The Fence (16 page)

‘It's from the telephone company,' adds the old lady.

Not ours, Frankie thinks, on seeing the logo. Probably marketing material. She slips the envelope into her handbag and waits for Mrs Hill to go but the old lady continues standing there. Frankie can see she is struggling to say something, her lips move around the shape of the words without allowing any of them out. ‘Yes?' she prompts. She will not leave this spot until the old lady clears off.

Mrs Hill points at her, or more precisely, she points at Frankie's stomach. ‘You've another on the way then?'

Frankie is shocked. She isn't even eight weeks yet, she's been trying to hide it. ‘How can you tell?'

Mrs Hill laughs. ‘Oh you girls always think you're so clever. It shows in the way you carry yourself. It's quite a brood you're building here. Is this the last one for the set or are you going for the half-dozen?'

Set? Like children were dinner plates. Already Frankie is thinking of a new car. One of those people movers. Brandon will hate it but this is half his fault. The Mercedes will have to be replaced by something more practical, like a Kia.

Frankie goes to rest her hand on her stomach but realises in time and drops it. ‘I have to go.'

‘When are you due, dear?' persists the old woman.

‘Early May,' Frankie says, walking away. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Hill,' she adds, reinforcing the message.

But the old biddy is still there when Frankie shuts the front door. There is something wrong with her, Frankie thinks. She needs to find people her own age.

Brandon is wiping down the kitchen bench. She's surprised to see it is clear of clutter. In fact, the whole lounge room is tidy. This has been happening a lot lately. Her rant about Brandon pulling his weight has at last had an impact. Like the old Brandon. Perhaps telling him her news won't be so hard after all.

‘Hey, babe,' he says, passing her a glass of wine, though it is only afternoon.

‘Thanks, Brandy. Do you mind adding some soda? I skipped lunch.' She sips at the wine spritzer, to be sociable. ‘Where are the kids?'

‘The twins are having an early bath. Marigold has had hers. I think she's in her room drawing.' Bijoux, fluffy in a clean jumpsuit, plays on her mat.

Frankie pushes the wine away.

‘I have something to tell you,' they both say at the same time.

‘Oh, you go first.'

‘No, you go.'

They laugh. Frankie waves her hand, dismissing her news in deference to his. ‘Go on, what have you got to tell me?'

Brandon takes a deep pull on his beer. ‘You know I had that meeting with Diane Slaughter from Gumnut yesterday.'

‘Was that yesterday? I thought it was next week.'

‘I put it in your calendar.'

‘Did you?' Frankie fishes in her handbag for her phone, sees the envelope Gwen Hill gave her and notices it is addressed to Brandon. That's odd, she thinks. All the bills are either in her name or both their names. She swipes her phone and opens the calendar. ‘Oh yeah, about the twins. What did she have to say?'

Brandon places a cutting board on the bench and takes a knife from the block. ‘Not great news, babe. She said they're not ready for school, not academically so much, but their social skills.'

‘What's wrong with their social skills?' Talk about the apple not falling far from the tree. That Diane Slaughter is as interfering as her mother.

Brandon cuts chicken breast and threads the pieces onto skewers. He can think of plenty of things wrong with the twins' social skills. Amber is bossy and lies about everything. Silver is quiet and sly. He's had both sorts in his classes. Diane Slaughter has a point but he knows Frankie is set on the twins starting school next year. And not because he will have so much more freedom, free time Frankie plans to fill. It's best to let Frankie reach her own conclusions, so he says, ‘I wish you'd been there, you're much better at asking the right questions than I am.'

Frankie ignores the compliment. ‘There was no way I could miss the quarterly sales and production meeting.' Why do they have to have this conversation again and again? Klaussman & Sons is so intractable about flexibility. She's not the only parent at work but why does she always feel guilty about taking time off to attend to family matters? When a female co-worker, who doesn't have the luxury of a stay-at-home parent, has to take time off to care for a sick child, she can see the twisted feelings when they ask for leave. As a boss, she tries to set a good example, but then she too is stuck with 8 am sales meetings because the men seemed so entrenched in this machismo game of one-upmanship, ignoring the very real issue many parents face: the daily struggle of getting themselves and children ready, out the door and to childcare or before-school care before the working day has even begun. She should, they all should, be able to manage their own hours, not be treated as if they are children. Brandon knows this and she can't help directing her frustration at him, saying, ‘Anyway, you're perfectly capable of meeting with their teacher.'

