The Fence (6 page)

Noelle carried on as if Francesca had answered, ‘You can't have it all and certainly not at the same time.'

Can't you? Frankie thought. What was the point of a degree and years climbing the corporate ladder if all you ended up doing was sitting at a toddler table from IKEA cutting shapes out of Play-Doh?

‘When was the last time you visited a hairdresser?' Noelle went on. ‘You look disgraceful. Look at your nails.'

Frankie did. She'd been biting them again, the cuticles scabbed from where she'd breached the skin. There was choco­late under the nails from making cupcakes with the kids to distract them from killing each other for five minutes.

‘Anyone can see you are not coping, Francesca. So it appears you must swallow your pride and quit your job. Stay at home and do a proper job of raising your children.'

Frankie went to say that couldn't be the only option but her mother waved her down and continued, ‘Or haul your sorry excuse for a husband home, forgive him but remind him who wears the pants in this relationship.'

‘But how?'

Brandon had shacked up with the Brazilian barista, whose name she now knew was Camilla. It had lasted a few weeks and he was now sleeping on his brother's couch until he could afford a place of his own. He was working but not enough to stand on his own two feet. There was a grim satisfaction in that. To see that his callous actions had a price. When he picked up the kids each week, he dropped hints about resuming the status quo. Frankie wanted to believe it was because he loved them, her, but she was scared that it might only be that she was his meal ticket. Could she endure that so her children no longer cried in the night for their absent father?

Her mother was well aware of this. ‘Sell the house and its memories, sack the nannies and the cleaner and move him to the suburbs. If I were you, I'd have another baby. If that doesn't keep him too busy to spread his love around, then nothing will.'

‘Four children! We're only just coping with three under five.'

Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Precisely.'

And that's why Bijoux was conceived, to keep her father faithful. For the first time it dawned on Frankie that maybe her mother's fecundity was not the status symbol she made it out to be but an act to bind Bernard to her. Frankie wondered what misdeeds her father had committed for her mother to punish him with a lifetime of her fawning attention and numerous offspring. For even a man as financially successful as her father would have to think twice before divorcing a woman who had borne him six children, each with an expensive private school education. Frankie realised that her mother's veneer of elegance might conceal a savviness acquired from her impoverished childhood.

So the next time Brandon came to see the children, she invited him in for coffee and floated the idea that she might consider having him back under certain conditions. Brandon agreed with an eagerness Frankie knew was founded on desperation. She did not tell him about her plan to fall pregnant but rather framed the resumption of their sexual relations as a way of cementing the deal. Only when she confirmed her pregnancy did she pretend to relent and allow Brandon to move back in. And only after Bijoux was born did she announce that she had found their new home.

‘It's the perfect house,' she told him as he sat in stunned silence on the floor, surrounded by Duplo, the twins crawling all over him. ‘It's a short trip to the nearest train station, which will be great because you know how I loathe catching the bus. Plus it's a quiet suburb, close to some of the best private schools, and it has a pool!'

Her mother had warned her, ‘Don't rush into anything. Men's egos are fragile. Let him move back in, feel a sense of security, before you break the news.'

He disentangled himself from the children and came over to where she sat nursing Bijoux. He stood there, dejected, struggling to find the words.

‘Rosedale?' he managed.

Frankie smiled. ‘Yes. It's certainly not in the hub of things but it will be good for the children to grow up in a quiet, leafy suburb with plenty of space to run around.'

Brandon had grown up in such a quiet, leafy suburb and had vowed never to return. He felt helpless staring at Bijoux, suckling at Frankie's breast. Frankie was not the girl he married. There was a hardness to her now and not just because she had found out about Camilla. But he only had to think of his brother, how divorce had cost him financially but the real price was the estrangement from his children. It was a wrecking ball swinging indiscriminately, destroying all. Too late, he realised, he had short suited himself. Frankie held all the cards.

‘He will be miserable about it for a while,' Noelle had said, ‘but he will come round. After all, what choice does he have?'

‘I don't see any other option,' Frankie said, as Bijoux fell off her breast, fast asleep. Frankie laid her over a shoulder as she did up her bra and adjusted her top. ‘We need a fresh start.'

And she stood, feeling less victorious than she had imagined in the face of his obvious despair. ‘We need to think of the children.'

As the words left her mouth, she recalled how often she had heard her mother utter that phrase whenever Bernard remonstrated over one of Noelle's decisions. It was a code. A shorthand for whatever arguments were conducted behind closed doors, away from big ears. She had arrived at a point in her marriage where compromise had given way to capitulation.

‘Of course,' she added, ‘we will have to compromise. There will be no more nannies or cleaning ladies. You will have to pull your weight.'

And here they are, pulling into the driveway of their future. The old lady next door is raking leaves from under the trees on the street, she can see the husband in the shadows of the garage.

