The Fence (9 page)

Frankie's August

Frankie parks her car on the street. She sees that the fencing contractor has been here today. The bushes along the front have been replaced with posts cemented into place. In a day or two, she thinks with deep satisfaction, their yard will be framed by a picket fence and secured against the outside world. Her pleasure abates somewhat as she walks up the drive and sees how the boundary fence between them and the Hills consists of a few garden stakes with orange string. The fencer promised the job would only take a couple of days. That was the supposed advantage of ordering prefabricated sections. Once the posts were in, it was whack whack with the nail gun, he said, and they would have their fence. She can't wait. She is sick of seeing Mrs Hill snooping around the front yard every time she steps out the door. It's like living next door to the Kravitzes.

She laughs, remembering how she used to sneak into the family room after school with a packet of Tim Tams and watch TV. Not when her mother was home, of course, as TV was forbidden on weeknights. Frankie and Martin's job was to supervise their sisters' homework and it was Frankie's job to prep dinner. But if her mother had an appointment, Frankie and Martin would sit the girls down at the kitchen table, tell them to do their homework under threat of death and sneak into the family room to watch
Bewitched
.

Mrs Kravitz was always leaning over the fence hoping to catch Samantha performing magic and she'd yell ‘Abner!' to her husband to show him what the witch next door was up to. Of course, by the time Abner Kravitz got there, nothing would be happening but that never stopped Mrs Kravitz trying to catch Samantha in the act.

Just like Gwen Hill, observing their every move. It's like living next door to her mother. Frankie shudders. Sometimes though, she thinks, fitting her key in the front door, it would be so nice to come home, grab a packet of Tim Tams and just veg out in front of the TV for an hour or so. She's kidding herself. Martin and she were lucky if they got through the half hour of
Bewitched
before Georgette or Anabel came in wanting a Tim Tam or help with their homework. That, or Noelle's Jaguar would purr into the driveway and it would be all systems go, switching off the TV, grabbing a couple of onions out of the basket and chopping like mad whilst Martin sat at the kitchen table and made the girls recite their two times table or practise their spelling words. Anything so that by the time Noelle walked through the door, her offspring were as she expected to find them and she would have no excuse to bite their heads off. When their father got home their mother was as smooth as silk but those hours between school and his arrival were spent making sure that his children were bathed, fed and ready for bed. Her mother knew which side her bread was buttered on.

Frankie opens her own front door and feels her good mood evaporate. Amber and Silver are still in their kindy clothes colouring in on the floor. An ad for a Grow Up Daisy doll blares from the TV. Feed her a bottle and she wees. Press her bellybutton to make her cry, gurgle or say mama. She comes with nappies and baby clothes and her own pink stroller. The ad flashes bright images of little girls nursing their Grow Up Daisy, their dumb smiles spread across the screen. Silver and Marigold are transfixed by the ad and whine when Frankie switches the channel to ABC2.

On the kitchen bench is a packet of Weet-Bix and spilled milk from an open bottle. She smells Bijoux. Whatever is hiding in her prototype Hush Hush Eco nappy smells peculiarly like off seafood. What on earth did Brandon feed her for lunch? Furthermore, Weet-Bix has congealed into cement on her highchair table, already decorated with blackening lumps of mashed banana.

Brandon walks into this disaster zone zipping his fly. ‘Hi, babe, how was your day?' He kisses her cheek.

‘Fine,' she says, dropping her briefcase to the floor.

Brandon cocks his head. ‘You look like you need a glass of wine to me.' He grins and chucks the briefcase onto the couch littered with the pieces of a jigsaw, blocks of Duplo and what appears to be the children's entire soft toy collection having a tea party.

Tension draws taut across Frankie's brow. She takes a deep breath. ‘What's for dinner?'

Brandon shrugs, putting the milk back in the fridge. ‘I haven't decided yet. The kids are having sausages.'

Frankie looks at the clock on the microwave. It's almost six thirty. The kids haven't been fed, they clearly haven't had their baths and the house is a disaster zone. ‘It's getting late. If Goldie doesn't eat soon, she'll melt.' Let alone me, she thinks. She can't remember having lunch.

