The Fence (23 page)

‘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 marriage 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.

At his touch, she sighs. This is how they used to be. You don't realise when you're first married how precious those child-free years are. The freedom to lie in bed all day, make love, go out to dinner whenever, see a movie. She remembers spending a marathon weekend watching all three
Lord of the Rings
movies together. Imagine trying to do that now. They had no concept how the arrival of the twins would make them reflect on all the leisurely time they had wasted. Nor, that no matter how much you adore your kids, and she does, that keeping the family ship afloat day after day leaves little room for intimacy. The experts say keeping the lines of communication open is key but how do you do that when you're competing with four others for air time? Yet, somehow they've managed to have five children. She rubs the tight arc of her belly and feels a kick for her troubles.

Her thoughts drift back to the Hills. Those neighbours have certainly added to their woes. If you give people like that an inch, they'll take a mile. ‘It's a shame we didn't have enough evidence to have the Hills charged,' she says, sipping her mocktail. ‘I thought that RSPCA inspector was quite unreasonable. I mean, they say “reckless” or “intentional” so why did it matter that it was her word against ours? Peanut died for God's sakes. How much more proof did they need?'

‘Plus the vet bills.'

Frankie shrugs Brandon off. He always knows how to spoil a good mood. The vet bills totalled five thousand dollars. Five thousand of her hard-earned money, not his. Then there was the cost of replacing the locks on all the gates. Their house is a money pit.

That thought returns to Frankie a few days later as they turn into Green Valley Avenue. Up and down the street are trucks and woodchippers. They look as if they have been here for days. A plane tree on the corner has come down but thankfully fell across the road rather than onto any houses. Great sections of the verge have been dug over. A neighbour's fence is flattened. Several houses have tarpaulins pulled tight over their roofs. Garages are damaged, cars are parked on the street, one has a tree branch lying across its bonnet.

‘Christ, it looks like a tornado's been through here,' says Brandon.

The kids think it's terrific; laughing and pointing at the devastation, until they get to number 18. The neighbour's flower­ing gum has collapsed onto their roof. Some branches have been removed but there is a sheet of plastic covering a gaping hole in the plate glass window. Brandon's lack of progress in the front yard is concealed by the debris strewn everywhere. Frankie shepherds the children around the side gate to avoid the glass.

The backyard is a different story. The washing line is entangled in the trampoline, the towels she'd left out lie muddied on the lawn. The neighbours behind them seemed to have lost their entire garden and most of it into Frankie's pool.

‘Oh my God. What the hell has happened? I knew there were storms in Sydney but this is ridiculous.'

The children think it's amazing. Silver has a giant bra slung over his head and is chasing his sisters, yelling, ‘I'm a zombie! I'm a zombie!'

‘Silver, take that filthy bra off your head!' she yells.

‘It never bloody ends,' Frankie says, realising the security alarm has failed when she enters the house. With the power out, the entire contents of the fridge have turned into a science experiment.

The news is no better the following day when Frankie goes for her monthly obstetrician appointment. She is quite cheery, the obstetrician, as she announces that Frankie's baby has turned.

‘You're in breech,' she says.

‘Breech? Does that mean I'll have to have a caesarean?' Frankie asks as she dresses behind the screen.

‘I wouldn't worry about it too much yet, Mrs Desmarchelliers. You're thirty weeks, babies are only trying to get comfortable. Try swimming, that sometimes helps.'

Frankie thinks of her pool, the colour of tea. It'll be weeks before she'll be able to swim in it again. ‘And if she doesn't turn?' she says.

‘Rest, enjoy this final quiet time before bubs arrives,' the obstetrician says, forgetting that Frankie has four children at home.

Frankie can't forget it though. Her plan was to work one more month full-time then work from home two days a week leading up to the birth. She had to negotiate with her boss for ages to get even that compromise. Quite frankly, she'd rather have the last month off before the baby arrives. Already her ankles are swelling, the trip to work kills her. But between the financial strain and the fact that her boss, Tony, is suspicious of anyone who tries to work from home, she's lucky to get her two days. Fortunately, after much umming and aahing, they did send the twins to school this year. Despite what Diane Slaughter said, Frankie doesn't believe Amber has interpersonal issues.

‘She's just bored,' she told Brandon. ‘Once she's stimulated in a proper school environment, she'll settle down in no time. She's a bright child, they always suffer the most.'

Brandon decided it wasn't worth arguing with Frankie over it. She has this blinkered approach to the twins that they are somehow extraordinary. Not that he didn't think his kids were great but they weren't gifted and talented by any stretch. Anyway, within months, he'll either not be here at all or will be looking after a newborn and Bijoux. Either way, it might be for the best if the twins moved up to big school. It would take some strain off their marriage.

Brandon didn't argue but then he never does these days. She used to hate it when he disagreed over every single little thing but this compliant Brandon is somewhat unsettling. Now he does everything she asks, she kind of wishes he wouldn't. Sending the kids to school might take some of the pressure off their marriage, at least in the short-term. Because on top of everything else, there is the insurance work on the house and Camilla's trial. More time off work to give evidence in court.

