The Fence (4 page)

Gwen's June

If Babs were here, she'd laugh at Gwen hovering in the front garden waiting for the new neighbours to arrive. Gwen can almost hear her saying, ‘Look at you, Gwennie, raking up the leaves from beneath the plane trees, pretending you're busy.'

‘That's not entirely fair,' Gwen replies in her head, surveying the soft mounds of leaves heaped under several of the trees along Green Valley Avenue. ‘I do this every year.'

They used to burn the leaves but the council never lets you do such things anymore. ‘No, now we live in the nanny state,' Gwen mutters to herself. No besser block incinerators, no smoking piles sending up their woody aroma. Mind you, even before the council's interference, Gwen had changed her tune on the issue of burning leaves. Leaves are valuable organic matter better suited to mulching and keeping the soil warm in winter.

Gwen hears the crunch of tyres on the road before she sees the white four-wheel drive heave into the driveway of 18 Green Valley Avenue. She continues raking the leaves whilst sending out waves of disapproval beneath the shadows of her wide-brimmed hat. The large European model car has a ‘Baby on Board' sign suctioned to a side window and a stick family in the bottom left corner of the rear window. It provides advance warning that the dad plays a guitar, that the mother is a perky sort with a mobile phone glued to her ear and a laptop in her hand, and the children are a superhero, a ballerina and a gymnast. The baby appears to have angel wings and a halo. Nauseating, Gwen thinks, raking so hard that she bends a tine on her favourite rake. Squinting, she sees what appears to be two sheep. Sheep? ‘Well I hope you're satisfied, Babs Mody,' Gwen accidentally says aloud, almost hearing Babs' low chuckle in reply.

Gwen hasn't met the new neighbours. When the open for inspections were on, she was at the studio in Chatswood doing her gardening talkback show. She's had to rely on Eric's somewhat ambiguous descriptions and, being Eric, he tended to confuse the details of which couple were which. Scurrying along to the next tree, Gwen reflects on her conversations with Eric but no matter how she sifts and sieves the information, she is adamant he never mentioned children – and so many!

The woman, she of the mobile phone and laptop, has brown hair tied up in a high ponytail. She's wearing those oversized sunglasses in fashion these days. Her skirt flares around her boots and a long cardigan flaps over the whole ensemble. It is an unfortunate look on a woman barely scraping five foot four. The proportions emphasise that she is a shorty, or as Eric likes to call them, ‘a duck's arse'.

The kids are released one by one. First comes a little boy with blond hair past his shoulders so it is only the snowman t-shirt that makes Gwen certain he is a he. Next comes a little girl identical in looks and dress. The pair scamper straight into the garden, trampling the native violets under the camellias as they go.

The father holds a fat toddler with remarkable ginger hair wearing the same outfit as her siblings but Gwen is more interested in how the man is dressed. Pretending to rake some leaves from under the buddleja in the front border, she sneaks closer, bending to peer through its branches.

He wears black jeans and a bulky fisherman's jumper with a pea coat over the top. It's Rosedale not Russia, thinks Gwen. But it's the hat that annoys her most. More of a giant tea-cosy than a hat. A beanie, she supposes, but not the kind that a real fisherman might wear to protect himself from the bitter winds of the Black Sea, no, this beanie sort of sags at the back. When Jonno was in his teens he used to like that Bob Marley who wore a not dissimilar beanie over his dreadlocks. On a handsome black man like Bob Marley, a baggie beanie looked stylish, but on a weedy white man, it looks pretentious.

He passes the squirming toddler to its mother and retrieves the last member of their family, a plump baby girl, dressed in a glittery pink wraparound cardigan, silver stockings, silver shoes and a tutu. Given she looks to be about six months old, Gwen wonders what kind of ballet lessons a child this age could possibly attend.

As if this is not enough, the mother opens the boot and out jump two woolly coated dogs, one brown, one golden. Labradoodles, the breed of the moment. If you could call it a breed. Only the other day Gwen was at Rosedale Shopping Square and saw them at fourteen hundred dollars a pup, and some awful combination of Jack Russell and Pug for a similar amount. It staggers belief that people could charge that kind of money for a bitzer. When she was a girl, if the German Shepherd jumped the fence and made your Corgi a mother, it wasn't called a Corgi Shepherd and the pups flogged for a cool thousand plus dollars. No, it was called a mutt and you were lucky if you could give the pups away.

