*
The neighbours are unusually quiet, Gwen thinks, as she potters about the back garden. It is hot yet she can’t hear the children screaming in the swimming pool, banging a tennis ball against the fence or singing bad karaoke in the garage. Their house is still. Their bins have been left out and their letterbox overflows. Strange to go away without making arrangements for such matters but they are very strange people. When Babs was alive, God rest her soul, they always kept an eye out for each other. Watered the garden, brought in the bins, collected the mail. Same with Val when she was away on one of her cruises. Gwen glances at the sky, sees threatening clouds. On this morning’s news, the bureau warned of an east coast low moving in. She doesn’t need the radio to tell her bad weather is coming. The kookaburras chortle their warning, other birds disappear to their nests. This will be a bad storm.
That night, as Gwen lies in bed fretting about the newspaper article, the front arrives. The wind howls, the windows creak. The whole house groans on its foundations. There is a crash as a terracotta pot goes over. The trees whip and whine as the wind shakes them to their roots. Amidst the frenzy she senses a presence at her bedroom door.
‘Mary, I’m frightened,’ Eric says, ‘can I get into bed with you?’
‘Of course,’ Gwen says, shifting over to make room for him. Dressed in the flannelette pyjamas he insists upon despite the hot nights, he is an overgrown version of the little boy he once was. His mind is worsening, she doesn’t need him calling her his mother’s name to confirm that. Eric climbs in and rolls his back to her so she can wrap herself around him. Gwen rests her hands on his strong shoulders, feels him snuggle his bottom into her lap. He feels like Eric, she wishes he was Eric. This dramatic change in personality is frightening. Not the confusion with his mother, but the way he hangs around the house like a lost child, or stands for hours in the garden watching his snails grow. Moments of lucidity are a gift rarely given. And often only when he talks of the past. Today he remembered that caravan trip when the children caught chicken pox.
Every school holidays they went caravanning. They’d pack up the van and off they’d go – north, south or west, exploring a little bit of Australia each time. Eric’s handiness meant their van was extremely comfortable. That trip they took Babs’ Michael along. It was the July holidays, this was back in the days when the school terms were three a year instead of the four they have now. Three weeks in front of them and they were off across the Blue Mountains and out to Orange. Barry Henderson, who founded Outback + Outdoors, had an ongoing commission with Gwen to write articles on the Great Australian outback on these trips. She’d take her Nikon SLR and her notebooks and off they’d go. They must have visited every open garden, botanic garden and national park from Sydney to Broken Hill.
One holiday, they made it as far up the coast as the Daintree where those enormous cassowaries live. Turds the size of wombats and nasty creatures to boot. One chased Eric and he ran for his life with Gwen yelling, ‘Climb a tree, Eric, climb a tree.’ He scrambled up a mangosteen and clung there as Gwen clicked her camera and waved her arms to scare the bird away. When other tourists arrived, the bird wandered after them in search of food and Eric slithered down to safety. ‘I didn’t know cassowaries could run that fast,’ Gwen said, brushing bark and leaves from Eric’s clothes.
‘How fast they run, Gwennie? I reckon I broke an Olympic record!’ Eric said. The photo of Eric clinging to that tree as the giant cassowary pecks angrily at his toes is still on the mantelpiece in the lounge. Eric brings it out in company occasionally, a prop to accompany a story embellished and polished over years of retelling.
Gwen snuggles in closer to Eric as the wind shakes the roof tiles. There is no getting back to sleep in this weather for her but Eric snores gently.
‘Remember, Gwennie,’ he’d said to her this afternoon over a couple of fresh out of the oven scones and a dollop of her dandelion jam. ‘Remember the first time we tried to go to Orange?’
‘Yes, dear,’ she smiled, knowing that if he called her Gwennie he was at least present if not in the present.
‘We only got as far as Windsor before Di chucked up.’ He laughed but it hadn’t been funny at the time.
