Typical of Brandon to overcomplicate the simplest of tasks so he gets to be the big hero. A scientist for heaven’s sakes. She says, ‘So where did the knife come into it?’
Brandon shrugs. ‘She refused to be a scientist. She said she had a better idea.’
They walk on in silence. In the car, Amber teaches Silver a complicated hand game which involves much chanting. As annoying as it is, it provides a convenient excuse for neither Brandon or Frankie to say anything more on the way home, until after dinner time.
‘You know whose knife it is, don’t you?’ Frankie says, the moment she closes Marigold’s bedroom door.
Brandon is stacking the dishwasher. He’s been waiting for Frankie to raise the knife and twist things around so she can criticise his parenting, again. Or blame the neighbours. He says nothing. What’s the point?
Frankie will not be put off by his silence. Enough is enough. ‘I bet you it’s Mr Hill’s.’
Brandon wipes the granite benchtop, then grabs a beer and turns the television onto the Friday night football.
Surprised, Frankie hovers for a moment before announcing she’ll run the twins’ bath. When Brandon refuses to reply, she leaves the room.
Brandon sighs and turns up the volume. It never ends. It’s like this whole fence thing has become a shit magnet. Every time something goes wrong, Frankie’s looking for a way to blame the Hills. She seriously needs to wake up to herself before somebody really does get hurt.
Frankie lets Amber and Silver play bubble wars for a while, biding her time before tackling Amber. She decides to sideline the yellow cards for bullying until they’ve dealt with the knife. Sitting on the toilet seat, she says, ‘Amber, sweetie, where exactly did you find the knife?’
Amber fires a stream of bubbles at Silver’s face.
‘Stop it, I don’t like it,’ he yells.
God how Frankie hates the way Gumnut drilled these expressions into the children.
Frankie takes the gun off Amber. ‘Amber, I asked you a question.’
Amber lies in the water so her hair fans out around her, stretching her legs straight and pushing Silver into the corner of the tub. Little bubbles rise to the surface.
‘Amber!’ Frankie shouts.
Amber hears her, Frankie knows she does, but takes her time resurfacing. ‘Sixty seconds, Mummy,’ she says proudly, although even ten seconds would be generous.
Frankie grabs her arm. ‘Amber, sit up straight and answer the question. Where did you find the knife?’
Amber won’t give in. She picks up the bottle of Hush Hush Bath Bubblez and squirts some into her hands. ‘In the garden, Mummy,’ she says, as if it is the most normal thing in the world to find knives littered about the yard like autumn leaves.
Frankie snatches the squeezy bottle off her. ‘Where in the garden?’
‘On the path.’
She feels like she’s having the same conversation with Amber time and again. First over the chocolate, then the open gates and now this. Once again, her instincts tell her what Amber is saying is untrue. Frankie thinks of the skateboard that mysteriously appeared on the front porch. Amber said she’d found it abandoned in the gutter. A brand new skateboard, just lying there. Now they have a knife to deal with.
She’s getting tired of Amber’s evasiveness. Placing her fingertips under Amber’s chin, she forces her eldest daughter to look her in the eye. ‘Amber, you really must tell Mummy the truth. Imagine if Marigold had picked it up. She could have really hurt herself.’
Amber wriggles free. ‘I told you already, Mummy.’
Frankie tries a few different questions but Silver starts complaining he is cold and Amber refuses to answer.
As she dresses the twins and puts them to bed, Frankie turns the problem over in her head. Whichever way she looks at it, she comes to the same conclusion. When she returns to the lounge room, she hits mute on the remote control and says to Brandon, ‘There’s only one logical place that knife could have come from, Brandon. I doubt very much someone walked past our house and thought, “I know, I’ll throw this perfectly good knife over the fence.” It was planted there.’
Brandon doesn’t think her solution is logical at all. ‘Planted there? This isn’t a crime scene, why would someone hide a knife in our garden?’
‘Precisely. It’s got to be the Hills, I’m sure of it. It’s their way of retaliating for the article in the Northshore Advocate.’
