The Fence (25 page)

Gwen's March

Eric shuffles into the kitchen in his pyjamas though it is past ten o'clock. He hasn't shaved in days. Last time he did shave he missed a strip running from his cheekbone to his jaw, like a misplaced moustache.

‘Can I get you anything, Eric?' Gwen asks.

Eric sighs. ‘A new brain I think, Gwennie. Mine is all broken.'

Gwen stops pouring the batter for an apricot gooey cake into the tin, putting the bowl on the bench and the spatula upright in the batter. Oh the poor dear man. How right he is. ‘A cup of tea, dear?'

Eric sits at the kitchen nook and studies the back of his hands. ‘I think it's this house, you see.'

‘What's wrong with the house, Eric?' Goodness, fifty years in the same place, what on earth has he found to complain about?

He rubs at an age spot on his knuckle. ‘Nothing is where it's supposed to be. Someone keeps moving things around so I can't find them.'

Gwen pours boiling water into the pot and swirls it around before emptying it into the sink and adding the teabags. ‘What have you lost, dear?'

‘The old man's knife for one thing. He is going to be so cross with me when he finds out.'

Gwen looks at the knife block, each blade snug in its socket. Which knife does Eric mean? If there really is a knife. So many conversations these days start out sensible and end in nonsense. She doesn't need the doctor's warning or Diane's comments to remind her that Eric's mental health is in steep decline. She lives with him.

‘Perhaps you left it in the workshop,' she says, adding a brightness to her voice she doesn't feel.

‘No, no,' Eric shakes his head, agitated, ‘the box is empty.'

‘Which box is that, dear?'

‘The red box it came in. Dad bought that knife when I was in my teens. It's a real beauty. A proper E Anton Berg. That Swede knew how to make knives.'

Now Gwen knows the knife he means. Eric inherited it when Harry died. Like Eric, Harry was proud of his tools. Even all these years later, they are as fine a set of tools as when Harry bought them.

‘Why don't we go downstairs and have a good look around. It's bound to be there somewhere, Eric, don't worry yourself about it.'

But Eric is right. There is the distinctive red and white box with its white shark on the side but the leather sheaf in which the knife is normally kept is empty.

‘Is it on the bench somewhere?' she says.

Tiny pieces of timber, scraps of fabric and wallpaper fill boxes on the workbench. A dollhouse Eric has been commissioned to make sits square in the middle but there is no sign of the knife.

‘Can you remember when you last used it?' she asks.

Eric runs his hand over his tools, the bench grinder, the chisels, shaking his head. ‘Dad and I were making a cradle for the Lesleys' youngest. That's the last time I remember seeing it.'

Harry has been dead over twenty years. Like Eric, he used the knife for carving wood because it fitted snugly in his palm. The Lesleys' youngest would be in their fifties by now. The cradle is probably long gone.

‘Well it's not like someone would have taken it, dear. I know I haven't used it,' Gwen says as the search peters out. Eric's workshop is testimony to the credo that every tool should have its place. The missing knife is a mystery. ‘It will turn up eventually,' she adds.

Eric mumbles something about Harry being very cross with him before picking up a piece of sandpaper and a dining chair, and sanding the timber. Gwen leaves him to it. Better that he stays here in his pyjamas with something to do than fretting himself into a frenzy.

A few days later, she's upstairs folding washing, covering the dining table with neat piles of underwear and socks, shorts and shirts, when the doorbell rings. On her way to the front door, Gwen forms no other expectation than it might be Val popping in for a chat. Although realising it's a Tuesday, Val should be at the movies. Still, she thinks, swinging open the door.

There stand two police officers, a man and a woman. The male constable looks familiar. ‘Can I help you?' she says.

After confirming that she is Mrs Gwenneth Hill, the man asks, ‘Your neighbours claim that they have been in dispute with you, is that correct?'

‘Some months ago but it's resolved now,' Gwen replies. She can't understand why these people keep using the fence as an excuse for everything that goes wrong in their lives. Yes, she's made it plain that she hates the fence but it's – what's that phrase Babs always used – ah yes, a fait accompli.

