The Fence (13 page)

‘Hello, you two, what are you doing here?' She makes a show of waving the envelope around so they think she's just walked in from the letterbox. The children scramble to their feet and stand side by side.

‘You know you shouldn't be in here on your own, not without Eric or me. There's dangerous equipment in here that could cut your finger right off.' Gwen widens her eyes to emphasise her point and the twins respond in kind.

Ignoring the drill bits scattered all over the floor for now, Gwen asks, ‘Does Mummy or Daddy know you're here?'

They shake their heads, staring at their feet. Gwen is too intrigued to be cranky. ‘Shall we go and let them know where you are, in case they're worried?'

‘Mummy's at work,' says the little girl at the same time as her brother says, ‘Daddy's got a visitor.'

‘Silver!' hisses the little girl.

‘What?' he whispers.

‘Daddy said not to tell anyone. He said it will make things comp-compicated.'

Gwen can't help herself. Taking Silver's hand, she says, ‘Show me the game you were playing with the house. Then maybe you two would like some morning tea, does that sound nice?'

Silver nods eagerly. Amber doesn't look so sure but, before she can say anything, Silver pulls out the furniture and begins explaining who the people are and the game they were playing in the lounge and how he and Amber snuck away until their dad's visitor was gone.

‘Have you met her before?' Gwen asks.

Amber nods. ‘She's the coffee lady.'

‘Does she have a name?' Gwen presses.

Amber shouts out before Silver can get in before her, ‘Camilla.'

‘She's Brazilian,' Silver adds, not wanting to be outdone by his sister.

A Brazilian coffee lady called Camilla. Perhaps she is there to service his machine.

Frankie's October

Brandon makes Frankie coffee but she can't drink it. It smells odd. She checks the use-by date on the carton of milk but it's days until it expires. She sniffs the contents. It smells fine. Maybe Brandon didn't grind the beans properly.

A ute pulls up outside the Hills' place. It has ladders and the usual builder's equipment but no fancy lettering along the sides announcing his trade. The man is as broad as he is tall, the kind her mother might have called nuggety. He lets loose a large dog tied up in the tray and climbs the drive. Mrs Hill emerges from the garage and hugs him. The dog rushes over, tail wagging, and Mrs Hill stoops to give him a good old rub behind the ears, something she never does with their dogs, always eyeing them off as if they are about to dig a hole.

They stand in the drive, chatting away. That brassy old blonde from across the road comes over with a tray holding four mugs sloshing about and a packet of biscuits. She puts it on the retaining wall and hugs the young man.

Marigold tugs at her work skirt. Frankie pushes her away. ‘Are your hands clean, Goldie?'

‘Up, Mummy, up,' Goldie insists and, sighing, Frankie lifts her. Marigold presses her palms against Frankie's cheeks and then her own. ‘See, Mummy? All clean.'

They aren't clean. There are definite sticky traces of breakfast on those fingers but when Marigold repeats the gesture adding a sloppy kiss, all the crankiness flows out of Frankie. She can't be cross with Marigold who is only two and a half and has few precious moments alone with her. The twins are always crowding her out. ‘C'mon, Goldie, I need a wee and you need to wash those hands.'

After kicking the bathroom stool over to Goldie so she can reach the sink, Frankie sits on the toilet, surveying the bathroom. It is a microcosm of their lives. She can't shower without removing bath toys and soggy cold face washers. There are globs of conditioner and soap glued to the bath wall. Silver squeezes the toothpaste in the middle so the contents spill over the vanity where they harden. Worse, the children insist on putting their toothbrushes in the cup upside down so the bristles rest in the sludge at the bottom. Her expensive body scrub sits on the vanity, half empty, though she herself has only used it twice.

And, she discovers, there's no toilet paper. It's bad enough that Brandon buys the cheapest, nastiest toilet paper available, the kind that disintegrates in your hands when you ball it up for the job. Now when she needs it, there is none. Flicking the vanity unit open, she spies the last roll in the back of the cupboard, far from reach.

‘Goldie, sweetie, can you get the toilet paper for Mummy?'

Hands wringing wet, Goldie passes Frankie the toilet roll, forcing her to reel off several layers until she reaches dry paper. Frankie feels contaminated by the ordeal. She wants to get away, from the bathroom, from the house. Away from the constant disorder, the noise, she thinks, glancing at the TV on full bore though no one's watching it, the total chaos that is her personal life. How hard can it be to retain some sense of order when you are home twenty-four seven? Women everywhere keep their houses in a semi-immaculate condition but she, as half of a new world order couple, lives in a pigsty. How she yearns for a cleaning lady, to come home to the smell of a meal cooking, the gentle waft of background music and a cold glass of pinot gris. Oh, she wishes she hadn't thought of wine. Frankie rushes back to the bathroom and is copiously and violently sick.