Brandon eyes the screen where Brett Stewart is once again performing magic for the Sea Eagles. ‘That’s kind of a stretch, Frankie,’ he says. He wouldn’t really blame the Hills if they were upset about the article. After Peanut died, Frankie thought a personal and public attack the perfect revenge. To be fair, he’d agreed, until he saw it in print and realised how petty and cruel they had been. All because Frankie finds it hard to let go. There’s no point raising that with her though, not unless he wants his head bitten off, again. Instead he says, ‘Mrs Hill is a recycling nut, as if she’d throw away a perfectly good knife. She’s nosy, not crazy.’
Frankie warms to her theory. ‘You’re right. They threw the knife into the garden, knowing that in all likelihood one of the children would find it. Hoping they’d pick it up by the blade and cut themselves.’ As the potential horror rises in front of her, she adds, ‘Amber could have lost a finger.’
‘There’ll be prints on it if that’s the case,’ Brandon says, fetching another beer, squinting as he watches the replay of the last try.
Frankie knows she’s being dismissed. Brandon may not think this is serious but she does. She will not let this go. As he turns the sound back on, Frankie calls the police.
Outback + Outdoors
March In the Garden with Gwen Hill
Despite the warm weather, the shorter days and cooler nights remind us that winter is around the corner. However, the soil will stay warm for some weeks yet, making this the perfect time to plant bulbs. There is something wonderfully optimistic about planting out bulbs knowing that, whilst the winter blues might get you down, in the garden these little balls of joy are readying to burst into action.
The best way to plant bulbs is in drifts. Throw a handful around and plant them where they land. If you like, you can plant bulbs in bowls for future gifts or to bring indoors to brighten the house. Simply find a bowl deep enough to fit a number of bulbs; one without drainage holes is perfect. Layer the base of the bowl with peat then cram the bulbs in before filling the bowl with moist peat so the tips of the bulbs are well covered. Once you’re done, plant the bowl in the garden and cover with sawdust. As soon as the leaves and flower buds poke their way through, lift the bowl, brush off the dirt and carry it inside for a lovely early display. It can be helpful to mark the spot where you do this, especially if you have prepared multiple bowls, so you don’t forget where you’ve put them and accidentally stick your spade in where it’s not wanted!
Tip of the month
Nothing says autumn more than the glorious displays of colour as leaves turn into fiery yellows, oranges and reds. When the leaves start falling, make sure you keep them off lawns and use them to mulch your garden beds to warm the soil over winter. Most importantly, remember to check gutters and drains. Clear out any debris so that the autumn rains don’t cause water damage inside and out of the home. If your drainpipes are blocked simply sticking your garden hose down them will flush them out. Adding 100 millilitres of neat bleach can also help unclog drains. Don’t forget the drains on the ground too. Make sure they remain free of clutter and when the welcome autumn rains arrive, you know you’ll be safe and dry.
Gwen’s March
Eric shuffles into the kitchen in his pyjamas though it is past ten o’clock. He hasn’t shaved in days. Last time he did shave he missed a strip running from his cheekbone to his jaw, like a misplaced moustache.
‘Can I get you anything, Eric?’ Gwen asks.
/>
Eric sighs. ‘A new brain I think, Gwennie. Mine is all broken.’
Gwen stops pouring the batter for an apricot gooey cake into the tin, putting the bowl on the bench and the spatula upright in the batter. Oh the poor dear man. How right he is. ‘A cup of tea, dear?’
Eric sits at the kitchen nook and studies the back of his hands. ‘I think it’s this house, you see.’
‘What’s wrong with the house, Eric?’ Goodness, fifty years in the same place, what on earth has he found to complain about?
He rubs at an age spot on his knuckle. ‘Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. Someone keeps moving things around so I can’t find them.’
Gwen pours boiling water into the pot and swirls it around before emptying it into the sink and adding the teabags. ‘What have you lost, dear?’
‘The old man’s knife for one thing. He is going to be so cross with me when he finds out.’
