Read Online The Fence by Meredith Jaffe - Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜What the . . .’ he begins.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Good morning, Mr Boyd. How are you?’ Oh dear, Gwen thought, she sounded like she’s selling something.
    â€˜Yeah good