Brandon grins and shrugs. Oh how that smile used to make her flush with pleasure. The smile that says, you are the centre of my universe, no one else exists. Ten years ago, she'd walked into a London bistro with her friend Chantelle who had pointed out the cute guy working the bar. He'd flashed that smile at her but she'd been too shy to speak to him. It wasn't until a year later when she was back in Sydney that she saw him playing piano on the mezzanine level of the local mall. He was serenading an old lady who tapped along to the tune on the top of the grand piano with a jewel-encrusted hand, her eyes alight with joy. Brandon had looked up at Frankie and smiled that smile. When the song finished, and after the old lady insisted on slipping Brandon a five-dollar note, they'd gone for coffee. And that was that. But after ten years together, she knows what that smile really means. It means if I blind you with my smile you'll forgive me my indiscretions.

‘She's had Weet-Bix for afternoon tea, she'll be fine,' he says, handing her a glass of wine.

Frankie takes a large gulp. ‘Take him back, put the incident with the barista behind you for the sake of your marriage and your children,' said her mother. But the image of her husband's head between that girl's thighs will not let her go. Before no-fault divorce, how did women cope? How do you step through each day as if it is safe, knowing in the land beneath your feet lay mines, the debris of trust scattered about you? She has chosen this path but she questions everything Brandon says and does, knowing it undermines her efforts to keep her family together. Moving to the leafy north shore is supposed to be Brandon's punishment, but somehow it feels as if it is hers too.

‘Shall I run the kids a bath?' she says and, without waiting for an answer, escapes the chaos and Brandon, and hides in the bathroom. Pouring Hush Hush Bath Bubblez into streaming water, Frankie sits on the toilet as the bath fills, nauseated by the sickly sweet smell of coconut and mango rising in the steam.

The kids clean and asleep, Frankie lingers in the room Marigold and Bijoux share. She folds the clean clothes Brandon has abandoned on the dresser and puts them in the drawers, straightens the picture books on the shelves and pulls the door closed behind her.

In the kitchen, Brandon chops vegetables. To one side, chicken breasts are marinating and the rice cooker steams. Frankie relaxes for the first time since arriving home. She pours herself another glass of wine, Brandon has a beer within easy reach. The children's dinner dishes haven't made it to the dishwasher. She'll do it later. She's tired. Finding fault with everything her husband does is pointless. Without nannies and cleaning ladies, and with an eight month old, everything is a juggle and men are no good at multitasking. Men will never be wives.

On the stool next to her is a Brooks Brothers bag. She pulls out a fabulous cashmere sweater. ‘Did you go shopping today?' she asks, flipping over the tag and gawping at the price. ‘Jesus, Brandy, who's this for?'

Brandon doesn't turn but his shoulders tense. ‘It's for Stu. It's his birthday next week.'

‘A three-hundred-dollar jumper for your least favourite brother?' Frankie thinks of the latest credit card bill. With the new fence setting them back four grand, they'd agreed to live a little lean for a couple of months. Frankie doesn't want to draw down on the mortgage any more than she has to. They, she, can't afford three hundred dollar jumpers.

‘It's his fortieth. I had to get him something special.' Brandon throws the chicken in the wok.

Perhaps the wine is clouding her judgement, Frankie thinks. She has no energy for fighting. Pretending to be happy is draining. She decides to move on. ‘I saw the fencing guy was here.'

‘Mmm,' is all Brandon says.

‘He said he'd finish cementing in the posts today. Weren't you supposed to be helping him?'

Not answering is what gives Brandon away. He plates the chicken and sears the onions.

‘It didn't quite go according to plan,' he eventually says, finishing his beer and reaching for another.

Frankie notices there are already four empties in the ­recycling box.

‘What does that mean?'

Brandon opens his fresh beer and pokes at the onions. ‘That Mrs Hill is a real pain in the arse.'

Frankie waits.

In goes the broccoli. ‘She's called the council to complain about the fence.'

‘What!'

‘Yeah, she denied they agreed to us building it.'

‘But you told me you spoke to her husband about it.'

‘I did but he turned around today and said we'd never had the conversation. Then she started rabbiting on about it being too high.'