Gwen looks at the knife block, each blade snug in its socket. Which knife does Eric mean? If there really is a knife. So many conversations these days start out sensible and end in nonsense. She doesn’t need the doctor’s warning or Diane’s comments to remind her that Eric’s mental health is in steep decline. She lives with him.
‘Perhaps you left it in the workshop,’ she says, adding a brightness to her voice she doesn’t feel.
‘No, no,’ Eric shakes his head, agitated, ‘the box is empty.’
‘Which box is that, dear?’
‘The red box it came in. Dad bought that knife when I was in my teens. It’s a real beauty. A proper E Anton Berg. That Swede knew how to make knives.’
Now Gwen knows the knife he means. Eric inherited it when Harry died. Like Eric, Harry was proud of his tools. Even all these years later, they are as fine a set of tools as when Harry bought them.
‘Why don’t we go downstairs and have a good look around. It’s bound to be there somewhere, Eric, don’t worry yourself about it.’
But Eric is right. There is the distinctive red and white box with its white shark on the side but the leather sheaf in which the knife is normally kept is empty.
‘Is it on the bench somewhere?’ she says.
Tiny pieces of timber, scraps of fabric and wallpaper fill boxes on the workbench. A dollhouse Eric has been commissioned to make sits square in the middle but there is no sign of the knife.
‘Can you remember when you last used it?’ she asks.
Eric runs his hand over his tools, the bench grinder, the chisels, shaking his head. ‘Dad and I were making a cradle for the Lesleys’ youngest. That’s the last time I remember seeing it.’
Harry has been dead over twenty years. Like Eric, he used the knife for carving wood because it fitted snugly in his palm. The Lesleys’ youngest would be in their fifties by now. The cradle is probably long gone.
‘Well it’s not like someone would have taken it, dear. I know I haven’t used it,’ Gwen says as the search peters out. Eric’s workshop is testimony to the credo that every tool should have its place. The missing knife is a mystery. ‘It will turn up eventually,’ she adds.
Eric mumbles something about Harry being very cross with him before picking up a piece of sandpaper and a dining chair, and sanding the timber. Gwen leaves him to it. Better that he stays here in his pyjamas with something to do than fretting himself into a frenzy.
A few days later, she’s upstairs folding washing, covering the dining table with neat piles of underwear and socks, shorts and shirts, when the doorbell rings. On her way to the front door, Gwen forms no other expectation than it might be Val popping in for a chat. Although realising it’s a Tuesday, Val should be at the movies. Still, she thinks, swinging open the door.
There stand two police officers, a man and a woman. The male constable looks familiar. ‘Can I help you?’ she says.
After confirming that she is Mrs Gwenneth Hill, the man asks, ‘Your neighbours claim that they have been in dispute with you, is that correct?’
‘Some months ago but it’s resolved now,’ Gwen replies. She can’t understand why these people keep using the fence as an excuse for everything that goes wrong in their lives. Yes, she’s made it plain that she hates the fence but it’s – what’s that phrase Babs always used – ah yes, a fait accompli.
‘I see,’ he says, though it is clear he doubts her. Gwen notices he holds a postal tube in his hand. ‘They found a knife in their front yard and, when questioned, said they have had several confrontations with you.’
‘A knife! Are they saying we’ve thrown a knife in their yard? They have small children. Any one of them could have picked it up.’
The constable’s expression remains impassive. ‘May I show you the knife, Mrs Hill? See if you recognise it.’
Gwen’s heart leaps around her chest like a caged bird. These unbelievable people are at it again. The council, the RSPCA, the police, all called to challenge them about the way they live their lives.
The constable unpacks the cardboard tube and reveals the knife. ‘Do you recognise this?’ he asks.
‘No,’ she says, not even glancing at it. What sort of idiot would throw a perfectly good knife over the fence? The whole idea is ridiculous. She adds, ‘It’s not one of mine.’
He nods. ‘Do you mind if we see for ourselves, Mrs Hill?’