‘I see,' he says, though it is clear he doubts her. Gwen notices he holds a postal tube in his hand. ‘They found a knife in their front yard and, when questioned, said they have had several confrontations with you.'

‘A knife! Are they saying we've thrown a knife in their yard? They have small children. Any one of them could have picked it up.'

The constable's expression remains impassive. ‘May I show you the knife, Mrs Hill? See if you recognise it.'

Gwen's heart leaps around her chest like a caged bird. These unbelievable people are at it again. The council, the RSPCA, the police, all called to challenge them about the way they live their lives.

The constable unpacks the cardboard tube and reveals the knife. ‘Do you recognise this?' he asks.

‘No,' she says, not even glancing at it. What sort of idiot would throw a perfectly good knife over the fence? The whole idea is ridiculous. She adds, ‘It's not one of mine.'

He nods. ‘Do you mind if we see for ourselves, Mrs Hill?'

Gwen does mind. She minds a lot but what can you say to a police officer? Showing them the knife block, its slots filled with knives, will prove her innocence. ‘The kitchen's through here,' she answers, annoyed how tremulous her voice sounds, betraying an emotion they probably think is fear when it is really a good mix of indignation and anger.

Thankfully Gwen tidied the kitchen this morning. The benches gleam and the apricot gooey cake cools on the counter. The knife block sits next to the stove with every knife in place.

The young officer says, ‘May we look at the individual knives please, Mrs Hill?'

‘But they're all here,' she says, indignation escalating.

He nods and waits.

Flustered, Gwen reaches for the biggest knife in the block. It's her favourite with a lovely weighted handle. Eric bought these knives. He made the knife block for her when they first moved in. Eric's made a lot of things in this house. The bookshelves in the lounge, the dining nook, the little stool she uses to reach the high cupboards in the kitchen. He would have made the kitchen cupboards too but they came with the house and it made no sense to change the contract when they had enough on their plates with Jonathon on the way and all.

Gwen glares out the window as the constable studies her knives. That Francesca Desmarchelliers is out of control. She takes no responsibility for her life. That article in the
Northshore Advocate
was downright nasty. Even Val agreed, bringing her copy over in case Gwen hadn't seen it, saying, ‘She's like a dog with a bone that one.'

‘This knife looks like it could be a steak knife. Do you have steak knives, Mrs Hill?'

Gwen points to the row of stainless steel handles in the bottom slots of the block.

The officer wastes more time examining the knives before saying, ‘Thank you, Mrs Hill.' He slides the offending knife back into the cardboard tube. ‘We will be conducting forensic analysis on this knife. Once we have the results we may come back.'

Come back? Gwen cannot believe the gall of this young man, of the Desmarchelliers accusing them of such a crime. Her anger bubbles over. ‘Why are they allowed to do this? We've done nothing wrong. They keep going on and on about that stupid fence. It was built in December, it's now March. It's done with. They blamed us when their dogs fell ill. They called the council to protest about Eric's snail farm. You lot have been here three times. This is intimidation. They are using the authorities in a campaign of harassment. You go back to your station and have a look at the records. There's never been any follow-up, never been any charges. Here look,' Gwen brushes past the officers and goes to the lounge room window. ‘See out there? Security cameras everywhere. They say they are to protect their house but that one there clearly points into our lounge room.'

‘You should keep notes, Mrs Hill,' the young woman speaks up. ‘If you find the neighbours' behaviour intimidating or offensive, the best thing you can do is keep detailed records.'

‘Keep records? These people are paranoid. They constantly call the authorities and use the fact that we disagreed over building a fence to make it sound like we have an axe to grind. Well, we don't. We just want to be left alone.'

‘You can take a personal protection order out if that is what you'd like to do, Mrs Hill,' the male officer responds in that annoying even tone.

Gwen waves him off. ‘You should go right back in there and charge the Desmarchelliers with wasting police time because that is exactly what they are doing. They blame everyone but themselves those two. What sort of lunatics think people throw perfectly good knives into front yards hoping a child picks it up and harms themselves? There must be easier ways, surely.'

The officers edge away from her, towards the door. ‘I can see you're upset about this incident, Mrs Hill,' soothes the young woman, ‘but it's best to avoid your neighbours if this is how you feel. Don't talk to them or communicate with them in any way. Or their children. It will shut down options for both parties.'