‘I think there's something odd going on,' Frankie tells Brandon that night. He's drinking beer and she sips on peppermint tea. Her stomach has been unsettled all day and she truly hopes she hasn't picked up a bug from one of the children.

Brandon leans against the kitchen bench, a beer clutched in his hand. ‘What sort of odd?' he says.

Frankie glances at the recycling box and is relieved to see it's empty. Brandon's been drinking a lot more than usual lately. ‘Well, when I was getting ready this morning a guy turned up in his ute. I'm sure he knew Mrs Hill, he hugged her, and then Mrs McIntyre from across the road came over and she got a hug. She'd brought over a tray with tea and biscuits and they were chatting away like old friends.'

Brandon tosses the bottle in the recycling box. ‘He was here to do a fencing quote.'

‘Are you sure?' Frankie says, pushing her tea away. It's not doing the trick.

‘Yeah, yeah. I saw him measuring up after you left.'

Now it adds up. ‘So they've got some mate to give them a dodgy price. They'll come in low so ours look expensive.' Frankie picks at the leftover macaroni cheese on the children's plates. ‘That Gwen Hill will do anything to stop us building the fence.'

Brandon wonders if Frankie will notice if he gets another beer. He never used to drink this much but life since moving to Rosedale seems to be more stressful, not less, as Frankie had predicted. He decides it'd be better if he waits a few minutes. ‘But she can't now, babe. We have a fencing order.'

Frankie snorts. ‘A fencing order for a fence we don't want.'

‘Yeah, they must think we're idiots if they think we don't know what they're up to.' Brandon gives in to temptation and reaches for another beer. He's a bit over this whole fence conversation. Three metres high or 1.8 makes no difference to him, as long as Mrs Hill can't spy on him during the day, especially when he's alone.

Frankie notices him take another beer but says nothing, it's only his second for the night. No need to be sour just because she's not drinking. ‘There must be some way we can get the tribunal to change the orders. If we don't, we're going to end up with a crappy-looking paling fence, so low that every time we're in the garden, she'll be peering over the fence like Mrs Kravitz.'

Brandon laughs at that, ready to appreciate her attempt at humour. The beer numbs the guilt of how he spent his day. He says, ‘That's the other thing, did you notice the railings are on our side of the fence? How's that going to work? Instead of a fence to keep the kids in, we're building them a climbing frame. The twins will be up and over in five seconds flat. I caught them next door again today, you know.'

‘Again?' Frankie pushes away the plate of macaroni cheese. She's feeling ill.

‘It's the old bloke's fault. He makes dollhouses in the garage. Bit of an odd hobby, don't you think?' Brandon doesn't actually care that the twins disappear next door per se. They think he doesn't know but he's not stupid. He appreciates the break.

‘Did you tell them they are strictly forbidden to go next door?'

‘Of course, but you know what those two are like.' It's not really a lie. He tells them mum says it's strictly forbidden, which is almost the same thing. ‘Amber will say anything to your face and then go and do whatever she was intending to all along.'

Part of Frankie bristles at the criticism of her daughter but Brandon's right. Amber is wilful and, as the eldest, she tends to dominate Silver. He is quiet around his sister which makes Frankie wonder if he has his own way of dealing with Amber's tendency to take control. It's enough that they look identical but combined with their insistence – or Amber's? – that they have the same haircuts and dress the same, gives Amber additional leverage.

‘You know it was her that let the dogs out the other day, don't you?' Brandon adds.

Frankie had come home from work to find Brandon and the twins running up and down the street calling out Peanut and Butter's names. The dogs thought it was a great lark, bounding up and down the road, sniffing and weeing in everybody's gardens. Frankie eventually solved the problem by grabbing Peanut's dinner bowl and banging it with a wooden spoon. Thinking he was in luck, Peanut had rushed over and she had snapped on the leash before he realised he had returned for nothing.

Interrogating the twins, the story Amber told was that they had been playing catch on the trampoline so the dogs couldn't get the ball. Silver had thrown it too high and the ball had rolled under the side gate. Since it was Silver who had thrown the ball out, Amber said, she made him go and get it. He must have forgotten to lock the gate properly behind him.

‘And where were you whilst Silver was fetching the ball?' Frankie had asked, her sixth sense telling her the story was a little too neatly sown up.

‘Sitting on the trampoline,' Amber said with wide-eyed innocence. Frankie might have believed her but for Silver shuffling on the spot and grabbing at his crotch, which he only ever did when he needed a wee or something was troubling him. One of them had let the dogs out, one of them was being less than truthful. But she couldn't bring herself to call her daughter a liar.

