The Fence (11 page)

She draws a deep breath, hoping to muster a skerrick of magnanimity. ‘Well, you've made a start. Let me know if you need a hand.'

Eric beams and she knows this should be adequate reward. His happiness outweighs a few metres of turf. If only he had consulted her first. Walking off, she realises she's left the car running. Gwen switches off the ignition, not bothering to move the car up the drive, and checks the letterbox. There, amongst the catalogues, is a single window envelope with a crest in the top corner. She opens it and reads the letter before letting her hand drop to her side. It seems she is to be besieged on all fronts. First Eric with his snail farm and now this. A letter from the NSW Civil and Administrative Tribunal demanding their presence in a week's time to resolve the fencing dispute with Francesca Desmarchelliers and Brandon Boyd.

Frankie's September

Frankie and Brandon arrive at the tribunal sailing on the winds of good fortune. They are prepared for this meeting, confident the judge will see things their way. The weight of paperwork alone is enough to tip the balance in their favour. Mrs Hill had agreed to mediation, which had the convenience of being held at the local court, but Frankie wasn't persuaded. Convenience is another word for half-baked. She wants this matter resolved. Expensive picket fencing fills her garage, their cars are parked on the street and four children and two dogs are able to escape with the greatest of ease. One of them is bound to end up hit by a car or the children will find their way down to the creek where they will drown collecting tadpoles. She's insisted they go straight to the top.

Bijoux smiles in her buggy. ‘Hello, gorgeous girl,' Frankie coos, although she wishes they hadn't brought Bijoux this morning.

Over breakfast it went back and forth, ‘Can't your mother have her, Brandon? It's Thursday, she doesn't have anything on a Thursday, does she?'

Brandon, who was wrangling Marigold into a dress with a sticky zipper, only grunted.

‘I would ask my mother,' Frankie sipped her coffee, swallowing the lie along with the brew, ‘but she gets her hair and nails done on Thursdays. It's been locked in at 11 am since I can remember. You'd swear she was a pensioner.'

Frankie bit into a slice of five grain wholemeal sourdough topped with cashew butter and wished it were a crumpet dripping with butter and honey. She was having trouble losing the baby fat all these months after Bijoux and had started a Twenty-one Day Green Smoothie Cleanse. Apparently twenty- one days was how long it takes to break a bad habit. She wondered what would happen if she stopped at day twenty. Would she be reaching straight for the Tim Tams?

‘I don't know what they do all day,' she said, thinking of their mothers again. ‘Neither of them work and yet they are always busy, busy, busy. Every time we ask them to help out, they've a fundraising lunch or a tennis match or they've promised to read to blind people at the local aged-care facility. They've got time to add value to everyone else's life but ours.'

Frankie put down her toast and dug at a bit of kale stuck between her molars. Today's smoothie was Berry Surprising, a blend of kale, coconut water, chia seeds, banana and mixed berries. Despite being the colour of one of Bijoux's nastier nappies, it tasted fine but it irked Frankie to pay five bucks a litre for the coconut water. It was supposedly full of electrolytes and all sorts of nutritional goodies, which tasted like coconut when you drank it straight from the carton, but by the time you blended it with kale and whatnot, the coconut flavour dis­appeared. She suspected the whole thing was a con.

‘How can women who stay home all day have no spare time? It's like their activities expand to fill the available space, a bit like a handbag,' she said, digging in hers for the floss.

Brandon argued with Amber over her desire for rice bubbles and his insistence she have porridge or Weet-Bix. Bijoux wore her porridge in her hair. Silver sat in the corner drawing ferociously with a black texta on a scrap of paper that she knew he would soon offer her and she would thank him and add it to her collection on the corkboard at work. Marigold sat at the fridge door eating strawberries straight from the bowl.

‘Goldie, shut the fridge door, sweetie. You're letting out all the cold air.' Frankie sighed and nibbled at her toast. It would taste so much better if they put chocolate in it. Chocolate was good for you now. ‘I mean it's different with you, Brandon. I know what you do all day.' Each night Frankie wrote Brandon a list for the following day as he seemed to struggle without one. Brandon was in charge of childcare, washing, cooking, taking out the recycling and garbage, the pool, mowing the lawns and any general repairs. Although, for reasons she could not fathom, he drew the line at cleaning, ironing and trips to the chemist to fill her scripts. He said it was demeaning but Frankie knew other people's wives did it. She suspected it was in retaliation for her sacking the cleaning/ironing lady when they left Annandale. Outside of his day-to-day duties, his current project was the fence. Frankie, being the breadwinner, handled, well, winning bread, paying bills and managing their investments, including their self-managed super scheme. Frankie insisted Brandon had superannuation and insurance. As the primary caregiver, his economic contribution needed to be recognised. They had to be prepared for the awful reality that if something happened to either of them, the million dollar payout would cover the costs of home help and contribute to the children's education.

