The Fence

The fence leans at an acute, painful looking angle to its palings. Sky blue, its numbers used to be painted red, one on each panel: |3|9|3|. The first three and the nine are faded now, luckily the postie seems to know where to stick it, but really the whole damn thing is a mess. Got kicked over the other night by a neighbour on a drunken psychotic rampage. Smashed up our bins and all – trash everywhere. Got up at eight in the morning next day to see him throwing empty bottles into the street and the fence lying flat in the pavement. Once he’d destroyed himself to bed I picked up the remains of the fence and hoisted it back up against its bare skeleton. Called the landlord, who came round with a bemused expression a couple hours later.

Now, while the fence still hangs half crucified on its broken frame, it seems to attract anger from passers-by. We hear more glass breaking, raised voices, as if the sight of this act of random, maddened violence gives license to all who see it, pass by it, to give vent to their darkest passions also.

We're getting a bit scared to go out. We hear people out there crying freedom, but we feel kind of imprisoned. The sirens sounding at all hours of day and night afford us no heightened sense of security.

We brood around the flat for a couple days, before Anna and I come to the same decision pretty much simultaneously:

“Let's head to the country for a while,” we say almost in unison.

So I rent a bach out on the west coast, compact but liveable enough for two. A decent patch of land, just a few minutes' walk from the beach. A shop and a pub about ten minutes away. Looks idyllic.We quietly load the car with essentials: laptops, our favourite bedding, my guitar, Anna's needlework, some of the books we've been meaning to read, and so on. We pull out cautiously, then gun it once we hit the road, maneouvering between crashed and burnt out cars, paying little attention to street lights, much like everyone else because no one wants to stay still too long. Heading further out of town we stop at a rare open shop for some further supplies: beer (lots of it), toilet paper, meat and potatoes, various sundries – you don't need another list.

It's about six hours' drive to our hideaway. Anna snuggles down in her seat and puts on a Willie Nelson playlist, all good by me. She also playfully plays pony slap with me, a whack on the arm any time we pass a horse in a paddock. I remind her it's not really cool to play pony slap with the driver, but she just giggles and keeps her eye out for more horses.

Willie dies after a while, and Nancy and Lee take his place, as we course down dark roads with trees overgrown, looming over, flax and ferns encroaching on the roadside. It's like civilization has departed and the plants have an eye to the main chance. Some Velvet Morning. We travel in silence ourselves, just the occasional hand on the knee.

We come out of the dark forest to a mild day, not sunny but warm enough. Anna puts on some Funkadelic and dances a little in her seat in anticipation, even though we're still a couple hours away. She even winds the window down, puts her head out as if she can already smell the sea.

It's about 4pm when we do turn off the highway, down one street to the next when the GPS tells us we're where we're meant to be. Now we can smell the sea...rich.

We park up on the front lawn, find the keys under the designated flower pot, and start loading in, while observing a largish old white house next dour. Delapidated weatherboard, peeling paint, we didn't know we'd have neighbours, they of course not having been depicted in the online pics. A big white van and and a ute in their drive.

Never mind, we load in, set up, and relax on the couch. I open the bottle of champenoise the owner kindly left us as a welcome, and we eat some cheese and ham and stuff, watch an old noir film, snuggled up on the couch. Like I say, idyllic.

The next couple days, much the same. The odd wander through the bush, or down to the beach. Anna's a water baby, so I let her do most of the swimming. Me I'm more of a fire man, so I do stuff with driftwood.. But I swim a little, take up my guitar, then when we're there after dark, I sit and play “Ten Guitars” beneath the stars, while Anna lies on her back and looks up at them.The Milky Way looks glorious out here.

It's on the third day, when I'm sitting on the stoop, playing a little guitar in the late morning sun when a certain gentleman pokes his head over the fence adjoining the properties. It's not a high fence so I can tell he's pretty short. On closer inspection I do detect a short but burly, kind of flush faced, bald man in his late fifties maybe.

“Morning neighbour.” he says with a thick lipped smile.

“Bit of a rolling stone eh?”

I knock out a bar of “Satisfaction” and say

“Nah, more of a Beatles man really.”

“Ah, each to their own I guess.” He replies. “I'm Pete.”

I stand up and extend a hand. “Danny.”

He meets my right hand with his left, so I awkwardly swap over.

He gets this, so raises his right arm, which is basically a stump at the elbow, with a thumb.

“Thalidomide.” he says, almost cheerfully. “Last one in the country.” he adds, almost proudly.

“Oh wow.” I say, feeling a bit stupid somehow.

“That's about what everyone says.” he says reassuringly.

“So how long you staying?”

I shrug. “Couple weeks, maybe more. Just kind of waiting out the mess back in town.”

Pete looks off into the distance. “Yeah,” he says. “I don't look at the news much but I hear plenty. All freedom and no respect is what I'm getting.”

“You got it. All rights, no responsibilities.”

He nods and looks back my way, smiling.

“So, you guys got everything you need there? All the home comforts?”

“Pretty much. Could do with a toaster.” I say jokingly.

Pete strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“Gimme a minute,” he says, “Stay put.”

He stumps off round the side of the house in his shorts, and I note his prosthetic right leg.

He returns shortly with a brand new toaster, chrome.

“Knew I had one lying round.”

It's nice if a little weird, so I say thanks and go to ask how much -

“Nah, this one's on the house mate. Let me know if you need anything else eh. See ya round.” He beams and wanders off while answering a call.

It's not until next morning that Anna notices the toaster, already plugged in and good to go, and she asks:

“Where'd the toaster come from?”

I'm fresh out of the shower, and with a mouthful of toothbrush, I gargle “Neighbour.”