Diane had been complaining of feeling unwell. She was feverish, so Gwen made Eric pull over at the Golden Fleece and she’d bought the three kids a lemonade icy pole. By the time they’d reached Lithgow, Diane was burning up and Jonathon was complaining as well. Gwen lifted Diane’s skivvy and inspected her armpits and stomach and, sure enough, she had broken out in a rash of red spots. They had been planning to break at the Lithgow gardens for a picnic before pressing on. The gardens had a lovely path surrounded by a magnificent collection of roses in every colour imaginable and a play area at the top with a space rocket, an enormously steep slippery dip and a merry-go-round. The kids loved stopping here but Diane could barely get out of the car and Jonathon slumped on the grass. Michael was the only lively one.
‘That must have been the shortest holiday we ever went on, hey?’ Eric said, picking up the scone and frowning at it. ‘What are these called, Gwennie?’
‘Scones, dear,’ she replied.
‘Oh I like scones. My mother used to bake the most magnificent scones. How nice of you to bake them for me.’
Gwen baked scones at least once a week. Eric loved her scones, demolishing three or four if she let him, which is why she only ever put two on the plate.
Eric bit into his and pulled a face. ‘Oh, they’re a bit dry, Gwennie,’ he said, spitting his mouthful right back onto the plate.
She reached for a paper napkin and wrapped up the offending morsel. ‘It helps if you put some jam and cream on them, dear,’ she said neutrally.
Eric grunted but did as she suggested. Taking another bite, he said, ‘You’re right, Gwennie,’ seeming surprised at the easy solution.
Gwen dolloped jam and cream on another half and bit into it. Perfect. ‘And then remember when we got home, Michael fell ill too. He ended up staying with us because I told Babs there was no point her taking time off work when I had our two sick in bed all week anyway.’
‘Yes!’ Eric said, delighted that he too remembered. ‘I bought the kids a comic each from the newsagents at the station and a packet of jelly beans to share.’
Gwen had forgotten that bit but now he’d reminded her, she said, ‘And the three of them sorted through the packet and divvied out the colours. Diane was the happiest as she liked the black ones and the boys gave her all theirs.’
‘I like the black ones. Not many people do, do they, Mary?’ he said and Gwen sighed, knowing she had lost him.
She must have drifted off at some point because when she wakes, a pale light shines through the curtains. Gwen is startled to see the alarm clock says it is past seven. She’s slept in. Eric slumbers beside her, a trail of drool connecting him to his pillow. She shifts carefully off the mattress and stretches before taking a peek outside.
‘Oh my,’ she says, wrenching the curtains wide open. The leaden sky spews rain across the garden as if venting itself. The wind is so loud it hurts her ears.
The garden is a scene of devastation. The wind and rain have wrenched trees from the ground, their roots naked to the weather. The neighbours behind with the lovely native garden have suffered terribly. A magnificent gum has lost several branches. Their old banksia has been uprooted and crashed over the Hills’ back fence. Her own trees have not escaped either. Most have been stripped of their leaves. The poor mulberry has had branches amputated at the trunk. Gwen slips on her gumboots and raincoat and goes out to see how the chickens have fared. The girls are huddled up in their boxes, refusing to come out. There’ll be no eggs today, Gwen thinks.
Looking to the sky, Gwen sees this vile weather is not over. There will be a lull for a few hours, then the wind will whip around again and repeat its devastation. There’s no point cleaning up until it passes.
She retreats to the house and checks the front yard. The snail farm is in ruins. The shadecloth flaps on the ground like dying fish, the silverbeet lays flattened. Where the snails are, heaven only knows. Strangely, Gwen feels a pang of concern for them, defenceless against the elements. Eric is obsessive about his snails, when he remembers them. He’s always been meticulous and focused but his illness adds huge blanks to his day. She wonders whether she should tell him or spare him the pain.
Across the road, Val’s Japanese maple has been torn from the ground. Gwen’s crab apples tilt drunkenly. Two lay across the drive. Out of the ten, she is now down to six. Big gaps where her lovely row of trees once stood guard. Gwen peeks over the neighbour’s fence. They have fared worse. That giant flowering gum has come down, laying across the Desmarchelliers’ roof, a branch struck through the lounge room window and glass everywhere. She should call emergency services. They have no contact details for the neighbours, no idea where they are holidaying. Convenient how they went away just as that nasty newspaper article appeared.
