber nods.

  I knew it wasn’t my children, Frankie thinks. Those bloody Hills have deliberately fed her dogs chocolate. Enough to kill them. The police are going to know about this. And the RSPCA. This is cruelty to animals. And the council will have to get involved. There must be regulations preventing neighbours from poisoning pets.

  The vet interrupts her internal rant. ‘The dogs will have to stay overnight, Mrs Desmarchelliers. Peanut is very ill. You need to prepare for the possibility she might not pull through.’

  Frankie stares at him, appalled, before grabbing her phone from her handbag and opening the search engine. ‘This theobromine, is it a registered poison?’

  The vet shakes his head. ‘Not in the sense you mean. Theobromine is a natural chemical found in chocolate. It’s a bit like caffeine but dogs have no tolerance for it which is why it can be lethal.’

  ‘But if someone deliberately feeds a dog a substance they know is poisonous to them, that’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

  The vet hesitates before answering, ‘If it was deliberate, then yes, that could be a criminal offence.’

  The moment they get home, Amber flounces through the door shouting, ‘You’re in big trouble, Goldie.’

  ‘No, she’s not, Amber, you’re not to say that,’ Frankie intervenes. ‘It’s not Marigold’s fault. It’s the Hills’,’ she says to Brandon. ‘The vet reckons the dogs have been poisoned with a lethal dose of theobromine.’

  ‘But how did the dogs get next door? The back gate was locked.’

  Frankie pauses. Brandon’s words have triggered something. She goes back over this afternoon, before she and Bijoux had a swim when she was cleaning up the kitchen. The dogs were out.

  Frankie calls to Amber. ‘When you said the dogs were next door,’ she says gently, ‘do you remember how they got there?’

  Amber sucks in her lip and shrugs.

  ‘Amber, this is important. How did Peanu
t and Butter escape? Did they jump the fence?’

  She doesn’t really think they’d jump the fence but hopes providing the wrong answer might elicit the right one.

  Amber shakes her head.

  ‘Did,’ Frankie exaggerates thinking about alternatives, ‘did someone let them out?’

  Amber slowly nods.

  ‘Oh,’ Frankie frowns as if she too is struggling to figure out the answer, ‘was it Bijoux?’

  Amber glances up at this and shakes her head.

  ‘Was it Silver?’

  Another headshake.

  ‘It must have been Marigold then. Because if it was you, you would have told me straight away, wouldn’t you?’

  Amber returns to studying her feet.

  Frankie is tired of this charade. She already has her answer but says anyway, ‘Amber, I’m guessing it was you who left the side gate open. Am I right?’

  ‘They’re childproof gates, Frankie,’ Brandon cuts in. ‘The kids can’t open them.’

  Frankie snaps, ‘For God’s sakes, Brandon. How many times have I told you those gates aren’t childproof?’

  She returns to Amber. ‘You know how Mummy knows you left the gate open?’

  Amber frowns, her face contorted with misery.

  ‘Mummy knows because Mummy saw it open. Just a little bit,’ she pinches her fingers together to show how small the opening was. ‘Did you go next door, Amber?’

  ‘But the front gates were locked,’ Brandon says. Frankie always thinks she has the answer to everything but she’s not as smart as she makes herself out to be. Like her mother, she rides rough shod over any opinion that disagrees with her own.

  Frankie glares at him. Brandon is such a smart alec but he never thinks things through. It was surely obvious that the front gates can’t have been locked. ‘Why did you want to go next door, sweetheart?’

  ‘To play with the others,’ Amber blurts out.

  The children next door, skateboarding in the Hills’ front yard. Unsupervised.