Brandon's sure she places emphasis on the word teacher. He hates the way Frankie acts as if her ability to earn more money than him ‘allows' him the luxury of staying at home. He can see the look in her eye when she comes in the front door at night, questioning ‘what did you do all day?'. As if managing four small children is a breeze or that his contribution to their children's upbringing, the skills he brings as a trained teacher, are less important than her ability to earn money.

‘Well their teacher,' he too emphasises the word, ‘says she recommends they spend another year at Gumnut. Allow them to mature, develop better negotiation and conflict resolution skills. She also feels Silver is overshadowed by Amber.'

‘She is the eldest.'

‘She does tend to dominate Silver. Other teachers have reported that he behaves perfectly fine when they are separated but when he is with Amber, he becomes either withdrawn and disengages or becomes aggressive.'

Frankie scoffs. ‘Silver prefers to play second fiddle. Amber is a confident, outgoing child who likes to get her own way. There's nothing abnormal about that.'

She can't understand why Brandon is taking Diane Slaughter's view as gospel. As if there is something wrong with Amber, or Silver for that matter. Surely he can see that what Diane Slaughter wants is another twelve months of fees? Starting school is an important milestone in the twins' lives, another year at preschool and they'll be bored out of their brains.

Brandon pours honey and soy sauce into a bowl and rolls the chicken skewers in it. He will not be railroaded. He doubts Frankie would ever admit it to herself, but as the one who spends all day with the children, he knows them better than she ever will. He says, ‘I think the point is that if Amber is bossing other children around, she will struggle to make meaningful friendships. It can lead to bullying, Frankie. Also, she's behind in other areas, like her reading, and she still can't write her name.' He reaches for another beer, though he'd promised himself he'd match Frankie drink for drink. Trouble is, she's barely touched hers.

Frankie rolls her eyes. ‘That's hardly a surprise. How many kids have a name like Amber Desmarchelliers-Boyd? Of course it's hard for a four year old to spell. Why don't you work on it with her?'

‘Sure,' he says sourly, ‘but the real question is, do we or don't we send them to school next year? There's no point if they're already struggling. They'll just take longer to adjust.'

Frankie thinks of the new baby. How Brandon will change his tune once he knows he will have five at home. For his sake, and hers, she says, ‘They have to go to school next year, Brandon. There's no other option.'

The twins don't need to go to school next year. Another year will allow Brandon to get Amber's reading up to speed, allow them to mature. Plus when they go, he knows Frankie expects him to fill the hours painting and decorating. No time out for Brandy. ‘They're February babies, Frankie, and small for their age. There's no harm holding them back. Far better than having to repeat a year later on. I've seen it with other children, it can be psychologically damaging.'

Frankie can't believe he keeps arguing with her. She says, ‘Another year of preschool will drive them mad, Brandon. They'll be bored and become disruptive.'

Brandon slams his beer on the counter. It froths up the neck and foams over the clean benchtop.

Frankie stares at him, wondering what has got into him. Surely being free of the twins five days a week would be his idea of heaven?

Steadying his voice, Brandon says, ‘I don't agree with you. It will make no difference if we hold them back. Goldie can stay at two days a week. Bijoux's at home with me full-time anyway. Why send them for the sake of it?'

Frankie laughs. ‘Oh it will make a difference all right.'

‘How?'

Frankie draws a deep breath and plunges in, ‘Because I'm pregnant, Brandon. I'm bloody pregnant.'

Brandon, who is wiping up the spilt beer, freezes at her words. His mind clenches around the word pregnant. ‘What!'

Fire burns in Frankie's cheeks, as if she is a teenager instead of a grown woman who should have her fertility under control. ‘If it's any consolation, I'm as shocked as you are.'

Brandon hunches over the bench, the clutched kitchen wipe oozing beer over his fist. ‘How? You had the shot, didn't you?'

