The Fence (2 page)

Gwen searched the gathering shadows of late afternoon. ‘What is it?'

‘Can't you see it?' Babs shuddered and descended to the courtyard.

And then Gwen did. From under the couch emerged the wriggling abdomen of the largest spider wasp Gwen had ever seen. It was easily the length and width of her thumb. Clamped in its jaws was the paralysed body of a large huntsman.

‘Shut the door! Shut the door!' Babs motioned at Gwen.

‘I don't think that's a good idea.' Gwen opened the door further so the wasp had an escape route. ‘Calm down, Babs, it won't hurt you.' Spiders, grasshoppers, enormous moths. Babs lived in a constant panic about the insect life inhabiting her garden. Gwen had lost count of the number of shrill requests issued over the back fence to ‘Do something'.

Gwen peered at the couch, wondering if Babs would object if she turned on the light to better see the wasp. It was hard to tell if the creature had made good its escape without them knowing, but then she caught sight of it again. The spider wasp dragged the limp huntsman across the parquetry before making an abrupt retreat to the sanctuary of the couch.

‘I have some spray under the sink.' Babs hovered behind her peering into the lounge.

‘I'm not killing it,' Gwen replied, focusing on the dark recesses of the couch.

‘Why won't it leave?' Babs ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it into place.

‘I don't know.' Fascinated, Gwen wondered if there was a story in this she could share with her
Outback + Outdoors
readers. Had she ever written a feature on spider wasps? None that she could recall but then she had been writing the column for nigh on forty years, who could remember every one of them?

The spider wasp re-emerged, moving in concentric circles around the floor. Gwen fancied she heard an agitated buzzing. Babs fled back to the courtyard.

Its bizarre dance complete, the wasp flew out the door, under the grapevine and into the garden. Gwen chased after it, watching it dive into the shrubbery to complete its gruesome business.

‘I think we're safe now.' She nudged Babs, who seemed as disorientated as the wasp by their encounter.

‘Yes.' Babs reached for her cigarettes. Her hand shook as she flicked the gold lighter again and again until the flint caught and a flame shot up into the gathering darkness.

Gwen would never forget how the flame illuminated Babs' face in that moment. Eric would have said it was a trick of the light but Gwen knew otherwise. In that golden glow, Gwen saw how her friend's eyes had shrunk into her skull, the dark circles indented into the bone of the eye socket. How her once beautiful brown eyes were surrounded by whites yellowed and thick.

She's smoking too much, Gwen thought, not eating right. It was understandable, having lost Rohan, even with work to anchor her. It was not enough to deliver fresh produce to Babs' door. She needed to make sure Babs ate it. Soups she could freeze in portions, quick to reheat, full of goodness.

But Gwen had misread the signs. The fatigue, the yellowing eyes, the loss of appetite. The soup stayed in Babs' freezer. Gwen found it there in the days before the funeral, untouched. Babs didn't have time. A week after the incident with the spider wasp, Babs collapsed at work.

Diagnosed with third stage stomach cancer, it was too late for chemotherapy or radiotherapy. Babs was moved straight from emergency to palliative care. Gwen hated visiting Babs there. If she was honest with herself, seeing Babs in such a state scared her, the reminder of her own mortality palpable in the shrunken version of her best friend.

On that last morning, Val had rapped on her door, dressed in her hat and coat, a handbag slung in the crook of one elbow. ‘C'mon, Gwennie,' she said, smudging Gwen's cheek with coral lipstick, ‘we don't have much time.'

It was half price Tuesday but Val stood there on Gwen's front porch, her stance rather than her considerable bulk making her an immoveable force.

Gwen looked at the grass stains on the knees of her pants, the smear of dirt on her pale blouse. Time? Did Val know more than her?

‘Never mind that now,' chided Val. ‘Visiting hours are between ten and eleven thirty for non-family members. We need to get a wriggle on.'

Gwen fretted on the drive over to the private hospital. Seeing Babs was such a confrontation; a confrontation with loss. As Val marched them through the quiet corridors of the hospice, Gwen faltered by her side.

The open window of Babs' room framed a view of the harbour over the treetops and a scented breeze played with the curtains. At its centre lay Babs, the frail fulcrum keeping machines pumping. Amongst the white linen lay her small brown head, her hair unfurled, the limp tails snaking away. In all these years, Gwen had never once seen Babs with her hair out. Even when she swam. Seeing her so disarrayed was an intimacy too much.

