The Fence (21 page)

‘You'll have to forgive my wife,' Eric whispers to the empty chair, ‘she has a jealous streak.' Marilyn whispers to him, ‘
I once took a bath in champagne. Do you know it took 350 bottles to fill it up?
' Eric blushes and pats her imaginary knee. ‘Now, dear, don't go planting such naughty thoughts in an old man's head.'

‘Why don't you open the presents, dear,' Gwen snaps at him.

‘Yes, Dad, open your presents so we can have the cake,' says Diane, who to Gwen's eye is rather enjoying this charade. Perhaps she's had too much champagne as well.

‘Then we'll sing “Happy Birthday”,' says Gwen, gesturing to the children to bring their grandfather his gifts.

Eric harrumphs. ‘I don't know why they're making such a fuss of me. I don't even know who half of them are!'

Marilyn whispers, ‘
Eric, if I'm lucky enough to make it to eighty, I don't care who's there to help me celebrate.
'

Her reply sets him laughing and wagging his finger at the vacant chair. The children snigger until Diane uses her teacher's voice and tells them to behave.

Gwen drops into her chair, overwhelmed by the strain. There is a tight kernel of a headache forming in the base of her skull. This is not how she envisaged the day unfolding. They are supposed to be celebrating a milestone birthday in Eric's long and happy life. But she can't help thinking that this might be the last celebration. Eric's illness is overtaking him. Next year, when he's eighty-one, will he remember that it is his birthday, will he remember today? There are so many milestones in a marriage as long as theirs. Will he remember their wedding day, their honeymoon at Seal Rocks, the birth of their children, their grandchildren, the look on Diane's face when they gave her the keys to that VW Beetle when she turned eighteen. Jonno in his mortarboard, the first member of either family to go to university let alone graduate. Gwen swallows back tears, will Eric even remember who she is?

On Marilyn's insistence, one after the other, Eric tears the wrapping paper from the gifts, almost damaging some in his rush to get it over and done with. He barely glances at any of them.

The largest one, from Diane, is a framed montage of Eric's life. The children have each written a Dear Grandpa letter and drawn pictures of Eric. Surrounding the letters are photos of them with their grandfather at various stages of their lives. In addition, Diane has made a book called
This Is Your Life
, and in it are birthday wishes from all sorts of people they have known over the years. There's a photo taken at one of Val and Keith's annual New Year's Eve parties, Eric and Keith both looking the worse for wear and Val squeezed between them. Babs, rest her soul, has a whole page to herself. There's a photo of her in one of her ubiquitous caftans and underneath Diane has written one of Babs' oft used phrases, ‘You're a real card, Eric Hill'.

Eric flicks through the book. He has no idea who any of these people are. The bird in the caftan looks vaguely familiar but he can't put a name to the face. He shoves it under his chair. Looking up he realises everyone is staring at him. Uncomfortable, he glances at Marilyn who says, will there be cake? Eric shrugs. ‘I don't know, dear, why don't I ask?' Turning, he shouts out, ‘Can we have cake now?'

Gwen places a comforting hand on Diane's knee. ‘It's a really thoughtful gift, dear. I'm sure he'll look at it later when he's not so overexcited.'

Diane waves her glass at Simon who rushes to top it up. Gwen wishes she could overindulge too but this afternoon is sliding out of control.

She slips inside, ostensibly to get the cake ready but really so she can have a moment to herself. In the kitchen drawer she finds a packet of painkillers and takes three. They taste disgusting but she is beyond caring. She just wants to get this afternoon over and done with. Give Eric his cake, sing ‘Happy Birthday' and then shuffle everyone out the door before he does goodness knows what.

Scattering raspberries over the chocolate ganache, Gwen places a single candle in the middle. She cups her hand around it as she lights it so the flame won't blow out. The plate is rather heavy for her to carry one-handed but if she takes her time, she should be fine. Edging the sliding door open with her foot, she stands in the doorway, balancing the cake in one hand, protecting the flame with the other, and waits for everyone to sing.

Diane is standing at the end of the table taking photos of the birthday boy. Vanessa holds her phone up recording Gwen's arrival. Jonathon and Simon raise their glasses. The children form a semi-circle around their grandfather. And in that moment, in that briefest of moments, Eric begins to sing. Everyone freezes mid-action, except Vanessa, who swivels around filming Eric's rendition of ‘Happy Birthday'.

