The Fence (15 page)

‘Where? In Katoomba? Look I'll finish up here and come straight over. I'll have Lisbeth with me but Molly and Jasper have gone to Tiff's for a play date. Lucy! Inside voices please.'

Letting the worry out has made it more real. Gwen wipes the kitchen benches, peels potatoes for dinner. She sets up the ironing board by the window so she can keep an eye out, convincing herself Eric will arrive before Diane and they'll all have a good old laugh at his adventures over a cup of tea. She has some milk arrowroots in the pantry, Lisbeth's favourites, it'll be fine.

As she irons Eric's jeans, she sees the girl clamber into her beaten-up red car and drive away. Not long after, she hears the vacuum cleaner start up as His Lordship does his usual scurry about before picking the kids up from kindy and his wife comes home. Their children will be amongst the last to be picked up, she knows this from Diane. Strange, when he doesn't work, that their children don't get picked up until late. What does he do with himself all day? Well, she knows what he's done today. He's entertained a lady friend.

Diane's Volvo pulls into the drive and Gwen's heart plummets into her socks. In her mind, she'd already rung Diane saying, ‘Nothing to worry about, dear, your father just decided to . . .' To what exactly? There is nowhere Eric could be.

‘Well he must be somewhere, Mum.' Diane dunks her milk arrowroot into her coffee just as she has since childhood. Lisbeth mimics her, leaving her biscuit in too long so the bottom half collapses into the cup. Lisbeth chuckles and sticks her fingers in to retrieve it, sending milk splashing across the tabletop.

‘Lisbeth!' Diane remonstrates. ‘Sorry, Mum. Pass me the sponge, will you?'

‘I can't think of anywhere else he'd be,' Gwen says, passing it to her. ‘Your father said he was going to the hardware store to get some more shadecloth.'

‘What for?'

‘He needs to build the fences for the new snail beds.'

‘Is he still going on with that? If I'd known, I'd have got the kids to collect ours and bring them over.'

‘It's a bit late in the season now, dear. They're breeding at the moment. The new beds are for the hatchlings. Apparently you have to keep the snails at a ratio of twenty per square metre.'

Diane giggles. ‘You aren't serious, are you, Mum? You hate snails, why on earth would you let Dad ruin your precious lawn with a snail farm.'

‘An organic free-range snail farm, Diane. Your father doesn't muck about.' Gwen allows herself a small smile. She's always considered herself lucky to have Eric as a husband. Val's Keith and Babs' Rohan were not the most practical of men. She remembers when Val and Keith put the pool in. Keith was going through a bit of a DIY phase – well they all were, it was the seventies – and had decided to lay his own paving. My goodness, what a mess he made of that. The pavers around the pool looked like they'd suffered an earthquake. Eric helped him pull the whole lot up and then laid them properly. ‘You're so clever with your hands, Eric,' Val had gushed, passing around the G&Ts as they admired the results. ‘Lucky Gwen,' Babs had smiled into her glass.

Diane reaches for the plate of milk arrowroots and passes another to Lisbeth, taking one for herself. ‘Don't you think it's a bit odd that Dad suddenly wants to grow snails? It seems out of character.'

Gwen snorts. ‘The snails aren't the half of it. At nearly eighty, he's no spring chicken but he's become quite forgetful.' She refuses to mention the teabags, the car keys, his work boots.

Diane isn't stupid. She can tell her mother is holding out on her. ‘Has there been anything else?' she says.

Gwen drinks her tea, torn between loyalty to Eric and the overwhelming urge to share her thoughts out loud. If it was just one thing it wouldn't be so bad, but it's not and now Eric's disappeared. So she tells Diane about the mediation session where Eric had launched into ‘Don't Fence Me In'. How the Desmarchelliers had assumed Eric was taking the mickey out of them when really he was just trying to soothe the baby. ‘And he's become more withdrawn. Your father was always a quiet man but when he had something to say, he was most definite in his opinions. He's become … I don't know . . .' Gwen turns the handle on her teacup. It is disloyal saying these things out loud. She'd hoped she'd been imagining it, exaggerating his behaviour, but the truth is his behaviour has been out of character. Eventually she says, ‘He seems more easily upset by changes in routine. This fence business has really thrown him.'