Eric comes stretching and yawning from her bedroom, grinning as he scratches his nether regions. ‘Morning, Gwennie.’
A good start to the day then. Until he looks out the window. Making tea will delay the inevitable. ‘Cup of tea, Eric?’ she says brightly.
‘Yes, please. I’m just going to the toot.’ Eric ambles out whilst Gwen goes to wash her hands. The tap shudders and hisses, a mere trickle of water flows. She flicks on the kitchen lights but nothing happens. Checking across the road, she sees everyone else appears to be in the same boat.
‘No tea I’m afraid, the power’s out,’ she says on his return.
‘The toilet made a funny noise when I flushed, Gwennie. Is it broken too?’ he says, sitting at the dining nook.
Straight away he stands up again. ‘I’m going to say good morning to the snails.’ He begins walking towards the front door.
‘Why don’t you have breakfast first?’ Gwen rushes to delay his discovery. ‘I’ll get the muesli out.’
‘That’d be nice, love. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ And off he goes in his flannelette pyjamas.
‘No!’ she hears him cry from the top of the steps and she hurries after him.
By lunchtime they are in the eye of the storm. There is nothing comforting in the lull, the silence throbs with expectation. She’s retrieved the transistor radio they used to take caravanning and found some batteries in the kitchen drawer. It seems they’re not the only ones affected. In the news bulletin, the premier declares the north shore a natural disaster zone. Already there are State Emergency Service trucks in the street but Sydney Water is yet to arrive. After the initial yelp of surprise, she’s relieved that Eric’s been quite sanguine about the snail problem. They spend the morning rebuilding the shadecloth around the snail paddocks, rescuing escapees and popping them back into the paddocks. The little buggers have traversed the lawn, charging towards pastures new. It has Eric humming that Cole Porter tune again. He’s enjoying snail hunting much more than Gwen whose back aches from all the bending over.
As she stretches, she notices one of the State Emergency people in his bright orange overalls knocking on the Desmarchelliers’ door. They’ll soon figure out no one’s home, she thinks. Sure enough, one of them ambles up Gwen’s drive and asks if she knows where they are.
‘Not a clue,’ she says, as sweet as honey. ‘I’m afraid they didn’t think to tell us. You could try the other side?’
Serves them right, she’s thinking as he walks away, when the most wicked idea enters her head. ‘You right to finish up here, Eric?’ she calls.
Eric grunts, which she takes as a yes, and Gwen follows the side path around to the backyard. As a precaution, she sneaks behind the chook pen before mounting the fence and peering into the Desmarchelliers’ yard. It feels deliciously naughty. She waves at the security camera, its single eye giving her a blank stare. No power, she thinks, you see nothing.
From up here she has an excellent view. The Desmarchelliers’ garden has copped a battering from all sides. Not only do they have a tree crushing their roof but their backyard is a shambles. There are branches everywhere. Much of the native garden from the neighbours behind is now in the Desmarchelliers’ yard. Leaves and broken branches litter the lawn. Half a grevillea floats in the pool. The trampoline is entangled in the washing line and towels are strewn about the grass. They aren’t here and their little winking camera is as dead as their dog.
Sliding down from the fence, Gwen begins heaping branches against the side fence, sweeping leaf litter and debris into a plastic garbage bin. In a little over two hours, her damaged yard is tidy. There will be more to come when the eye of the storm passes but Gwen has a more pressing issue. One by one, she hoicks the branches over the fence and into the Desmarchelliers’ pool. Over they go, branch after branch, big and small. With each branch, she lists her grievances: snoop, liar, dog killer, wheelie bins, crab apples, Eric. She pauses. Yes, Eric was already ill, but all this stress, stress created by that woman, has hastened his decline. She balances the bin full of leaves on the fence and upends the lot. They swirl over the surface of the pool, spreading, like Eric’s senses, to the four winds. By the time she has finished the pool is filled with limbs. They begin to settle, the heavier ones have already sunk to the bottom. Lighter branches float on the surface surrounded by leaves. Gwen has no idea how long the Desmarchelliers will be away but hopes it is long enough for the native leaves to brown and turn the water the colour of tea. She hangs over the fence admiring her handiwork. It is petty, she knows that, but by gosh it’s satisfying. Gwen wishes she could see the surprise on their faces. Thrilled they’ll have no proof it was her and nothing to charge her with. That will teach them to go around saying she’s a dog poisoner.