Frankie often thought about what she'd do if something happened to Brandon. Those three months apart last year had been a powerful wake-up call. Finding your husband's face buried between the naked thighs of a Brazilian barista tended to do that. Three months juggling motherhood and a career made one question the point of it all. To be a stay-at-home mother she needed a reliable income source and Brandon had never been that. To keep her career on track, she needed a reliable wife and Brandon failed at that too. Stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, she had chosen the lesser of two evils. She managed Brandon the way she knew best, with daily task lists and regular reviews of their family goals and objectives. It saved a lot of conflict but having to maintain a disciplined approach both at work and at home exhausted her.

The lift doors open and Brandon juggles the buggy out whilst she follows behind. The NSW Civil and Administrative Tribunal is a bland, empty space. There isn't even a receptionist on the front desk. There are rows of chairs in that cheap scratchy fabric government offices insist upon. Sitting in the middle are Mr and Mrs Hill. Frankie notes they have not dressed for the occasion, albeit Mrs Hill is wearing clean slacks, the sort with an elasticised waist, and a cardigan over her blouse. Mr Hill wears old man pants and a jumper over a shirt with a collar but no tie. This is going to be easy.

Frankie and Brandon stand in the opposite corner near the water cooler. Brandon fetches her a cup of water. The icy cold hits her stomach, mingling with the Berry Surprising and the nut butter toast. She feels a wave of queasiness.

A clerk arrives, ushering them into a room that functions as the court. Frankie and Brandon sit on the left-hand side so there is space for Bijoux's buggy. The Hills sit opposite under a ceiling panel with an ominous brown stain. Whilst they wait for the judge to arrive, Frankie fetches her briefcase from the buggy and pulls out the materials Brandon has assembled for today's hearing. She smooths and straightens the corners, calm and well prepared. At work, her coolness is legendary. They call her the perfumed steamroller. She likes the nickname, it acknowledges her skills as a negotiator, as a person who gets things done. With her recent promotion to account director for Hush Hush, she is now accountable for Klaussman & Sons, biggest and most profitable brand.

Top of the pile is a copy of their dividing fences application followed by three quotes from three different contractors, a copy of the survey of the property indicating where the Hills' trees cross their boundary and, for good measure, a series of photos Frankie had Brandon take of every house in the neighbourhood that had an existing fence. There are no photos of the houses along Green Valley Avenue without front fences, she isn't stupid. She's here to win their case, not support the Hills'.

The judge is a woman, stout and apple-cheeked, dressed in a cheap navy suit that swishes when she walks. She climbs the two steps that separate her from the floor and sits at a high desk whose contents are hidden by a wooden rail. She peruses a copy of their paperwork in silence. Bijoux gurgles and Frankie stuffs in the dummy more securely. The Hills, she notices, sit with their hands in their laps. They have no paperwork but for a pocket notebook and a cheap biro.

‘Who is the complainant in this matter?' the stout woman barks.

‘We are, Your Honour,' Frankie responds confidently.

‘I am not Your Honour. This is not a court of law. Who is speaking on your behalf?'

‘I am Your … ma'am. I'm the majority stakeholder in the property.' Frankie matches the assertiveness of the stout woman.

The woman frowns at Frankie. ‘But both parties, you and Mr Brandon Boyd, are tenants in common for 18 Green Valley Avenue, is that correct?'

‘Well, yes, it's just that . . .'

‘Fine. Why are you here today?'

‘Well, Your … ma'am, we were in the process of erecting a fence between the Hills' property and ours when the Hills objected. We had to stop work until the matter is resolved.'

‘And what is the nature of your objection?' The stout lady turns to the Hills. Her tone remains suspicious. ‘Who's speaking on your behalf?'

Gwen Hill clears her throat. ‘I am, ma'am. We have two objections. One, that there is no pre-existing fence and nor has there ever been in the fifty-four years we have lived at 20 Green Valley Avenue. And two, that in order to build this fence, the new owners wish to knock down a row of trees that were agreed to by the previous owners as a decorative and informal division between the properties.'