Val availed herself of the pink hand sanitiser, its medicinal whiff assaulting the room, before settling herself in a corner chair and withdrawing a large print novel from her purse. ‘I like to read to her, that way I know neither of us will run out of conversation.'

Val's raucous laugh echoed in the confines of the small room. Gwen flinched, expecting a frowning nurse to appear with a finger pressed to her lips.

Removing a packet of butter-menthols from her bag, Val unwrapped one and popped it in her mouth. ‘My mouth dries out from too much talking,' she explained, though Gwen hadn't asked.

Val began to read, a little fast at first before settling into her rhythm. Gwen took the other chair and collected Babs' spare hand in hers, wishing they were alone. The novel was an historical romance; Val was at the part where the lovers were entwined in their first kiss.

Val always insisted on a kiss hello, a hug for the menfolk. But Gwen and Babs had never kissed. Neither were the type. Occasionally they squeezed each other's hand, a small affirmation of their continued affection. Apart from Rohan, the only person Gwen remembered Babs kissing was Michael. Even so, it was a soft kiss where his hair met his forehead.

As the clock struck eleven, Val stopped reading and began fussing with her coat. Gwen continued holding Babs' hand, hot beneath her cool fingers. Val leaned over and kissed Babs' cheek, wishing her farewell and a ‘God bless'.

Gwen stayed where she was, waiting for Val to step into the corridor. Her oldest friend lay before her, looking peaceful but not like Babs. The serenity with which Babs had glided through the fifty years Gwen had known her was absent from her features. Checking that Val was not looking, Gwen took a liberty never taken before. Stretching out her hand, she let it hover for a moment, before taking a deep breath and dropping her hand onto Babs' hair. Smoothing the straggling locks around her friend's face, she wished she had a brush, a soft-­bristled brush like she used to use on Jonathon and Diane's hair when they were toddlers. She knew if Babs were here now, truly here, she would pull away from Gwen, but then if Babs were truly here now, her hair would be pinned in its neat bun and she would smell of musk and stale cigarette smoke rather than death. Her spirit had left and Gwen knew she would not see Babs again. This was goodbye.

‘C'mon, Gwen.' Val popped her head around the doorframe. ‘If we get a wriggle on, I'll catch the one o'clock session.'

Without turning, Gwen swallowed and mustered a bright, ‘I'll catch you up in a bit, Val.'

Val huffed but left. Gwen waited for her footsteps to fade. Smoothing Babs' dark hair away from her forehead, she kissed her hairline. ‘Goodbye, my darling,' she whispered and rushed from the room before the tears had a chance to well.

*

Michael stands at the lectern, fiddling with the microphone, shuffling his notes and clearing his throat. Even amplified, his voice is so low that the congregation stretches forward to catch his words. He tells of his mother's early life in Hong Kong, meeting her future husband at university in England. His dad, Rohan, was a bit on the wild side, Michael says, clicking the pointer at the screen behind him. Up flicks an image of Rohan, almost unrecognisable with a bushy beard and hair past his shoulders. An appreciative chuckle ripples around the room, as much for the release of tension as it is for the incongruity of the photo with the conservative man they knew for his camel-coloured slacks and button down shirts.

Michael clicks on a photo Gwen recognises immediately.

She had been rolling out strips of turf to make their front lawn. Where had Eric been? At the office, no doubt. It was hot work, not the least because she was still carrying a few extra pounds after Jonathon's birth. A station wagon pulled up next door and she cast her hand over her eyes to better see who stepped from the vehicle. The man was tall with dark hair feathering his collar and those long sideburns fashionable at the time. The woman leaned into the car and extracted a small boy who looked to be several months older than Jonathon. She perched the child on her hip and acknowledged Gwen with a wave. Gwen waved back and watched the three of them dis­appear up the steps to the wide front porch and into the newly built home. As she rolled turf, she heard the tinkle of laughter and the sounds of them chatting in the yard. She wondered if they had actually bought the home or were just another round of potential buyers inspecting the new houses on Beaumont Estate. Gwen and Eric knew everyone who had bought in Green Valley Avenue because they had been the first to move in. Eric worked as a quantity surveyor for Beaumont Homes and the managing director had given the newlyweds their pick of the housing models on the redeveloped dairy farm.

