The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘The police? Why would the police have the knife? I gave it to the little girl.’

  ‘You gave it to her? Eric, you just said you saw her take it and slip it in her pocket. That’s not the same thing. This is important. We need to go down to the police station and explain that she took the knife. She stole it from you, Eric.’

  ‘No, Gwennie, she didn’t steal it. I let her borrow it. It’s all come back to me. My brain’s told me.’ He taps the side of his head to prove it.

  ‘Eric, they think we threw the knife over the fence to harm the children. That’s what the Desmarchelliers have told the police. We could be arrested for that. They’ve taken the knife away for fingerprinting. They’ll know the knife is yours.’

  ‘But I don’t want her to get in trouble, Gwennie. I said she could borrow it.’ Eric starts humming, a high-pitched whine like a toddler.

  ‘You just said she took it. Which is it, Eric? Did she borrow it or steal it?’

  Eric slams his hands over his ears, moaning, ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.’

  Gwen draws breath. This is going nowhere. She can’t risk taking Eric down to the police station. Even when he isn’t agitated, he doesn’t make a lot of sense. Eric could say anything. He might incriminate himself. Surely there is a law about letting a child take a knife. He failed to protect her, she could have cut herself, or worse.

  Gwen gets up from the table and starts making more tea. She stops herself. She doesn’t want tea. She doesn’t know what she wants. What are they to do?

  She says to Eric, ‘Are you sure it was Amber?’

  ‘Yes. She has shoulder-length blonde hair and always wears jeans and a t-shirt.’

  ‘But the twins look the same, Eric. Are you sure you have the right one?’ Gwen doesn’t know why this detail is important. Except that Amber told her mother and the police that she found the knife in the yard. Eric says she slipped it in her pocket. Somewhere between the fractured memory of Eric and the slippery tales of a five year old must lie the truth.

  ‘I’m ringing Diane,’ she announces.

  Eric stops humming.

  ‘Diane knows the twins better than we do. She might be able to shed some light on whether this is likely. I don’t want to go to the police half-cocked.’ Gwen feels grounded by this decision. She will ring Diane. ‘Eric, why don’t you go and put some trousers on?’ she says and Eric, for once, obediently rises and ambles off to the bedroom. Perhaps that is what is wrong with how she handles Eric these days. He needs a firm hand, like a child.

  Diane is shocked, of course. Children and knives are an unnatural combination.

  ‘It’s too late to go to the police station tonight, Mum,’ she says. ‘I’ll come straight over and we can work out the best thing to do.’

  When Diane arrives, Eric is sitting back at the dining nook, in his trousers but still in his pyjama shirt. Gwen’s best mother’s voice failed to convince him to put a proper shirt on. She can see Diane’s alarm at her father’s attire but is glad Diane decides against mentioning it.

  Gwen makes Diane coffee. ‘Instant, I’m afraid,’ she says. Diane is the only family member who dislikes tea. Gwen has no idea why, they’ve always drunk tea.

  ‘I brought this.’ Diane fishes a clear plastic sleeve from her handbag. Inside is last year’s Gumnut Cottage class photo.

  The children are arranged in neat rows, big grins on their faces. The twins are cross-legged in the middle of the front row. One of them holds a plaque with white plastic letters on it spelling out ‘Gumnut Cottage’. ‘Here’s the twins. It’s always amazed me why the parents dress them like that. It makes it look like they’re both girls.’

  Gwen knows what she means. It’s not just the long bobs, like a lot of small children, there is a softness to their features. Their eyelashes seem disproportionately long and their noses snubbed and small. It’s often not until puberty that boys begin to look like proper boys.

  ‘Dad,’ Diane places the photo in front of him, ‘can you show me which child you like to share your lemonade and biscuits with?’

  She smiles at Eric and taps on the picture to draw his attention.

  Eric picks it up and studies it. ‘That’s one of her sisters,’ he says, pointing at the flame-haired Marigold at the end of the second row.