‘Guess what, guys?' She grins at the children, indicating that they are to turn off their tablets. ‘This is our new home.'

‘Yeah,' yells Silver, fumbling with his seatbelt.

‘I need a wee,' Amber whinges.

Marigold begins clapping her hands shouting, ‘Out, out, out,' loud enough that baby Bijoux wakes with a start and begins to cry.

Frankie opens the car door and disembarks.

Outback + Outdoors

In the Garden with Gwen Hill

Plants, like humans, are fussy about who they have as neighbours. We can't always choose who we live next door to but fortunately our gardens are our own territory.

Companion planting is based on plants complementing each other. Factors such as the depth of their roots or the density and canopy of their foliage influence how well they rub along together. Chives have been used for centuries to control pests and visitors to wineries will see rosebushes planted at the end of rows of grapevines. They act as an early warning sign of mildew, which has a deleterious effect on both roses and grapes, as well as a means of attracting beneficial insects.

Be careful which plants you pick though: French beans love cabbages and strawberries but grow cabbages next to strawberries and you'll make both unhappy.

Tip of the month

If you're sick of battling the common weed dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) maybe it's time to rethink your strategy. Many cultures have long used the leaves as a salad green and in Western herbal medicine both the leaves and the roots are considered a liver tonic. The flowers are excellent in a light jelly, reminiscent of the taste of honey. A recent study reported in
Australian Natural Sciences
found that a high cholesterol diet can be combated by adding dandelion – well, on rabbits at least! So maybe enjoying a tisane of dandelion or some jam for your daily bread will not only rid your garden of weeds but gain yourself a health benefit too.

Gwen's July

The desecration of Babs' memory begins with the buddleja. The Desmarchelliers or the Boyds, whichever they are, Gwen finds it confusing that they can't use the same surname but then hyphenated the children's. She is constantly calling the husband Mr Desmarchelliers and the wife Mrs Boyd when really they are both and neither. Starting at Gumnut will soon wipe the smile off their faces. How many four year olds can wrap their tongues around Desmarchelliers-Boyd? None of their children will be starting school until they are sixteen because it will take them that long to be able to spell their surname.

‘They've hacked down the buddleja.' Gwen bursts in on Eric who has earmuffs on and is turning a piece of wood into the side of a dollhouse. He continues feeding the timber through the machine oblivious to Gwen's distress. Breaching their unwritten rule, Gwen switches the lathe off at the powerpoint. That gets Eric's attention.

‘What the . . .' he begins.

‘Those dreadful people have hacked the buddleja along the front verge. All of them, down to the ground.'

Eric sighs and removes his earmuffs. ‘Perhaps they're pruning them?' he suggests.

‘In July?' Gwen crosses her arms for fear they will fly off and commit harm, maybe box Eric around the ears for his reason­ableness. ‘That's not pruning, that's destruction.'

‘I thought buddleja were hardy. Won't they grow back? Not everyone is as informed a gardener as you, Gwennie.'

But Gwen is no longer listening. Creeping over to the shadowy corner of the garage, she spies on the Desmarchelliers, the whole lot of them at work in the garden. ‘Oh dear,' she cries as His Lordship paints weedkiller onto the remaining stumps. That's the end of the buddleja then and a large contributor to the fertility of their garden is killed in a stroke. Contemplating the decimation of the butterfly population and the ripple effect to the rest of the garden brings a sheen of sweat to her brow.

This is all Eric's fault. He insisted she overcome her first impressions and extend the hand of friendship. About a week or so after they moved in, as the packing boxes diminished in their garage enough to tell her they were settled, Gwen went into the garden and collected a basket of produce. Mindful that their children were young, she ignored the brussels sprouts and the cauliflowers and instead picked a bunch of English spinach and carrots and threw in some lemons and a dozen mandarins. As an afterthought, she included a jar of her homemade dandelion jam.

She chose a weekday as it lessened the likelihood of running into Francesca. ‘You're intimidated by her,' Babs chided in her head. ‘I am not,' Gwen replied. ‘That girl is like an ocean liner, sailing her course without care or concern for those who cross her path.' Gwen had thought that sounded quite witty but Babs hadn't laughed. As she picked her way up the Desmarchelliers' drive, past their overflowing bins, waving good morning to Val who was collecting her
Northshore Advocate
from the letterbox still in her nightgown and slippers despite it being after ten, Gwen told Babs that since the husband was home full-time, it was he that she would have to build bridges with. ‘He's not an ocean liner then?' imaginary Babs said. Gwen thought about this. ‘No, he's one of those little yachts that skitter about and almost gets run over.'