The lot across the road had already been sold to a couple named Val and Keith McIntyre, a brassy blonde and a petit man with a comb over. Further down the street was a mock Tudor mansion an older English couple had bought and named Rose Cottage, planting out the clayey front garden with its namesake.

The people on the other side of Gwen and Eric were foreigners who didn't seem to speak much English. Judging by their thick accents, Gwen thought they might be from one of those Eastern European countries like Hungary or Yugoslavia but it was a fancy not an informed opinion. Their relationship was limited to polite waves hello and nods of recognition whenever they saw each other.

Val and her husband were nice enough but they were yet to start a family. What Gwen longed for was a young couple to move in next door, preferably with children. If these people bought the house, the two little boys could form a close bond, popping back and forth, treating each home as their own.

So engrossed was she in this fantasy that she hadn't realised the man was waving at her. He gestured towards the camera he held.

Dusting down her pants, she picked her way across the newly laid lawn and said hello.

‘I was wondering if you would mind taking a photo of us,' he asked.

What a nice voice he had, she thought, like one of those newsreaders on the tellie. ‘Yes, of course,' she'd said. ‘Where would you like to stand?'

‘Here I think,' he said, striding over to the steps. His wife followed, towing the little boy behind. Gwen joined them and took the camera.

The woman extended her hand, saying, ‘I'm Babs, by the way, and this is Michael.'

The little boy put out his hand too and Gwen shook them both, saying, ‘I'm sorry I'm a bit filthy. I've been laying the front lawn.'

‘Can you do ours when you're finished?' The man laughed, his wife joining in, a light tinkle to his throaty chuckle.

‘Oh,' Gwen's hopes soared. ‘Have you bought the house then?'

‘Yes,' said Babs, ‘and Rohan's not joking about the garden, you know. Both of us are hopeless, aren't we, Rohan?'

Rohan smiled. ‘Shall we stand here?' He moved along the step. ‘That way the sun is behind you.'

Gwen took a couple of shots to be sure at least one of them turned out okay before handing back the camera.

‘When are you moving in?' she asked.

Rohan pocketed the camera in his suede jacket. ‘Just as soon as the builders have cleaned up this fill in the front yard.'

‘Oh well, if you don't want it, I could always use it,' she had said.

‘Really?' Babs deposited her son on the ground and fetched cigarettes from her purse. ‘Whatever for?'

‘I'm terracing the backyard. It's the best way of dealing with the slope. Your fill will save me having to buy it in.'

Babs glanced at the piles of dirt. ‘It doesn't look like much would grow in it.'

‘You'd be amazed at the difference once you mix through some organic matter.'

‘Indeed?' Babs dragged on her thin black cigarette. ‘Well, I don't see why not, do you, Rohan? I mean, we're neighbours now, aren't we?'

Gwen's enthusiasm escaped her. ‘And I'm more than happy to help out with your garden once you're settled.'

‘You might regret that offer.' Rohan laughed.

‘Oh no,' Gwen said, ‘I'd love it. I'd really love it.'

*

After the ceremony, Michael touches her arm. ‘We're coming over to the house on Thursday, Auntie Gwen. It would be nice to chat properly then.'

He has his mother's eyes, soft creases exuding kindness. ‘That would be lovely, Michael. I'll look forward to it,' she says, but reflecting on this on the trip home, she realises she's not sure what to expect.

Eric pulls into the driveway and cuts the ignition. Gwen listens to the tick of the cooling engine, contemplating their red brick house with its bowling green front lawn and soft shrubbery. Next door is Rohan and Babs' house, content in its garden of tranquil, clipped greens and white gravel paths. The two gardens are separated not only by taste but by Gwen's pride and joy. Where a fence might have been is a row of crab apples. Over the years she has pruned their canopies into round shapes atop slender straight trunks. Lollipopping they call it. Surrounding each tree is a box hedge within which she grows leggy alliums. Their round purple heads peek over the low hedges, mirroring the shape of the trees above. They are a remarkable feature, even if Gwen does say so herself. Like a row of sentries, Babs always said, guarding the walkway. An informal boundary, easily crossed.