Frankie pops into the shops on the way home, desperate for a decaf almond latte. She isn't sleeping well, life is getting on top of her. Tony's attitude to her working from home might have something to do with the rumours circulating of cutbacks, redundancies, takeovers. As if she doesn't have enough troubles on the home front. Telling herself they're an afternoon treat for the kids, she buys two dozen hot cinnamon doughnuts as well, pulling one from the bag on her way back to the car. A lady stands in the middle of the aisle waving a petition to save the local nature reserve. She accosts Frankie, who under normal circumstances would politely decline and barge past, but not anymore. She signs the petition Gwen Hill. ‘Have you a newsletter?' she asks the Nimbin escapee. There is. Perfect. Frankie adds the Hills' address to the mailing list.

She arrives home after Brandon has done the school run. The twins sit at the kitchen counter learning their Magic 100 words. Marigold is glued to the television and Bijoux has found a stray crayon and is drawing on the ruined lounge. Frankie swipes it off her and gives her the stack and play instead.

Kissing the tops of the twins' heads, Frankie doles out doughnuts, helping herself to another. ‘How was school today?'

‘Good,' the twins chorus.

‘Did you do anything exciting?'

‘No,' they chorus again.

‘Now that's not true, you two,' Brandon says. ‘You've been making Valentine Day cards this week, haven't you?'

‘Daddy!' Amber yells, ‘It's supposed to be a surprise.'

‘There's no need to yell, Amber, and I'm sure it will be a lovely surprise when we get them, won't it?' Brandon adds in a sing-song voice, ‘And we got a note from Mrs Rayner today too, didn't we, Amber?'

Amber concentrates on her words, running her finger under the letters as she spells out C-A-R.

‘What kind of note,' says Frankie, contemplating a third doughnut as she licks the sugar from her fingers. How much did the obstetrician say she'd put on this month? She doesn't look at the scales, doesn't want to know how many extra kilos she's lugging around.

‘Oh a note asking Mummy and Daddy to come in for a meeting after school tomorrow.'

‘Why?'

Brandon raises his eyebrows. ‘Some sort of progress report.'

Frankie frowns. ‘Already?'

‘I'm not sure it's good news.'

*

Frankie and Brandon arrive outside of KR as the bell goes. The classroom clears but one of those annoying mothers catches Mrs Rayner and engages her in a long chat about the status of her precious darling's progress. Apologising for the delay, the teacher invites them in.

Silver and Amber rush to the free play corner, upending a box of blocks. Frankie and Brandon sit on the teeny chairs, which at her stage of pregnancy is an art form.

After they exchange pleasantries, Mrs Rayner comes to the point. ‘The initial reason I asked you here this afternoon was to talk about how things are going at home for Amber and how she is fitting in at school.'

Frankie bristles. She and Brandon are careful not to let the children hear their arguments. ‘She's fine at home,' she says. ‘Amber loves school. She's always talking about her new friends. Marley, Lucy . . .' Frankie glances at Brandon. There must be more, she thinks. Isn't there a little boy too? What's his name?

Mrs Rayner adds, ‘And how's Silver going being in a different class?'

That had been a point of contention, not between the twins but between Frankie and Brandon. Frankie thought they should start school in the same class. Maybe when they are older being separated might make sense but she feels, felt, that the transition from preschool to big school is a big deal and continuity is key. Apparently though, Diane Slaughter had recommended otherwise. Frankie hadn't realised the school would ask Diane Slaughter for her input. She was a bit put out by her interference but the headmistress had explained that it was standard practice since so many Gumnut children came to Kuring-gai Public School.

‘He seems happy. He doesn't share his feelings as much as Amber does, but then he is a boy,' Frankie concedes.

‘He's one of life's deep thinkers.' Mrs Rayner smiles. ‘His teacher Mr Crawford says he's doing very well.'

Suddenly a giant shriek comes from the free play corner. Frankie turns and catches Silver pinching Amber's arm. ‘Ow,' she wails, as he says, ‘I had it first.'

‘No, you didn't,' she cries, ‘I was playing with it.'

Hands on hips, Silver chants, ‘You get what you get and you don't get upset.'

Brandon is out of his seat before Frankie can move, wedged as she is in the tiny chair. ‘Stop that, you two, or I'll have to separate you,' he says, taking each twin by the arm.

‘You're not the boss of me,' shouts Silver, wrenching his arm free.

Brandon grabs him again. ‘Oh yes I am. Do as you're told, Silver.'

‘No!' he shouts, slipping from his father's grasp and running out the door. Brandon gives chase leaving Frankie and Mrs Rayner alone. Frankie can't believe that Silver would be so blatant in challenging Brandon's authority. Was this what happened when kids started school? She'd read somewhere that children often behave quite differently at school to how they are at home. Maybe the twins should have been put in the same class after all.

Mrs Rayner clears her throat. ‘Amber has received her second yellow card in as many weeks, Mrs Desmarchelliers.'

Frankie nods, though she can't recall if a yellow card is a good or a bad thing.

‘As you may be aware, we discourage negative behaviour in our school.'

Frankie remembers now. Yellow cards are something to do with soccer. They were told about them at kindy orientation.

‘It's not that unusual for a child in kindergarten to receive a yellow card. Although at this age, we like to work with the parents to resolve the underlying issues rather than escalate to disciplinary measures.'