Gwen follows after them. She's got the wind up now. ‘We don't have anything to do with them. That's why they had to invent this,' Gwen gestures at the cardboard tube, ‘to get at us. Did it ever occur to you that the knife is theirs?'

Anger and frustration boil inside her. The police officers look at her with carefully masked faces, showing neither compassion nor belief. But she knows what they're thinking. Stupid old biddy. The wind drops from her sails.

‘As I said, Mrs Hill,' the male officer says, ‘we're taking the knife back to the station for testing. You are welcome to come down any time and make a formal complaint.'

‘Well, I might just do that,' she says, knowing in her heart she won't. What's the point? To people like the Desmarchelliers, that would be a victory. Proof that the Hills are malicious troublemakers.

Gwen watches the patrol car drive up the street. The postman has been, her letterbox is crammed with mail, but she is too upset to go down there and sort out the rubbish. Returning to the kitchen, she shifts the knife block back where it belongs beside the stove and pulls out a knife. They are lovely knives. Of the best quality German steel. There is a maker's mark on the blade, a stylised crown and some words written in German. Throwing a knife over the fence is one thing but who throws a decent knife over a fence?

Restless with discontent, Gwen dries the glasses upended on the draining board and puts them in the cabinet. Seeing the daffodil bulbs on a shelf in the laundry, she decides she may as well plant them. Since Eric destroyed her lawn with his snail farm, she's resolved to go the whole hog and seed it with bulbs and meadow flowers. Grabbing her trowel and the nets of bulbs, Gwen goes into the front yard. Eric still sits in his workshop, in his pyjamas, humming to himself as he tacks a square of gaily striped fabric onto the frame of a settee. He doesn't look up as she passes, so lost in his own world is he, a world Gwen once thought she shared. But Eric's world is now disfigured by his failing mind. She realises, as she passes, that Eric is oblivious to the police visit. Best that they didn't know Eric was here. All that talk of testing for fingerprints and people willy-nilly throwing knives into other people's gardens might have set him off and goodness knows what he might have said then.

*

‘Did you see young Terry here earlier?' Eric asks as they're eating their tea.

They eat earlier than ever these days. For some reason, as the day wears on, Eric's behaviour worsens. He zones out, as the grandkids like to say. He becomes vaguer, more forgetful and often stops making sense altogether. If they eat dinner much past sunset, Eric either sits staring at his plate or complaining about the food. Gwen has no idea who Terry is. She daren't ask. He might mean that young police constable.

‘I hate peas. Why do we have to eat peas all the time? Why can't we have something nice for dinner?' Eric stabs at the peas rolling away from his fork.

Gwen sighs. Mealtimes are such a trial. ‘You love peas, Eric.'

His behaviour reminds her of Diane as a child. She eats anything now but as a child she was such a fusspot.

‘The little girl doesn't like peas either. She told me.' Eric tries scooping the peas onto his fork. A few balance there, almost all the way up to his mouth, but just as he's about to shove them in, his hand shakes and they bounce onto the plate. ‘Motherfuckers!' Eric shouts, slamming his fork onto the table.

‘Eric!' Startled, Gwen spills her tumbler of water onto her plate creating a pool of water in her mashed potato.

‘Arseholes,' he mumbles.

Gwen never knew Eric had such a wide vocabulary of swear words until he became ill. He never uses them correctly and utters them at the most extraordinary times.

‘Use your mash to glue them to the fork, dear,' she says, cajoling Eric back to normality. ‘Like this.' She demonstrates with her own diluted mash and peas. It tastes disgusting but she smiles as she chews to show Eric how easy it is.

Eric copies Gwen and manoeuvres both peas and mash towards his mouth. ‘Ha! Got you, you little bastards.' He grins, showing Gwen his mouthful of peas and mash.

Gwen looks away. This is another of Eric's new habits, eating with his mouth open. She pushes her plate to the side and tops up her water. The hardest thing is waking up each day and not knowing who Eric will be. His lucidity comes and goes, declines as the day draws on or never appears at all. She is angry that this illness has stolen Eric from her, despairs that the man she has loved for a lifetime will never be returned to her.