  Gwen notices that she wears the same overalls and long sleeve t-shirt as the twins.

  ‘She doesn’t like her very much. She says she cries all the time,’ Eric confides.

  He chuckles. ‘This one is the real troublemaker. Sly.’

  Gwen and Diane look to where his finger is pointing. ‘No, dear,’ Gwen clucks, ‘you’ve got them confused.’

  ‘Shh, Mum, let him speak,’ Diane says.

  ‘No, no, it’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch. Oh that one gets up to no good all the time, she does.’

  Gwen studies the photo. It’s hard to tell if Eric’s right. It isn’t a close-up, after all they had to get the whole class in the shot.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Diane says.

  ‘But he’s got the wrong child!’ Gwen exclaims.

  ‘Oh no he hasn’t, Mum. I think Dad is spot on.’

  ‘But that’s Silver he’s pointing to. That’s the boy.’

  ‘No, that’s a girl,’ says Eric. ‘See? Look at the long hair.’ He jabs at the page. ‘She has a lisp too. It’s not that noticeable unless you really listen.’

  Gwen doesn’t know what to believe. She says, ‘But Silver wouldn’t sneak in here, steal things. He never says boo to a ghost.’

  Diane sits back and folds her arms over her chest. ‘I told his parents there is a strange dynamic between those two. Silver might look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Mum, but he can be trouble with a capital T. He was always getting Amber into strife and she, poor thing, was always covering up for him. Remember that time we were making luminaries for Halloween?’

  Gwen remembers. They had punched out patterns of pumpkin and witches onto tin cans, attached wire to them so they could be hung off trees or posts. When you put a tea-light candle inside, the shape of the pumpkins and witches shone. The children had loved that project.

  ‘Amber and Silver were working at separate tables. We separated them whenever we could because Silver never left Amber alone. He was always pinching her or whispering hurtful words in her ear. The poor child would end up in tears half the time. But if Silver was ever caught doing something naughty, she’d say she did it. She was very protective of her brother. I think it’s because she had some bizarre idea that she was the eldest and that somehow made her responsible.’

  ‘But what did he do?’

  ‘I didn’t see it because I was upstairs doing paperwork but I heard the screaming all right. Mrs Arnold had to write an incident report so I knew all about it. Revolting behaviour.’

  ‘I must have been there a different day. I don’t remember this at all,’ Gwen says.

  ‘You came the day before. Anyway, Amber was cutting out shapes on baking paper to stick on the tins so we could punch them out. Silver got up from his table, walked over and grabbed the scissors off her. When she yelled at him to give them back, he turned around and threw them at her. He could have taken out an eye.’ Diane points to the impact spot next to her own eye. ‘Of course, they were blunt-nosed scissors but he still nicked her. Amber’s screaming, the other children started screaming. It was a wicked thing to do.’

  ‘But surely he must have been provoked in some way?’

  ‘Not that we could see. Mind you, I don’t think they have the happiest of family lives.’

  ‘That’s what she told me,’ Eric adds.

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t her. I’m willing to bet Amber didn’t take your knife. She probably found the knife in the front yard or Silver showed it to her and she knew he’d get into big trouble if their parents found
out and took it from him. She probably threw it in the front garden hoping nobody would find it. She’s only five, it’s not like she would have thought it through.’

  ‘And her mum finds it, calls the police and here we are.’

  Diane nods. ‘Here we are.’

  Eric shakes his head. ‘It’s all my fault. I saw her take the knife. I should have stopped her. I thought she’d bring it back. Now everyone’s in trouble.’ He begins smacking the side of his head. ‘My stupid, stupid brain.’

  Gwen snatches his hands and holds them in hers. ‘It’s not your fault, Eric. You weren’t to know.’

  ‘They’ll never believe us,’ she says to Diane who has watched this interplay between her parents, eyes wide with alarm.

  ‘I wouldn’t go to the police if I were you, Mum.’

  ‘But Eric’s knife, Diane. It was his father’s.’