Eric rises to his feet, gesturing with one arm in a sexy, languorous way. He swivels his hips and preens for Vanessa as he delivers a breathy rendition of ‘Happy Birthday' in a sultry falsetto. It's an appalling imitation of his fictitious guest. Gwen remembers seeing the footage on the tellie. It was the early sixties. She and Eric watched it, him in his dinner suit, her in a sequinned dress that left nothing to the imagination. That is who Eric has been flirting with throughout lunch. The Marilyn who has not touched a morsel of food on her plate nor drunk her champagne, who has listened to Eric's jokes and asides in Gwen's back garden, is Marilyn Monroe.

Stunned, Gwen trips over the step. The tray tilts, sending the cake splattering over the tiles. Great chunks of cake spread around her and ganache smears the cream tiles. She watches the raspberries roll under the table, wondering what she can say about Eric to Diane and Jonathon now. How unwell their father really is. He's ruined his own birthday party. Made a goose of himself. No one will ever forget it, that's for sure. Eric's eightieth. The day Dad channelled Marilyn Monroe. And blasted Vanessa has captured the whole fiasco on her stupid phone, no doubt itching to upload it and share it with her 693 bloody Facebook bloody friends.

A great barking comes up the side path and Peanut and Butter erupt into the garden, gambolling and skidding across the tiles, heading straight for the cake. Before anyone thinks to stop them, they have gobbled the lot. Cake, raspberries and chocolate ganache demolished in seconds. They lick the icing from the tiles with their lolling pink tongues, tails wagging, their brown eyes smiling. When they are done, they sniff around the table searching for leftovers and from over the fence, Gwen hears their names called.

‘Peanut! Butter!' Francesca shouts. ‘Who left the side gate open?' she scolds her children. ‘Where's Amber got to? Amber! Amber!'

Hearing their names, the dogs gallop back down the side path. Simon rushes after them to shut the gate. Gwen, realising she still holds the cake plate, goes inside and puts it on the kitchen bench. Hands trembling, she checks the pantry to see if she has anything she can whip up for dessert.

Jonathon walks past her. ‘I might put some music on, hey, Mum?'

Gwen knows what he means. Anything to hide the appalled silence. Diane rests her hand on her shoulder.

‘Don't worry about it, Mum,' she says gently. ‘There's the fruit salad, remember? We can have that with ice-cream instead.'

Gwen nods, springing back to life. ‘Oh yes,' she says, ‘the children will probably prefer that anyway.'

Diane squeezes her shoulder. They stand there, looking out the kitchen window where Simon is telling Vanessa some story. She listens with the kind of avid attention reserved for occasions when one is avoiding talking about the one thing everyone wishes they could. Jonathon joins them and the sound of Burt Bacharach drifts out after him. The children have run off after the dogs. Eric is trying to undo his bow tie, pulling wretchedly at his neck.

‘I should clear the table first,' Gwen says, grabbing the sponge and rinsing it under the tap.

Diane puts a hand on her arm to stop her. At her touch Gwen bursts into tears. She feels so helpless in the face of Eric's illness. If he had physical pain, she could soothe it but this mental anguish, the way the real Eric is locked away in a part of his brain she cannot access, makes her powerless. The doctor has given her the facts of Eric's impending decline but they don't stop the hurt at knowing that she will become a stranger to him. The man she has loved and laughed with for over fifty years is leaving her. ‘He's not going to get better, is he?' she cries.

‘I can ring the doctor if you like?' Diane takes the sponge from her mother's hand and turns off the hot water.

Gwen shakes her head. ‘It's Sunday. He doesn't do house calls anymore. I'll ring the surgery in the morning.'

‘I think he'll make an exception for you. I'll call him now.'

Gwen hears Diane in the hallway. Hears her confirm that they'll be there in half an hour. When she returns, Diane says, ‘I can come with you if you like, for the company.'

Gwen pats dry her damp cheeks. ‘No, dear. We'll manage. He probably just needs to adjust Eric's medication.'

The doctor says Eric's blood sugar is very low. Gwen thinks of the wasted cake. Previous tests for diabetes were negative. This drop in blood sugar is asymptomatic but fixable, says the doctor. Eric is morose on the drive home. He remains silent until they are in the kitchen and Gwen puts the kettle on. When she turns around, Eric is glaring at her. He says, ‘You've killed her, you know.'

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 person 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?'