‘It's thrown you both. They're a very odd couple.'

‘You think so too?'

Diane bites her lip. ‘I haven't told the parents yet, so don't say anything, but I'm thinking of recommending that Silver and Amber be put in separate classes.'

‘Because?'

‘Because Silver is a sly little thing and I can't help wondering if it is a defence mechanism against his sister.' Diane glances at Lisbeth but she needn't worry, her youngest is onto her third milk arrowroot, the sludge growing in the bottom of her cup. Diane sighs. ‘To be honest, they're both troublemakers. Amber's loose with the truth and, whilst it's not entirely unusual in children her age, she's a bit sexually precocious. More than once, I've caught her doing things with the dolls that aren't age-­appropriate behaviours.'

Gwen remembers the day the children snuck into the garage. The lady and the man doll behaving in ways that were definitely not age appropriate. An image of the red beaten-up car springs into her mind.

Diane checks her watch. ‘It's after five. I hate to say this but I think we need to call the police. Dad might have had an accident.'

Diane rings the police whilst Gwen runs Lisbeth a bath. Gwen hears her describe Eric's appearance, giving them the registration number, make and model of their car.

Hanging up, Diane calls out, ‘They're sending someone around. They should be here in half an hour.'

Gwen swishes the bubbles and squirts a purple hippo at Lisbeth. ‘Shouldn't they be out looking for him?'

‘They're checking the traffic incident reports and alerting highway patrol. They want to ask you some questions, help narrow down where Dad might be.'

It sounds ominous. If she had a clue as to Eric's whereabouts, she'd have driven there herself. She sits back on her haunches. If only they still had two cars. The impotence of knowing he might be anywhere, broken and bleeding, whilst she's been ironing his shirts. Eric, the man who had fought off the midwives in his rush to her bedside when she was in labour with Diane. Held her hand through the long hours until the pink bundle came to rest on her chest. In an era when men avoided the trials of childbirth, Eric had never left her side and had wept with joy as he held his newborn daughter in his arms.

Opening the front door, the first thing Gwen notices is that the police constables are very young. They have tiny black notebooks in which they inscribe everything Gwen tells them about the day, the time Eric left, when she had expected him home. They take his car details again and ask for a list of hardware stores he frequented.

‘How often does your husband do this, Mrs Hill?' asks the first policeman.

Gwen doesn't like his tone. As if they're discussing an inveterate gambler sneaking off to the TAB, not a forgetful old man. ‘Never. Eric always tells me where he's going.'

‘Does he have a mobile phone?'

‘Yes, he uses Diane's old one.'

Diane nods from where she is feeding Lisbeth mashed potato and a bit of sausage she'd found in the fridge.

‘And did he take it with him today?'

Gwen explains about finding it in his jacket pocket.

The second police officer asks to see it. ‘Is it password protected?'

Gwen shakes her head and the policeman checks the call registry. Why hadn't she thought of that? Eric might have called his mobile whilst she was on the phone to Diane. He might have been trying to reach her for hours.

The phone yields no clues and then the first policeman asks Gwen, ‘Is there any reason Mr Hill might not want to come home?'

It's a slap in the face. Indignation floods Gwen to the core. ‘No!'

‘Why would you ask that?' Diane interjects.

‘We have to explore every avenue, Miss.' The policeman presses on. ‘Do you have any financial worries that might be weighing on your husband's mind?'

Gwen is offended. Money is a private matter not fodder for public consumption. Eric can't even use an ATM. He insists on going into the branch where he knows the tellers by name. They stamp his passbook, the Hills' finances printed in neat purple lines, satisfying Eric's need to know that every penny is accounted for. She says, ‘Our only trouble is with our new neighbours. We're in dispute over a fence they want to build.'