Gwen does mind. She minds a lot but what can you say to a police officer? Showing them the knife block, its slots filled with knives, will prove her innocence. ‘The kitchen’s through here,’ she answers, annoyed how tremulous her voice sounds, betraying an emotion they probably think is fear when it is really a good mix of indignation and anger.
Thankfully Gwen tidied the kitchen this morning. The benches gleam and the apricot gooey cake cools on the counter. The knife block sits next to the stove with every knife in place.
The young officer says, ‘May we look at the individual knives please, Mrs Hill?’
‘But they’re all here,’ she says, indignation escalating.
He nods and waits.
Flustered, Gwen reaches for the biggest knife in the block. It’s her favourite with a lovely weighted handle. Eric bought these knives. He made the knife block for her when they first moved in. Eric’s made a lot of things in this house. The bookshelves in the lounge, the dining nook, the little stool she uses to reach the high cupboards in the kitchen. He would have made the kitchen cupboards too but they came with the house and it made no sense to change the contract when they had enough on their plates with Jonathon on the way and all.
Gwen glares out the window as the constable studies her knives. That Francesca Desmarchelliers is out of control. She takes no responsibility for her life. That article in the Northshore Advocate was downright nasty. Even Val agreed, bringing her copy over in case Gwen hadn’t seen it, saying, ‘She’s like a dog with a bone that one.’
‘This knife looks like it could be a steak knife. Do you have steak knives, Mrs Hill?’
Gwen points to the row of stainless steel handles in the bottom slots of the block.
The officer wastes more time examining the knives before saying, ‘Thank you, Mrs Hill.’ He slides the offending knife back into the cardboard tube. ‘We will be conducting forensic analysis on this knife. Once we have the results we may come back.’
Come back? Gwen cannot believe the gall of this young man, of the Desmarchelliers accusing them of such a crime. Her anger bubbles over. ‘Why are they allowed to do this? We’ve done nothing wrong. They keep going on and on about that stupid fence. It was built in December, it’s now March. It’s done with. They blamed us when their dogs fell ill. They called the council to protest about Eric’s snail farm. You lot have been here three times. This is intimidation. They are using the authorities in a campaign of harassment. You go back to your station and have a look at the records. There’s never been any follow-up, never been any charges. Here look,’
Gwen brushes past the officers and goes to the lounge room window. ‘See out there? Security cameras everywhere. They say they are to protect their house but that one there clearly points into our lounge room.’
‘You should keep notes, Mrs Hill,’ the young woman speaks up. ‘If you find the neighbours’ behaviour intimidating or offensive, the best thing you can do is keep detailed records.’
‘Keep records? These people are paranoid. They constantly call the authorities and use the fact that we disagreed over building a fence to make it sound like we have an axe to grind. Well, we don’t. We just want to be left alone.’
‘You can take a personal protection order out if that is what you’d like to do, Mrs Hill,’ the male officer responds in that annoying even tone.
Gwen waves him off. ‘You should go right back in there and charge the Desmarchelliers with wasting police time because that is exactly what they are doing. They blame everyone but themselves those two. What sort of lunatics think people throw perfectly good knives into front yards hoping a child picks it up and harms themselves? There must be easier ways, surely.’
The officers edge away from her, towards the door. ‘I can see you’re upset about this incident, Mrs Hill,’ soothes the young woman, ‘but it’s best to avoid your neighbours if this is how you feel. Don’t talk to them or communicate with them in any way. Or their children. It will shut down options for both parties.’
Gwen follows after them. She’s got the wind up now. ‘We don’t have anything to do with them. That’s why they had to invent this,’ Gwen gestures at the cardboard tube, ‘to get at us. Did it ever occur to you that the knife is theirs?’
Anger and frustration boil inside her. The police officers look at her with carefully masked faces, showing neither compassion nor belief. But she knows what they’re thinking. Stupid old biddy. The wind drops from her sails.
‘As I said, Mrs Hill,’ the male officer says, ‘we’re taking the knife back to the station for testing. You are welcome to come down any time and make a formal complaint.’
The Fence Page 25