The dogs' noses go straight to the ground and they snuffle amongst the leaf litter. The brown one lifts its leg and sprays the box hedge surrounding one of the crab apples and the golden dog prances over to Gwen's front yard and leaves a large deposit in the middle of her bowling green lawn where it steams in the cool morning air.

Its business finished, the dog rushes to where Gwen stands, rigid with indignation, and plants its wet nose in her crotch.

‘Butter! Stop that,' the woman says, not in a stern voice inferring that such behaviour is unacceptable but in a soft, wheedling tone as if begging the dog's forgiveness.

‘We'll clean that up,' the man says, joining his wife.

Gwen glances at the other dog, which sniffs at her shrubbery before taking another pee and galloping into the open garage where Eric is working.

She has no choice but to come around the buddleja and introduce herself.

‘Gwen Hill,' she announces, offering her hand.

The woman takes it though it is clear she'd prefer Gwen had not made the offer. ‘Francesca Desmarchelliers. And this is my husband, Brandon.'

Brandon nods at Gwen, making no attempt to shake hands.

‘I know your name from somewhere,' Francesca adds, a thoughtful look on her face.

Gwen is used to people saying that. Whilst her media presence is modest, she is often surprised how many people read her monthly column in
Outback + Outdoors
. The photo of her in the magazine is years out of date but more than once she's been at the Blossoms 'n' Buds Nursery and had people come up to tell her how much they love her column or how they listen to her every Saturday morning, rain, hail or shine. Of course, the downside to this recognition is that people often want advice about something that has gone horribly wrong with their azaleas or that their lemon tree seems to be on its last legs and she'll be waylaid for half an hour or more when she'd just ducked in for a bag of blood and bone. Still, as she reminds herself after such intrusions, these are her audience and without them she'd have no column or talkback radio show. Gwen Hill would be unemployed.

‘I write a gardening column, perhaps you've read it.' For a second, a glimmer of hope shines as she thinks that perhaps these new neighbours might not be so bad, despite their tribe of children and their dogs with uncontrollable bowels, but that hope dissipates at Francesca's next comment.

‘No, no. I don't read gardening magazines,' she says, shaking her head so her ponytail swishes back and forth like a horse's tail. ‘I don't even like gardening. It must be something else.'

Gwen pushes the dog away from her crotch again, saying in a stern, proper puppy-disciplining tone, ‘No, Butter.'

Brandon laughs. ‘He's not as bad as Peanut.'

Peanut and Butter. Oh my, Gwen thinks.

‘I know where I know you from.' Francesca's face brightens.

‘Oh yes.' Gwen smiles. A lot of dedicated ABC followers listen to her Saturday morning program, even the non-gardeners. It's quite an entertaining show, even if she does say so herself. The host Ian Day is a real scream.

‘At Gumnut Cottage. Your picture is on the staff wall there.'

Gwen sags.

Francesca turns to her husband. ‘Remember, Brandy? The lady who gave us the tour told us about the children's garden and how they have a special helper who comes in once a week to teach the children how to grow things. That's you, isn't it? You're the special helper.' She beams.

How Gwen hates that term ‘special helper' but Diane insisted upon it. What could she say? Diane is the director at Gumnut. ‘Yes, that's me.'

‘Oh how wonderful that our neighbour will be helping out at Silver and Amber's kindy. They'll love that.'

When the woman sees the blank look on Gwen's face, she adds, ‘The twins. Silver and Amber. Marigold will be starting there next week too. We would have left them at Little Doves but there's no way we're travelling back and forth to Annandale. I mean, we will miss the Mandarin lessons and the drumming group but the director assured me that the children's enrichment is as high a priority at Gumnut as it is at any kindy.'

‘Although they do other things, babe,' Brandon says. ‘Diane said they incorporate preparing food from the garden as part of the program.'

‘She looks a bit like you.' Francesca's eyes narrow. ‘Is she any relation? Slaughter, isn't it?'

Gwen tilts her chin. ‘Yes, she's my daughter.'