The second policeman leans forward. ‘Tell me about that.'

So Gwen does, in detail, though she fails to see how it will help find Eric.

‘Has there been a confrontation or an argument with the neighbours?' asks the officer.

‘No! Though they've done plenty to antagonise us. Their dogs defecate on my lawn and their garbage bins overflow onto the street. I'm sure the husband has poisoned my mulberry tree. I can show you if you like.'

They stand there, observing the tree's decaying limbs. As she's explaining her theories as to the tree's demise, the first police officer interrupts, saying, ‘All right, Mrs Hill, we'll have a word with your neighbour, he might know where your husband is.'

‘Is that really necessary?' Gwen doesn't like the idea of the Desmarchelliers knowing their business. If Babs were still alive, she would have been the first person Gwen ran to. There were no secrets between them. When Rohan had had his first heart attack, Babs had appeared at Gwen's back door at three in the morning. Gwen had thought nothing of being by Babs' side in a crisis. She shuddered at the thought of such intimacy with Francesca Desmarchelliers.

The second policeman looks up from his notebook. ‘If the worst has happened, Mrs Hill, not that I'm suggesting it has, do you or anyone else you know of, stand to benefit from Mr Hill's death?'

‘Oh c'mon,' says Diane at the same time Gwen says, ‘How dare you!' She hopes the neighbours can't hear this.

Diane lapses into her teacher's voice. ‘My parents have been married for over fifty years. You're standing on the only thing they own. Dad's super isn't worth it. You're barking up the wrong tree.'

Gwen is glad she is here. Diane is her reliable child. Someone to stand between her and this policeman with that intense and suspicious look on his face.

The first police officer's radio crackles and he wanders away. Gwen stares after him. Is this what the world has come to? One where a 74-year-old woman kills off the man she loves for a few measly thousand?

‘They've found him,' reports the officer.

‘Oh thank God.'

‘Where is he? Where did he go?'

‘Somebody rang Mona Vale station and reported a car parked at the end of Booralie Road in Terrey Hills. They got worried because the man was crying and they were concerned he might harm himself. We're bringing him home now.'

‘How is he? Is he all right?' Gwen leans into the warmth of Diane's embrace, glad for the arm that stills her trembling.

‘He's in one piece, Mrs Hill. Nothing to worry about.'

But when Eric comes through the front door, he doesn't look fine. He grasps Gwen in a tight hug, saying, ‘I took a wrong turn, Gwennie. I didn't know where I was and the street directory was all lines and I didn't have my glasses. I took a wrong turn.'

She squeezes him tight and leads him over to the dining nook where Diane passes him a mug of hot sugary tea, saying, ‘You're all right, Dad. You're home safe now.'

After they put Eric to bed, Gwen walks Diane and Lisbeth to the car. As she starts the ignition, Diane winds down the window and clasps her mother's hand. ‘I think you should take Dad to the doctor's tomorrow. He's clearly not himself. Maybe there's more to it than this stupid fence issue.'

Diane is overreacting, Gwen thinks as she waves her goodbye. She doesn't understand just how stressful this whole fencing business has been. Neither of them are sleeping well. Just the other day she forgot to put the bins out! Eric took a wrong turn, that's all.

Frankie's November

The morning of the hearing they are running late. Silver had a nightmare and woke them in the middle of the night. His piercing scream woke Amber who shouted in fright, which woke Goldie, who normally sleeps the sleep of the innocent. Bijoux slept through the whole thing and after Frankie had resettled everyone, she found she could not sleep at all.