Gwen knocked on the door and waited, wishing she could put down the basket but not wanting to ruin the impression of her standing there, the bounty from her garden front and centre. Inside she heard a fight erupting between the little boy and one of his sisters. ‘I want it, I had it first, no you did not. OW! Da-a-ad!'

She smiled. Some things never changed. When it became apparent her knock was going unheeded, Gwen rapped more sharply and the door swung away from her hand.

‘Yes?'

Brandon stood before her, his hair an unbrushed thatch. He wore tracksuit pants slung low over his hips and a polar fleece with a glob of something that might have been porridge congealing on the collar. On his face was one of those silly little facial hair designs young men went in for these days. Val's Murray had one – a bit of fluff under his bottom lip as if he had a permanent blind spot when shaving.

‘Good morning, Mr Boyd. How are you?' Oh dear, Gwen thought, she sounded like she's selling something.

‘Yeah good thanks, Mrs Hill.' He yawned and stretched. Marigold had wet the bed again last night. Another 2 am strip and wash, singing her back to sleep, waking to find himself curled alongside her, his aching back reminding him that a toddler bed was not built for two.

As he pulled his arms over his head, Gwen noticed the tattoo snaking around his forearm, the words ‘Silver' and ‘Amber' ensuring the world would know of his undying love and devotion to his offspring. There was no ‘Marigold' or ‘Bijoux', maybe they were hidden somewhere under that polar fleece, a love heart with an arrow through it perhaps. Still, it was no worse than those casts of their newborn's feet and hands people went in for these days. One of the mothers at Gumnut had brought in an actual cast of her entire newborn. It was a grotesque thing, for all the world like a stillborn baby.

Mr Boyd stayed in the doorway, no invitation for a cuppa or any indication she was welcome. Cursing Eric, Gwen decided it was best to get this over and done with. She knew how it was with young children, there was always some catastrophe brewing. As she opened her mouth to speak, there came a loud wail and Brandon raced away to deal with the crime.

Gwen stood there, unsure what to do. She wasn't used to standing on doorsteps. In this neighbourhood, one barely needed to knock. It was ‘Yoo-hoo, it's only me' and in you sailed. Well, at least at Babs' and Val's it was. Then again, Val had said the same thing happened to her when she had tried to welcome the Desmarchelliers-Boyds to the street.

She and Val were having their weekly coffee morning, although Gwen was still struggling to adjust to Babs' absence. The mere presence of Babs was enough to bring out a more genteel Val. Now, Gwen was lucky if Val removed the cake from the supermarket wrapper and she never bothered with the milk jug and sugar bowl anymore.

‘Did I tell you,' Val had said around a mouthful of cake, ‘what your new neighbour said to me?'

It wasn't Gwen's job to warn Val about how prickly Francesca could be. And Val wasn't exactly the most tactful of people at the best of times.

‘I thought I'd pop over on my way to bridge, seeing as I was dressed up and all. I had no intention of staying, but I thought it only polite to extend a welcome from the neighbourhood.'

‘I'm surprised you found her home on a Friday. She works full-time you know.'

‘Well, I don't know about that, Gwennie, but she was so rude. Said she was on her way out before I even had the chance to invite her kiddies over for a play date with the grandkids. Practically slammed the door in my face. She's got tickets on herself that one.'

Brandon hadn't slammed the door in Gwen's face but he may as well have. She moved her basket from one arm to the other and flexed her arm against a cramp.

‘Sorry about that, Mrs Hill. What can I do you for?'

‘I brought you a gift, to welcome you to the neighbourhood.' Gwen pressed the basket towards him, adding, ‘They're from my garden.'

He poked about in the basket.

Gwen smiled, wishing she could turn on her heel and flee. ‘I popped some mandarins in as well. Kids like mandarins, so much easier to peel than oranges.'

Brandon thought it best not to tell Mrs Hill that Marigold was allergic to citrus. That of the four children, only Bijoux liked fruit.

Gwen drew breath. Would it kill him just to say thanks and leave it at that? Young people today had no idea about courtesy. ‘Well I must be off, plenty to do at this time of year.'

He nodded and closed the door, leaving her stranded there. ‘Cabbages and strawberries,' she fumed as she stomped down the stairs and raced between the crab apples. ‘That's what we are Babs, cabbages and strawberries.'

When she recounted the story to Eric over their morning cuppa, Eric had said, ‘It sounds like His Lordship is hiding something,' and the name stuck.

Francesca moves into Gwen's line of sight. She is wearing a straw bonnet that makes her look like Caroline Ingalls from
Little House on the Prairie
. Wielding secateurs as if she has two left hands, she is cutting branches from the Camellia japonica in the centre bed and throwing the broken limbs into a barrow. ‘I think this is the perfect spot for a lemon tree, Brandy,' Gwen hears her call.

Not unless you cut everything else down first, Gwen thinks. Lemons need light. Can't they see the giant flowering gum in the neighbour's yard?