Stepping down from the fence, her body aches after a morning of such physical labour. Turning, she is reminded that her washing has also blown about the garden and has an idea. Scooping up her old lady undies and her battleaxe bras, she picks those most smeared with dirt and whirls them around her head like a shot-putter before hurling them over the fence. Five or six pairs, not that it matters, she buys them in packs of three from Kmart so they won’t be expensive to replace. Anyhow, the elastic’s gone in most. She mounts the fence railing once more. The branches, the leaves, her pathetic underwear drowning amongst them. That last throw was particularly good, hooking a bra over the pool gate.
It’s a few days before the Desmarchelliers return. Gwen sees their van pull into the drive. To get there, they have driven past the emergency trucks and the piles of sawn tree limbs up and down Green Valley Avenue. The industrial woodchipper has been whining nonstop for days. Sydney Water has restored the water supply but blocked off half the street as they work on fixing the damaged drains.
Gwen positions herself in a hidden corner of the pergola so she can hear the Desmarchelliers when they come outside.
What a joy to hear Francesca cry, ‘Oh my God, look at the pool.’
‘Silver, take that filthy bra off your head,’ came next.
Gwen covers her laughter.
‘A pool scoop, Brandon? A bloody pool scoop isn’t going to get this mess out,’ she hears Francesca shout.
The satisfaction lasts for days. Gwen knows it’s spiteful but she is a little disappointed that the flowering gum didn’t do more than break a few tiles and smash the plate glass window. Still, it couldn’t have happened to nicer people and, on the bright side, they have a mountain of firewood those nice boys from State Emergency cut up for them from the remains of the tree. All in all, the storm has provided the perfect vehicle for revenge.
Frankie’s February
God they’ve had a good laugh. Lying around the pool at Byron Bay, far from home, the Hills, the fence and Camilla. The children spend every day in kids’ club. Everyone’s tanned and happy. Frankie can’t really afford the time off work but the stress their marr
iage is under needed a circuit breaker. She saw one of those ‘five nights for the price of three’ deals and thought, stuff it. Ever since Peanut died, she and Brandon have been playing tag team through the nights with the children so unsettled. In a funny way, their grief has brought her and Brandon closer together. Not reconciled, granted, but better than those first few weeks after Christmas.
As Frankie lies by the pool reading the preliminary sales report for the new Hush Hush Eco range, she smiles at Brandon. He is trying so hard to please her, hoping, she supposes, that she will change her mind about the end of their marriage. She indulges this, for the sake of the children, for the sake of a small window of marital harmony. With a new baby on the way, if there were a way for them to be happy again, it isn’t such an awful wish, but time will tell.
‘Do you think they’ve seen the paper yet?’ Brandon asks, handing her a pina colada mocktail. He’s probably imagining it, but Frankie seems softer. Whether it’s the pregnancy, the distance from their problems, he can’t be sure. If only she would stay this way.
‘I hope so. Wish I could see the look on their faces.’
Brandon lies beside her. ‘They’ll spew.’
Frankie laughs. ‘Serves them right. If we’d known they were insane, we’d never have bought the place.’ Brandon says nothing. The Hills are not insane. They’re getting older, a bit set in their ways, his parents are not dissimilar. His father can recount every shot of an eighteen hole round of golf. That makes him boring, not senile.
Brandon is silent. She knows what he’s thinking, he’d never have bought that house anyway. An urge to save the moment overtakes her. ‘Rub some sunscreen on my shoulders, would you, Brandy?’ she says.
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