She lay awake from 2 am, her thoughts flicking between her yet-to-be announced pregnancy and the forthcoming confrontation with the Hills. There was something going on with those two. The police had been around. Brandon said he'd heard them in the backyard, accusing him of poisoning their mulberry tree and something about how they – they being Frankie and Brandon – were causing trouble over the whole fencing issue. How dare they? Did they think they could intimidate them by getting the law involved? As if Brandon would have poisoned their mulberry tree. Sometimes Frankie wished they were still in Annandale, a happier place in happier times. They must get through this. Together forever, that's what they'd vowed in the chapel of Brandon's old school. How he'd squeezed her hand and mouthed I love you as the reverend read the vows. Once the fence is sorted out, that was where they must get back to.

The Hills are already in the courtroom by the time Frankie and Brandon arrive. They've taken the same seats as last time and Frankie wheels Bijoux's buggy between them both. It is a male adjudicator this time. He wastes no time telling them he is unhappy they have returned to court.

‘Last time you were here, Mrs Desmarchelliers, this court issued a fencing order. Why has the fence not been built?'

‘Well, sir, there are a number of problems. Our neighbours have not provided satisfactory quotes.'

He grunts and flicks through the paperwork in front of him. ‘I see five quotes here, which ones are provided by you?'

Frankie tells him and he glances through the quotes. ‘They look fine to me.' He picks up the photos Frankie has provided. ‘What are all these for?'

They fall like a pack of cards from his hand. He picks one up and examines it front and back before saying, ‘There are rules about the presentation of evidence, Mrs Desmarchelliers, rules you appear to have ignored. These photos aren't dated or numbered. What are they supposed to be telling me?'

Frankie clears her throat. It had been Brandon's job to put their evidence in order. She'd assumed he had enough nous to realise the photos should have been dated. It is too late now. She says, ‘They are photos of the fences in our neighbourhood, sir. It's proof that many houses have existing fences. The Hills' claim that this is not part of our streetscape is incorrect and irrelevant.'

The tribunal man frowns at her. ‘But that is also irrelevant to today's proceedings. Did you provide these other two quotes, Mrs Hill?'

‘Yes, I did.' The old lady has the floral notebook out again. Mr Hill is playing with a wooden block under the table.

‘Then why have you not agreed on one of these five quotes and built the fence?'

‘Because, Your Honour,' Frankie interjects, ‘the fence cannot be built.' She smiles at the man. This is her trump card.

Again that frown. ‘You have five quotes here saying otherwise, Mrs Desmarchelliers. What do you mean it can't be built?'

Frankie drops the smile. ‘The previous fencing order stipulates that the fence cannot exceed 1.8 metres at its highest point. Given the slope of the land that's impossible. Building the fence to specification at 1.8 metres on our side makes it more than two metres high on the Hills' side and thus is non-­compliant.'

‘Did you attempt to have this conversation with your neighbours, Mrs Desmarchelliers?' The adjudicator flicks through the pages of evidence, searching for proof.

Frankie tilts her chin. ‘The relationship with our neighbours precludes such a discussion.'

He stops flicking. ‘What? You can't knock on their door and explain that the fence won't meet specifications. Why don't you build the fence so that it doesn't exceed 1.8 metres on their side then?'

The last thing Frankie wants is the fence to be even lower on her side. She says the first thing she thinks of, ‘The difficulty is the slope of the land.'

He shuffles through the paperwork again. ‘I can't see a survey in here.'

Frankie glances at Brandon. She is sure the survey is in there. She'll kill Brandon if he's forgotten to include it. ‘There's a copy of the survey that came with the property in the mat­erials,' Frankie says, hoping she's right.

He holds up a copy of the property alignment. ‘This only shows the boundaries.'

Eric Hill nods at this.

Frankie presses on. ‘The fence height needs to be 1.8 metres on our side because we have small children. Without it, they can access the road via the neighbour's property.'

‘How old are the children?' he asks.

‘The twins are four, Marigold is two and a half and there's the baby.' She draws his attention to the pram. Bijoux chooses that moment to shriek. The adjudicator glares down from his eyrie. ‘Do you require a break, Mrs Desmarchelliers?'