  ‘He’ll forget about it soon enough. His memory’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘I want lemonade,’ Eric bursts out.

  Gwen gets him a glass even though she knows he’ll be up and down to the loo all night. When he is happily crunching ice, she sits back down next to Diane.

  ‘Have you thought any more about moving?’ Diane says in a low voice.

  Gwen isn’t thinking about moving. She’s thinking about how on earth she can get Eric’s knife back without incriminating the children, raising their parents’ ire or seeing Eric charged with aiding and abetting or whatever it is you get charged with when you let a child steal a knife.

  ‘I haven’t discussed it with him, Diane,’ she says in a stern voice, hoping to cut off the line of questioning.

  Diane rests a hand on her shoulder. ‘Mum, he’s not getting any better and, to be honest, you look terrible. Are you sleeping okay?’

  Gwen refuses to answer the question. Eric often climbs into bed with her, which invariably means he’s regressed to his five-year-old self and she is Mary. Either that or he wanders around the house half the night flicking light switches on and off, loudly demanding for someone to own up as to where they’ve moved the toilet.

  Perhaps that’s why Eric relates to the twins, because he is a child himself. ‘Now’s not the time, Diane,’ she replies.

  ‘Well when is the time, Mum? When he drives off and gets lost again? When he bursts into song as Marilyn Monroe? When he spends all day in his pyjamas and shaves so badly he looks like Mr Potato Head? He needs help. You need help. You can’t stay here forever.’

  Gwen stares at her. Not stay here? These four walls contain every important memory of her adult life. That’s not something she could ever walk away from.

  Frankie’s March

  ‘I can’t believe the police said there was insufficient evidence to charge the Hills.’ Frankie reaches for the dried apricots. She’s developed a thing for dried apricots this last month. ‘I mean,’ she says, through a mouthful – passing one to Bijoux who is clenching her hands squealing, ‘want, want, want,’ – ‘they can’t seriously believe us to expect that some random person was walking along a quiet suburban street and went, “I know, I’ll throw my perfectly good knife over this perfectly random fence.” I mean, c’mon.’

  Brandon doesn’t answer. He’s like this a lot lately. The birth of the baby is drawing near and, Frankie is pretty sure she’s not imagining this, Brandon seems to be withdrawing into himself. Oh he still goes through the motions with the kids and all. There’s been no more incidences at school, thank God, and Marigold loves the promotion to the big kids’ room at kindy. Bijoux, well Bijoux is Bijoux. Although she’s developed a bit of a cough, Frankie observes, reaching for another handful of apricots. She really shouldn’t eat this many, her mother told her she is getting fat.

  ‘You’re not a small girl to start with, Francesca,’ Noelle had said when she’d come into town for lunch the other day. Frankie didn’t have the time to spend an hour having lunch but whenever she declined, her mother’s coldness went straight to the bone. It was easier to capitulate but at the moment it was particularly problematic as work was in a bit of a crisis. Firstly, the new Hush Hush Eco range hadn’t met the forecasted sales figures she’d signed off on. There were complaints from customers that the new patented super absorbent liners in the nappies were giving off a strange odour whenever they became wet. It should have come out in the testing. Everything they did was market-tested, they didn’t breathe unless the market told them it approved. So it was beyond Frankie’s reasoning that the nappies were giving off an odour akin to rotten prawns. No one wanted to walk around with an infant who smelt like a garbage bin full of Christmas day leftovers.

  ‘Pass me a wipe will you, Brandon,’ Frankie says, holding Bijoux still as she wipes her nose. ‘I think she’s getting a cold.’ Frankie lays her hand on Bijoux’s forehead. ‘She has a fever. Maybe we should give her some paracetamol.’

  Brandon passes her the bottle. ‘I think she might be teething.’

  Frankie throws the wipe in the bin, then reseals the packet of apricots and puts them back in the pantry out of temptation’s reach.

  ‘At your age, darling, you can’t afford to let the weight creep on. No more babies,’ Noelle had said.