The hide of them. Saying yes and then denying it. Finding fault with everything they do. The Hills were the neighbours from hell. ‘That's ridiculous,' Frankie says. ‘Even at three metres we'll still be able to see them from the lounge room. I just want it high enough that I can be in the garden without her spying on us.'

Brandon doesn't mention that the fence needn't be three metres high to avoid Frankie seeing the neighbours. Frankie is not a tall woman. She is wide hips, large breasted, short. Built to plough through life, unruffled. That's what he loved, loves, about her. An image of Camilla naked flashes into his mind and he turns back to the stir fry hoping Frankie hasn't noticed his erection. No, the truth of the matter is that Frankie wants to shut the world out, lock them all away, as if that alone will save them.

‘So what happens now?' Frankie says.

‘She's made an appointment for the council to make a site visit. I guess we'll have to wait and see what they say.'

‘And in the meantime, we have four thousand dollars' worth of fencing sitting in our garage and our cars are parked on the street for those bloody mynah birds to shit all over.'

Brandon pushes a plate of stir fry across the benchtop and passes Frankie some cutlery. ‘I'm sorry things didn't work out as planned, babe.' He sits opposite, swigging his beer, thinking how nothing he does ever meets Frankie's approval. Even when she says nothing, she watches him, comes in afterwards to fix whatever he hasn't done right in the first place. Living with Frankie is like sitting a maths exam every day of every week.

Frankie sighs. ‘I guess it's not your fault, Brandy. The council will see that we're not the problem. We're entitled to build the fence the way we want it and, whatever Mr Hill might say, you gave them a fencing notice. They haven't a leg to stand on.'

Brandon says nothing.

He eats his stir fry and thinks of Camilla; lithe, passionate, willing Camilla. Frankie is onto her third glass of wine, he is on his sixth beer. When she suggests they have an early night, Brandon is surprised. Frankie rarely instigates sex although she is the first to spout that marriage needs intimacy to grease its wheels. He misses the spontaneity from before they had children. The long Sundays spent in bed. They have a working fireplace in this new house and not once have they made love in front of it. As Brandon runs his hands over Frankie's milky breasts, he doubts they ever will.

Frankie wakes early. Beside her, Brandon sleeps, his face relaxed without the daily grind hatched across it. She used to spend ages watching him sleep, never believing her luck that such a handsome man would want to be with her, to think her beautiful. Sex has made her feel lighter, despite the wine. They should do this more often. The rising squabble of the children reminds her of one reason they don't. As Brandon sleeps in, she makes porridge, allowing the twins to watch
Sesame Street
on their tablets for the sake of peace. Even Marigold's meltdown over wearing her pink tutu to kindy is not enough to dampen her mood. Leaving for work, she tells herself, it's okay, our marriage might survive this after all.

It turns out that ‘reasonable' isn't in the council representative's vocabulary. For starters, the man declares, do they not realise they live in a bushfire prone area? It's against regulations for a fence to be made of treated pine. It will have to be made of hardwood or another fire retardant material such as coated corrugated iron. Frankie feels a headache coming on as soon as Brandon shares this news with her.

‘No! I don't want a metal fence. We're not living on Nauru for heaven's sakes. This is the north shore.'

The council agreed with the Hills that the fence didn't need to be three metres tall and, on that basis, the standard 1.8 metre fence applied.

‘And did you explain to him that we planned for the fence to be three metres at the garage sloping down to 1.6 metres at the front?'

‘Yes, of course I did.' Brandon sounds tired.

‘I mean,' she continues, folding yet another basket of washing Brandon has left on the couch, ‘you put it in the fencing notice. Can they just ignore that, can they? Bloody bureaucrats.'

Brandon rescues Bijoux from putting a button in her mouth that must have fallen off Amber's overalls. Bijoux frowns until Brandon shoves a rattle at her which she shakes with glee.

Something is not quite right, Frankie thinks, checking the label in the blue corduroys to see if they're Amber's or Silver's. Life would be so much easier if the twins didn't insist on dressing identically. Brandon has his back to her and is making a fuss removing the button from Bijoux. She puts the folded jeans on Silver's pile, saying, ‘What did the council say about the fencing notice, Brandy?'