‘No, no, she's due for a feed.' Frankie picks up Bijoux whilst Brandon leaps from his chair and retrieves a wrap from the basket. Frankie drapes it over her shoulder and nestles Bijoux underneath.

‘I'm sorry, we couldn't find a sitter to mind her at such short notice.'

‘May I remind you, Mrs Desmarchelliers, it was you who asked for this hearing.' He holds up a thick report. ‘And what's this for?'

In a moment of inspiration, Frankie had at last found something useful from the council. She stares right back at him and says, ‘It's Kuring-gai council's most recent traffic accident survey. As you will see, we've highlighted the relevant pages. There were 12,633 incidents involving vehicles in the council area in the preceding three years. We live on a very dangerous road with cars speeding up and down all the time. It is imperative that this fence is built to protect our children from wandering onto the street and being run over.'

‘May I say something, sir?' Gwen Hill raises her hand as if she is a child in a classroom.

‘Yes?' he barks.

‘Green Valley Avenue is a cul-de-sac. The only traffic in the area is residential. Some locals use the park at the end of the street but they mostly ride their bikes down.'

He leans forward, his cheeks take on a worrying purple hue. ‘That both parties are here today is a waste of your time and mine. It is within my powers to order you to complete a survey which will cost you in the vicinity of four thousand dollars and we can meet back here in a month's time where I will modify the orders accordingly.' He stands. ‘I am calling a ten-minute recess for both parties to digest this information and decide whether you are going to agree on how this fence is to be built or persist in pursuing what is rapidly becoming a vexatious claim.'

He glares at Frankie and Brandon before leaving the room, as if they are the source of the problem. Frankie is incensed. He should be telling the Hills to toe the line. She turns on Gwen, ‘You people are outrageous. You're prepared to stop at nothing to prevent this fence.'

Mrs Hill reacts angrily. ‘That's untrue! We're here to agree on building your blasted fence, although I can't for the life of me see why you want one. What's the point of all those photos and that stupid traffic report?'

Frankie enunciates each and every word. ‘The fence needs to be built, Mrs Hill, to stop you snooping around our garden.'

‘I am not!' Mrs Hill looks like she is about to cry. ‘When have I ever done that?'

Frankie mimes sprinkling blood and bone on the lemon.

‘It's trespassing!' Brandon sneers over Frankie's shoulder.

‘It's only trespassing if you have a sign up or you tell the person so,' says Mr Hill, placing his wooden block on the table.

‘And you need to be told you're not welcome?' Frankie sighs.

‘Why are you like this?' Mrs Hill cries. ‘We've never done anything to you.'

Enough is enough. Frankie cannot bear these people. They are ruining her life. ‘You are an old busybody, Mrs Hill. We don't like you knowing our business.'

‘He doesn't especially.' Mr Hill chuckles to himself.

‘I beg your pardon.' Frankie rounds on him.

‘Shush, Eric, not now,' Gwen Hill whispers, patting his knee.

Frankie looks to Brandon who is suddenly engrossed in flicking through copies of the photos. Mrs Hill is writing something in her notebook. Frankie is getting that same prickling sensation she gets when she catches Amber out in a lie. ‘I asked you what you meant?'

‘He doesn't mean anything,' Mrs Hill says, refusing to make eye contact. She changes the topic. ‘We need to talk about this survey before the head of the tribunal comes back. It makes no sense to me to pay out good money for a survey. I have no idea why you say the fence can't be built. I thought Luke's quote was quite reasonable.'

‘Your mate, you mean,' Brandon throws in.

Mrs Hill frowns. ‘He's Val's son and a qualified fencer. What's wrong with getting someone you know to do the job?'

Brandon smirks at her. ‘Yeah, at some dodgy price.'

‘It's not dodgy. He knows we haven't got much cash to spare.'