‘Neither of those are good enough reasons not to build a fence now.' The stout lady softens her tone. ‘Have you any other reasons?'

Frankie sees Mrs Hill's hands shaking as she opens her pocket notebook.

‘Well, the Desmarchelliers started putting up the fence without consulting us first and it's enormous.'

Frankie rolls her eyes at Brandon, who smirks in reply. Looking up, she realises the stout adjudicator has seen this and Frankie blushes.

‘What height is the fence you are proposing, Mrs Desmarchelliers?'

Frankie pretends to read her notes, hoping her blush is fading. ‘It slopes down from three metres, Your Honour.'

‘That's a non-standard height. Did you issue a fencing notice to Mr and Mrs Hill?'

Brandon stares at his lap. Frankie swallows, saying, ‘No, ma'am.'

The stout woman glares at her. ‘Why not?'

‘Because we wanted a particular kind of fence. It's custom built. We never intended for the Hills to pay more than half the cost of a standard paling fence.'

‘You did not consult with your neighbours. Is that correct?'

‘No, that's not true. My husband spoke to Mr Hill on our behalf and received verbal agreement to build the fence.'

‘Is that correct, Mrs Hill?' the stout woman asks.

‘No, it is not.' Gwen straightens, flattening her nervous hands on the table. ‘As the Desmarchelliers know, Eric has no recollection of any such discussion. He never mentioned it to me and the first I knew of their intentions was when I came home to find a fencing contractor putting stakes in our lawn.'

The adjudicator frowns at the paperwork, shuffling the pages. Frankie glares at the audacious Gwen Hill, all but calling them liars. Why would Brandon have said he'd spoken to Eric Hill if he hadn't? If only he had done as she had told him and backed up the verbal agreement with a fencing notice instead of being too lazy to complete the necessary paperwork, or whatever the website had said.

‘Mrs Desmarchelliers,' the adjudicator interrupts her thoughts. ‘I note there has also been no attempt at mediation on this matter. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, Your Honour.'

‘Why?'

‘We didn't see the point, Your Honour. We need a quick resolution as we have five thousand dollars' worth of fencing stacked in our garage, which means we have to park our cars on the street putting our four young children's safety at significant risk.'

‘But we live in a cul-de-sac,' Eric whispers to Gwen, loudly enough for Frankie and the adjudicator to hear. Gwen presses a finger to her lips, urging him to be quiet.

‘Be that as it may, Mrs Desmarchelliers, this tribunal requires that both parties attempt to find a mutually agreeable solution on their own. You are neighbours and that would indicate that you have to live next door to each other for the foreseeable future and thus conflict is not acceptable for either party. Am I correct in that assumption?'

‘Well yes, Your Honour, it's just that –'

Bijoux, perhaps sensing the rising tension in the room, begins whimpering and thrashing about. The adjudicator throws a despairing look at the buggy.

‘Mrs Desmarchelliers, it states quite clearly on the website and in our printed materials that you are not to bring children to the hearing. For their own sakes as much as everyone else's.'

Frankie's cheeks grow hot. She's a school girl again, called to account by the headmistress.

The adjudicator continues. ‘Please remove yourselves to the reception area whilst I make arrangements for you to see a mediator. Once you have found a mutually agreeable solution, you can return here and I will make the fencing order. Is that clear?'

Gwen and Eric Hill smile at the stout woman. As well they might, Frankie thinks. This is what they wanted all along. Nothing could be more tedious than sitting in a room with these people and some fluffy old duck mediating whilst they go round and round in circles because their obstinate neighbours do not want a fence. People, who just because they have lived in a neighbourhood for half a century, do not want change and refuse to see another person's point of view.

Some hours later, after Frankie has made a frantic phone call begging her mother to pick up the kids from kindy, Frankie, Brandon and the Hills leave the building. Each has a copy of the adjudicator's legally binding fencing order instructing them to build a fence, no higher than 1.8 metres along its entire length, in hardwood.

Furious, Frankie ignores Brandon all the way home. Worse, she has to endure her mother's snide comments about the state of their house. The TV is off, the children sit at the dining table eating dinner whilst Noelle folds washing into neat squares. Her mother's way of reminding Frankie that she is a failure. Brandon ignores the criticism, pouring his mother-in-law a glass of wine as he tells her how lovely her hair looks. Frankie endures her mother flirting with Brandon until Noelle realises the time and rushes out the door to be home before Frankie's father.