‘Oh how lovely!' gushes Francesca. ‘How nice of your daughter to find a way for you to be involved. Her little girl goes there too, doesn't she? So that way you get to see your grandchild when you pop in to help with the garden.'

Gwen's brain shuts down. She has no idea how to respond to this woman. The gardening program at the kindy had been her idea. Admittedly, she had read about what Stephanie Alexander had achieved in Victoria and, whilst she was no celebrity chef like Stephanie, she was perfectly capable of creating a kitchen garden for the enjoyment of the under-fives. It had been a huge success. At the working bee, a couple of the dads had helped Eric build four small beds at just the right height for the littlies to reach in and plant their seeds and weed their rows. Once a fortnight they hold a cooking class where the children pick ingredients from the garden and bake something to take home for Mum and Dad to enjoy. Every season, all the families are invited to a meal and are served by their offspring. In the meantime, the children learn where real fruit and vegetables come from and what they taste like. Some of the mums have commented on how much less fussy their darlings are at meal times as a consequence. It brings Gwen immense satisfaction to be making a difference to this one small group of the next generation.

She starts to say something polite and non-committal such as ‘I like to help out where I can,' but then thinks, bugger it, and says instead, ‘It's an integral part of their learning program. We incorporate lessons in science as well as practical skills like using gardening implements and kitchen utensils that build their fine motor skills. Plus it encourages them to work in teams as each age group has their own garden bed to maintain.'

Francesca steps back, a haughty look shadowing her face. ‘Yes, I'm sure it does all of that,' she says in a tone like ice. ‘Although I'm not so sure I like the idea of my four year olds wielding kitchen knives.'

‘The teachers are the only knife wielders at Gumnut. None of the carers at Gumnut would ever dream of endangering the safety of their charges.' Gwen speaks as evenly as possible but she can't help thinking, what sort of fools does this woman take them for?

‘Mummy, I picked you flowers.' The little boy appears. In his grubby hand is a bunch of primulas that had the misfortune to flower early and have now paid the ultimate price. Their roots hang limp, dropping clods of soil, and he squeezes them so tight that some of the delicate stems snap, the flower heads collapsing sideways.

‘Oh, Silver, sweetie, that is such a lovely gift for Mummy,' Francesca coos, bending to kiss his cheek and take the bedraggled bunch. The baby stretches out a pudgy hand and snatches at the flowers, beheading a couple more.

Gwen pales. She had potted out the seedlings only a week before Babs died. She uses them to provide winter colour in Babs' green garden and loves the way they bob up beneath the shrubbery, self-seeding along the drive in any nook or cranny that will have them. What they are not designed to be is a cut flower, or in this case, a plucked flower.

The other twin arrives. If Gwen were to draw an inference about the competitive natures of the siblings, the proof is in the little girl's hand. She has picked an even larger bunch of primulas, so big she needs two hands to hold them. Gwen feels faint at such wanton destruction. None of her grandchildren ever picked flowers willy-nilly. From a young age, she trained them to respect Nanna's garden. Picking flowers is fine, as long as Mummy or Nanna are there to make sure they do it correctly. The little girl thrusts the flowers at her father.

‘Princess, that's so sweet of you. You know how much Daddy loves flowers. Shall we go and find a jar to put them in?' He smiles at Gwen, an electric smile that promises everything. He turns towards the house. ‘I'll see you inside, Frankie.'

Francesca nods and looks at Gwen. ‘Don't worry about the flowers, Mrs Hill. We've got big plans for this garden. Brandy's done a course on permaculture and we'll be getting rid of all the decorative plants to make the front yard sustainable. Wave bye bye, Marigold.' She picks up the toddler's hand and flings it up and down. The little girl giggles and a gobbet of green snot emerges from her nose.

Gwen waves back – what else can she do? – and watches the family traipse through the sasanqua hedges and around the curving gravel path. The sound of the front door slamming shut startles her back to life and she makes the slow hike up her own driveway, thinking how she'll convey all that has transpired to Eric. It is then it catches her eye, the large brown mass glistening on her lawn. She goes into the garage to fetch a hand trowel and sees Eric sitting on the step sanding a small piece of wood, humming to himself. At his feet lies the culprit, her brother flopped across her hindquarters, both dogs fast asleep.