‘Did you get through today's list?' she asks Brandon.

He fidgets and avoids her eye, just like Silver. A spasm of insecurity shoots through her.

‘Keep idle hands busy,' Noelle had advised. At first, Frankie thought sacking the cleaner and nanny would be enough to keep Brandon on his toes. But it is clear from the state of their house that he does little cleaning and the kids run riot.

After the children are in bed and Brandon is on his fourth beer, Frankie decides to tackle him on it, saying, ‘Whilst we're waiting for this fencing debacle to sort itself out, I think we should make a start on the house.'

Brandon studies the piece of paper she shunts across to him. Frankie remains quiet as he reads through the list, his silence a troubled, agitated thing. He pulls on his beer and thrusts it back at her.

‘When am I supposed to get this done, Frankie?'

She had anticipated his reluctance. ‘Well,' she says, keeping her voice light, ‘the twins are at kindy three days a week, Goldie two, and Bijoux has a three-hour nap during the day.'

‘Sometimes.' Brandon flips the beer cap over and over.

‘Even so,' Frankie presses on, ‘plenty of stay-at-home parents get things done with children around. I think you should use your spare time to start on the renovations.'

Brandon flicks the beer cap into the bin. ‘It'll take forever if you're relying on me working around Bijoux's naps.'

Frankie refuses to be diverted. ‘Then work when she's awake, Brandy. Multitasking is how things get done.'

Brandon's face is sullen. Frankie wishes she could say what she really thinks. Wishes she could shout at Brandon, ‘What do you do all day?' Give voice to the resentment that she's pulling for both of them whilst he cruises along hiding behind the title of primary caregiver. How do you make someone do what you want them to do?

Their eyes meet and Brandon says, ‘When will you stop punishing me? Enough is enough, Frankie.'

The air huffs out of her. Punish him? She's done anything but. ‘Oh for goodness sakes, Brandon. I'm at work ten hours a day. I'm in no position to paint bathrooms, am I? And since I am the one working my bum off to pay for all of this,' she waves her hand indicating the house, the stuff, the everything, ‘I think you need to provide some value-add to this relationship. Otherwise, we may as well put the kids in full-time care and you can go back to teaching to pay for it.'

Brandon blanches. He hates teaching. The promised twelve weeks holiday a year is an illusion. He hates the politics, the over-invested parents, the number of children with ADD or who might die at any moment from anaphylaxis. Frankie's the one who loves her career, he couldn't give a stuff if he never worked another day in his life. He loves hanging out with the kids, going to the beach, making stuff out of junk, teaching Silver guitar. Their life would be cruisy if they didn't have to toe Frankie's line. With no money of his own and no palatable way to earn it, Brandon is beholden to his wife. And she knows it. He has made a devil of a deal.

But Brandon's had plenty of practice at playing this game. The next day he detours via the hardware store and picks up sample pots. When Frankie arrives home from work, there are patches of paint on the bathroom wall.

She studies them, wondering how Brandon had time to paint three blotches on the bathroom wall but not pick up the wet towels abandoned on the floor and throw them in the machine.

She'd say something about it but there is this incessant fencing issue. Brandon's complete mismanagement means they face ending up with a horrible paling fence that is not, as far as she's concerned, fit for the purpose. Stacking the children's dinner plates in the dishwasher she announces, ‘I've been thinking about this whole fence issue. I think we should call their bluff.'

Brandon is not as stupid as Frankie thinks he is. He can tell she is spoiling for another fight. She's the reason he drinks so much beer. ‘How?'

Frankie grabs the packet of disposable antibacterial kitchen wipes and rubs hard at the benchtop. ‘As soon as we get their quotes, write them a letter. Say we don't think the quotes are genuine and that we are going back to court to have the fencing orders changed.'

Brandon plays with his beer bottle. Frankie never gives up. Victory over the Hills is not enough because she hasn't got her own way. Yeah, the fence isn't perfect but it's fit for purpose. And she doesn't have to deal with the Hills every day. Whingeing about the state of their bins, asking him to clean up the dog poop – and their daughter. Diane Slaughter must know they're in dispute and by the way Val McIntyre sniffs whenever she sees him, her allegiances are clear. He smiles through it all and then has to put up with Frankie riding his arse over every tiny detail. Something has to give.

Frankie watches Brandon staring at his beer, refusing to answer. A glance at the kitchen clock shows it is only eight o'clock. She is surprised, it feels so much later. If she stays here in the kitchen, something will give. She says, ‘I've had a really hard day, I'm going to bed.'

Brandon looks up. ‘But I haven't made dinner yet.'

‘I'm not hungry,' she says, deflated by the thought that, with Brandon in charge, dinner is at least an hour away.