  Frankie, who was about to order the fettuccine boscaiola, had instead chosen a quinoa and roast vegetable salad. As she picked at it, she wondered why she persisted in trying to have a normal relationship with her mother. Incompatible couples divorced all the time. Her sister Georgette divorced David simply because he bored her. It was true, too, that of all her children, her mother clung to her. Was it the paradox of parenthood that Noelle needed her but then forgot to treat Frankie as the adult she now was? Her mother gushed about how Martin had arranged for Bernard and Noelle to fly to London to see the premier of Tim Minchin’s new musical, Demon Dentist. After a tinkling laugh, Noelle had leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Not that I personally like Tim Minchin. He’s a bit crass but all those awards he’s won. Matilda was just divine.’ She’d even clasped her hand to her breast before sipping her soup du jour.

  Frankie worries about the rumour going around the office that Kimberly-Clark are taking them over. Key staff are to be offered sign-on deals but everyone else’s jobs are up for grabs. Frankie isn’t concerned about her job per se. She is, after all, an integral member of the senior management team and account director for Hush Hush, but she is going on maternity leave at Easter and everyone knows how vulnerable that makes you in the corporate world. Without her physical presence to remind the new management of her past and future value to the company, her prospects are not assured. She needs one of those retention bonuses, financially yes, but also to ensure she has a job to come back to.

  Brandon is making a pile of Vegemite and cheese sandwiches. She hasn’t told him about the goings-on at work. He already faces a future where he will have to get a full-time job, find his own place to live and stand on his own two feet instead of relying on her. She plans to sell the house after the baby is born. The idea of continuing to live here is unbearable, and although she is the majority shareholder in this house, Brandon will expect a sum to kickstart his new life. It irks her having to pay him anything but her solicitor said he’s entitled to a share of the matrimonial wealth even though he’s barely worked a day during their years together and has contributed little. Her solicitor is drawing up the paperwork so that when Frankie gives the word, there will be no delay in proceedings.

  *

  Frankie’s month goes from bad to worse. Over dinner, she decides not to tell Brandon about this morning’s meeting with the human resources manager.

  ‘Officially I can’t say anything, Frankie, but unofficially, it’s not looking good for most of us,’ Carol said, offering Frankie a chocolate from the tin of Quality Street she kept in her bottom drawer.

  Frankie said no, still smarting from her mother’s comments about her weight. It didn’t help that she was now on
fortnightly weigh-ins with the obstetrician.

  Carol pointed at Frankie’s stomach. ‘You picked a bad time to be going on maternity leave. You sure you’re not taking the full twelve months off?’

  ‘God no,’ said Frankie. ‘I can’t afford to do that. I was going to take three months off but with this takeover business, I’m thinking I should cut it short.’ She wasn’t really thinking that. She was wishing she had an escape hatch so she could tell the whole lot of them to get nicked. If only I had a husband like Carol’s who was headmaster at a private boys school, she thought. If only I was like Carol who only worked to keep her brain exercised, for whom losing her job would be inconvenient but financially beneficial.

  ‘That’s crazy, Frankie,’ Carol said, eyeing her email and opening a file. ‘Nothing is more important than your health and the health of your newborn baby. If you lose your job, there’ll be a lump sum. You’ll get a job at a competitor in no time. I’m sure the only reason the headhunters aren’t circling is because they know you’ll be out of action for a few months. You’re not a man, it’s not like they’re stripping you of your identity.’

  Carol laughed at this but Frankie didn’t. She’d wanted to shout, ‘You’re wrong! This job means everything to me,’ but she couldn’t say that. People assumed that Frankie was sacrificing being at home to support her family. That Brandon being the primary caregiver was a decision born from economic necessity. And Frankie let them believe that because it was more palatable than the truth. Children were needy, repetitive and physically exhausting. No one thanked you for raising good children. There were no annual bonuses, pay rises or performance appraisals to recognise your contribution to the bottom line. Without measurement, what was motherhood worth?