The twins race around the garden beds on their glider bikes, spraying white gravel everywhere. Babs used to rake that gravel. ‘I find it meditative,' she'd say, shaping curved lines with the tines around the meandering path. She might not have liked getting her hands dirty but Babs did have an eye for aesthetic detail.

And the toddler, Marigold, has strayed over the border and is plucking alliums from under the crab apples.

‘Hey, stop that,' Gwen yells, hastening from the shadows to where the little girl merrily destroys the display. ‘Don't pull the plants out, dear, you'll ruin my garden. Go and see if you can help Mummy and Daddy.'

The little girl stares at Gwen clutching her flowers to her chest, her eyes widening as she decides whether to cry.

Francesca appears, her smile demure beneath her bonnet, resting her hand on her daughter's shoulder. ‘She's all right, Mrs Hill. She's only trying to help, aren't you, Goldie?'

The little girl squats on her haunches and digs in the earth, exposing the white flesh of the allium bulbs. Francesca smiles benignly at her but Gwen can't help herself. ‘Now, Marigold, that's enough of that. Leave the poor plants alone.'

Francesca takes Marigold's hand and whispers in her ear, pointing at His Lordship. Marigold smiles and skips over to her father who is stacking branches of buddleja in the green bin.

When Francesca straightens, Gwen notices that the young woman has invested in a gardening smock with pale pink and blue stripes, high collar and elasticised pockets. She removes a pair of ladies' split palm leather gardening gloves with a striped cuff that match her shirt. Gwen knows the brand, they advertise in the magazine every issue, marketing themselves with some nonsense about being essential gardening apparel.

‘I've been meaning to ask you about these trees,' Francesca says, pointing to the row of crab apples.

Gwen follows the line, admiring the trees that, at this time of year, without their leaves, add a sculptured element to the drive. The rounded canopies, the squared box hedges at their base, the alliums' bobbing heads poking over the top, create a delightful study in form and texture.

She smiles at her neighbour, knowing Francesca will probably ask, as so many have, how many years it took Gwen to create the rounded foliage, the square hedges, the bobbing under feature. Did she have to prune them regularly to keep them rounded? How inspirational to create such a marvellous garden feature!

‘You know they're on our land?' Francesca smiles sweetly.

‘Pardon, dear?' Gwen must have misheard.

‘Those trees are on our land. I've checked and they encroach over our boundary a good fifteen centimetres.'

Gwen stares at her. Of course they straddle the border, that was the intention. One day, the four of them – she and Eric, Rohan and Babs – had sat down and discussed it, as good neighbours did. It was not long after the Modys had moved into number 18. Gwen had invited them over, to introduce themselves properly, for a cuppa and a slice of sponge cake.

They had completed a tour of the Hills' backyard and were enjoying their cake and tea, when Rohan said, ‘I love what you've done with the garden, Gwen.'

‘Mmm, this sponge is delicious, so light,' Babs had added.

‘Anyone for seconds?' Gwen asked and Eric and Rohan pushed over their plates.

‘When I look at our yard it's hard to imagine it ever being as lush and productive as yours,' Rohan continued.

Gwen's cheeks had pinked. This was years before the gardening column, back when the backyard was her one true pleasure. There was the chicken run on the southern side where the girls had the benefit of the morning sun rising over the fence. The mulberry tree she had planted when they first moved in was already over two metres tall. It provided shelter and a good crop of fruit on which the chooks gorged themselves in summer. She had laid out garden beds using old railway sleepers Eric and his father, Harry, had sourced from the railway yards at Clyde. There was a row of citrus along the back fence, an apple tree in the corner and behind the vegetable beds she was experimenting with espaliering a fig.

Babs had laid a hand on her husband's arm. ‘Don't go getting ideas, Rohan. Neither of us have a green thumb.'

Rohan had laughed that low chortle of his that would become so familiar. ‘No, my love, there's no danger of that.'

As they drank their tea and enjoyed another slice of Gwen's sponge cake, Rohan stood at the window staring at the expanse of lawn Gwen had been rolling out the day they moved in. ‘I'm surprised you haven't done something similar out the front here, Gwen. It gets plenty of light too. Perhaps more fruit trees?'

Gwen rose and stood beside him. ‘I love a good stretch of lawn. Eric is thinking of putting up a trampoline for the kids in the neighbourhood to share. I've planted a couple of rondeletia under the windows to soften the brickwork but I'm stuck on what to plant along the boundary. It's a bit of a nothing spot and it seems a shame to put up a fence just for the sake of it.'

‘You could plant a hedge?' offered Babs, joining them.

‘Well, yes, I could but then I've always liked the idea of the children roaming free. Fences are so dominant and overbearing. No one can get in but then no one can get out either, can they?'