She looks annoyed at admitting that. Frankie's eyes narrow. It is tempting to demand they get a survey but after the four grand they've already wasted on the fence, and the fact she will have to take maternity leave next year, she can ill afford to be forking out more money just to prove a point.

The old lady closes her notebook. ‘Build your fence. I know you won't stop harassing us until you get your way. Build it, as long as it is no more than two metres high on our side.'

Frankie throws Brandon a smile before turning to Mrs Hill. ‘And your trees?'

Gwen shoots her a filthy look. ‘Oh, you started killing our trees off long ago, didn't you, dear?' she says, looking straight at Brandon who looks away.

Frankie has no idea what's going on. That prickling feeling worsens. Maybe it's morning sickness.

The old woman goes on. ‘But I promise you one thing, young lady. Building a fence is not going to keep the world out and won't keep your children in. Life's not that simple.'

Frankie hates her, hates her smugness, her oldness, her determination to thwart them at every turn. The Hills know something she doesn't know, can't know since she is rarely home. Brandon is hiding something and they know what it is. It makes her so angry she could cry. As the tribunal man ­re-­enters the room, Frankie glowers at Mrs Hill, hissing, ‘You people are despicable.'

*

Frankie ignores Brandon all the way home. They had told the head of the tribunal they had agreed a survey was not necessary. Mrs Hill had said that as long as the fence was no more than two metres high on their side they would not argue. Sitting there in her crisp blouse and slacks, her white hair and her old lady glasses, persuading that man they were the innocent party without saying a word. He concluded that Brandon and Frankie were the root of the problem. He must have done, why else had he specified the fence to be built the way he had?

They have lost. An unspeakable injustice has occurred and they are powerless to change it without resorting to lawyers and throwing good money after bad. Bijoux is happy at least, squealing to herself in her car seat, batting at her mobile. That gummy smile gets Frankie every time. This is what she is fighting for. To protect her children. Why has it turned into such a nightmare?

Frankie leans her head against the cool glass. She must tell Brandon she's pregnant. He's probably guessed by now but it has to be said out loud. They have to have the conversation about what it means bringing a fifth child into the world. A fifth! Western women everywhere are mortgaging their lives for the sake of producing one child, obsessing over the meaning of life without motherhood, and here she is, churning them out like a factory.

Frankie yawns as they pull into the driveway, saying to Brandon, ‘I'm exhausted. I'm going to take Bijoux in with me for a nap.'

Brandon shoots her a look that is fuelled with resentment and anger. He put in a lot of effort preparing for today's meeting. He'd followed Frankie's instructions to the letter. And she's still not happy. When he thinks how close the Hills came to telling Frankie about Camilla. How much do they know?

Brandon doesn't answer but she doesn't care. She is over caring what Brandon thinks about anything.

*

In the following weeks, Frankie manages to enter and exit her home without once seeing Mrs Hill. It is bliss. Giving the Hills a dose of the truth has worked a treat. They are despicable people, snooping around, accusing them of poisoning their mulberry tree, calling the police! Never before had she appreciated how liberating it is to be able to go about her daily business without being watched and judged.

Frankie arrives home after detouring via the nail salon – a pedicure had done wonders to restore her spirits. She loves this time of year, the longer days. The poor bedraggled garden looks as if it has been hit by a tornado. After selling whatever plants people were willing to pay for, Brandon has sprayed the rest with weedkiller, which she personally thinks is a bit drastic but he said he wanted bare earth on which to build their edible garden. Pity that it will remain a disaster zone until Christmas when the fence will be finished.

‘Excuse me,' a voice startles her. Mrs Hill hovers at the bottom of the driveway waving an envelope.

‘Yes?' Frankie feels her good mood dampen.

‘This was delivered to us by accident. Do you want me to put it in your letterbox?'

The old lady is taking them at their word that she is not to step foot on their property. Good. It's about time someone put her in her place.

As tempting as it is to avoid her now, Frankie says, ‘No, I may as well take it,' walking back down the driveway.