Frankie searches in her bag for a tissue. ‘I forgot to go to the chemist.' She'd asked Brandon to pick up the script for her but he'd refused. She couldn't ask her secretary, it was too personal. Then there was the doctor's appointment.

‘Oh, so it's my fault, is it? Because I draw the line at picking up your dry-cleaning and filling your scripts. I'm not your dogsbody, Frankie. You do have to do some things for yourself.' Brandon throws the wipe in the bin and reaches for his beer.

‘Can I get out now,' comes a plaintive cry from the bathroom. ‘I'm cold.'

‘In a minute, sweetheart,' Frankie sings out. ‘I'll just get you a dry towel.'

Lowering her voice, Frankie says, ‘We can't terminate a pregnancy just because it's inconvenient,' wondering if she's putting words in his mouth or giving voice to her own thoughts.

Brandon grabs a fresh beer from the fridge and storms outside, slamming the sliding door behind him. Her first instinct is to go after him but Amber sings out again. Drying and dressing the twins, she is glad for the distraction. She can't blame Brandon. She's had weeks to get used to the idea. For him, it's a shock. She wraps Amber's hair in a towel and helps Silver do up his buttons. The truth is, they've both been looking forward to the twins starting school next year, despite what he says now. Five days a week, then Goldie at kindy three days, he'd have so much more free time. She thinks of the bathroom with its splotches of colour. A newborn in the house will put paid to any renovations, financially and timewise. By next May, they will have five kids aged five and under. A nightmare.

Returning to the kitchen, Frankie sees the envelope Mrs Hill gave her poking out of her handbag. Glancing outside, she sees Brandon turning the skewers on the barbecue. The letter is addressed to Brandon but it is probably only a rival telco offering a deal. She slits her thumb along the gummed edge and pulls out the contents. It's a bill for an unfamiliar mobile phone number. Perhaps it is one of those marketing campaigns offering a deal for him to transfer his business. Frankie reads the entire bill. The same number is listed every time. She types the number into her phone and presses the green button. As it rings, she watches Brandon swigging his beer, prodding the meat. The phone diverts to voicemail and a woman's voice says, ‘Olá, you've reached the voicemail of Camilla Fernandes. Please leave a message after the beep and I'll call you back later. Tchau!'

Frankie hits end call, the phone clattering to the bench. She collapses onto the stool, shaking. No wonder Brandon doesn't want this baby. It isn't the extra workload.

She makes herself check the dates and times of the calls. She pulls up the calendar on her phone. He calls her twice a week or more, mostly on kindy days, but not always. What could they possibly have to discuss? Amongst the screaming and tears, he had told Frankie it was just sex, that Camilla meant nothing to him but here he is calling her every week for the last month. She looks at the total call duration, the hours they've spent talking. What could they possibly have to talk about?

The sliding door opens and Brandon comes in carrying the tray of chicken. ‘I'm sorry, babe,' he begins, ‘I guess it was the surprise. I don't want you – us – to get rid of the baby, you know that, don't you?' It's true too. It's not a blob. Inside Frankie grows another little human, as unique an individual as their other four children. But maybe he should think about having the snip. Six would be downright crazy.

Shaking, Frankie holds up the bill. ‘What does this mean, Brandon?'

‘What does what mean?' he says, helping himself to a fresh beer.

Frankie tries to keep her voice level. She doesn't want to yell, not with the children in the house. ‘Does this number mean anything to you, Brandon?' she asks, reading out the mobile number on the bill.

He shakes his head, concentrating on fetching plates to hide his alarm. ‘Don't think so.'

A memory surges forward. Of her mother, in the kitchen, holding up a credit card bill, shrieking at her father. She wants to shriek too. ‘It's a mobile phone number and this is a mobile phone bill with your name on it, so let's not play games, shall we?'

Brandon counts out five forks. ‘It doesn't mean anything, Frankie.' Holy hell, he's in for it now. He knew he shouldn't have agreed with Camilla that they were friends. That it was okay to meet for coffee, good for him to unburden himself. The sex was, the sex was . . .