“Hm.” She says quietly. It's a common expression of hers, and while I'm still brushing my teeth, I swear if she said it from the other side of the world I'd be able to hear it. It can mean any number of things, and it would take a better psychologist than me. I'm not a psychologist. I get it right maybe half the time.

So I dress, come out and cook up bacon and scrambled eggs, ON TOAST, and we eat while listening to National Radio, it's Sunday so good content.

Later, I'm loitering in the sun with a beer, listening to birdsong.

Pete ambles up to the fence. We greet, I offer him a beer but he shakes his head.

“Diabetic. Can drink but not much these days, so I just don't bother.”

He leans in. “You fancy a smoke?”

“Nah” I say, “Used to a fair bit but it kinda lost the buzz for me.”

“Fair enough”, says Pete. “When the thrill is gone, it's a fool who carries on.”

I'm wracking my brain trying to think if that's a quote from something when Pete, who's standing sideways to me, turns sidelong and says,

“You like eggs right?”

“Um...yeah.”

“And you've got a coop up back there. D'you want a few chickens?

I'm in the middle of um, I dunno -

“Look, it's just three of them, good layers, I just don't have room for 'em right now. They're worth about thirty but I can let 'em go for ten a head. I'll even throw in a bag of feed. If you're not staying too long they'll be easy to pass on. You'd be doing me a favour really”

I sort of dumbly nod which Pete chooses to take as a yes. He scurries back round the house just as Anna walks out.

“What's he selling today?” She asks.

I'm halfway through well um, see it's like this, when Pete reappears. He's carrying a big bamboo cage with three chickens in his left hand, and a bag of feed slung over his right shoulder. He hoists them both over the fence. I hand him thirty bucks. He beams at Anna and introduces himself, receiving barely a blink in response. I look at him with sort of a helpless facial gesture and he winks at me, and gotta go, as his phone starts ringing again.

We get the chooks over to the coop and let them loose, put down some feed, they seem to settle in just fine. We do the dishes together and Anna says, not unexpectedly, “I don't trust him.”

“And you have no reason to,” I reply. ”But I have a feeling it's better to be on his good side than the alternative.”

“Hm.” She says.

Things feel a little tense between us so I make my excuses and take a wee drive into “town”. I stop at the shop for a few supplies, then park up and wander into the pub. It's quiet, just two guys talking at the bar. The barwoman comes to me and I order a pint. She inquires as to where I'm at and I tell her.

“Oh, so you're next door to Pete then?” I say yes.

“Hm.” She says. And goes about her business.

The gentlemen next to me break off their conversation so one can turn to me.

“Next door to Pete eh?”

I nod and smile.

“Hm.” He says, then turns back, then back again after a minute.

“Has he sold you any chickens yet?”

I'm about to answer when he sees the truth in my eyes, chuckles and goes back to conversation with his friend.

Feeling like I'm on the butt end of a secret joke here, I finish my pint and head back to the bach.

Anna's in a conciliatory mood it seems. She's making a teriyake beef salad with some greens she found out back and dry noodles. It's a sort of passive-aggressive thing we have between us: if one of us is pissed off with the other we cook them a nice meal, thinking, that'll learn 'em. I don't take the bait, but plant a cheerful kiss on her cheek and go kick back in front of the laptop with an old western movie. When Anna comes in with the plates I change to a noir channel, which we both like. We polish off dinner, delicious by the way - not a trace of bitterness, then settle down while watching “The Big Sleep”, sort of spooning.

We doze fitfully on the couch. I notice there's increased traffic to and from Pete's place through the night. Some raised voices. It dies down for a while so I sleep, to be woken at about 2am by a vehicle roaring back and forth on the road, with a whole bunch of whooping and hollering.Then there's the uncomfortably close sound of breaking glass, and the beast rolling away.

I walk out gingerly on bare feet to find what I sort of expected – our car with a smashed rear window. Nothing taken, nothing there to take. I go back to the couch.

Next morning, we both survey by light of day, Anna turns and spits, in the manner of her people maybe, I'm really not sure. She looks determined, and not a little cross. She announces she's going to the shop, and suggests we (meaning I) should clear up the glass from the back seat and thereabouts.So of course I do.

After a bit, Pete drops by the fence, noting the damage done.

“Only gonna see more of that, sad to say. It's spreading.”

“Yeah” I shrug. “What can you do.”

“Well...”Pete says slowly. “Wait a minute.” He says and disappears.

I stand in the morning sun until he reappears, carrying a long thing wrapped in sacking. He comes to the fence, unwraps it to reveal a .303 rifle and a box of bullets.

I'm a bit taken aback. Never having handled a gun before, I take it and hold it awkwardly.

“Gotta be able to defend yourself and your family, specially now. You might end up being targets otherwise. Never handled a gun before?”

I shake my head, and he says,

“No worries. I got a job of work today, but we can maybe do some target practice tomorrow.”

“Don't I need a license?”

“Round here?” Pete laughs.Then seriously. “two fifty, bloody cheap.” He says. “Best insurance policy you can get.”

I nod, and fetch up the money. He lopes off and I stash the rifle in a bottom drawer and the bullets in the wardrobe just before Anna comes back.

She's procured a family size pie so we heat and eat that with mashed potato and gravy, while watching “Blazing Saddles”, the only western Anna professes to like. We sleep like dolls.

Next day Anna, on the basis of the information she got from the shop or pub (she was gone a while), takes the car the forty five k's to the nearest place that might be able to replace the rear window. So I sit on the stoop in the sun, beer at my side, playing with a chord progression I'm liking. Then of course there's Pete at the fence.

“Wanna take a shot? Get your hand in?”

I figure that's probably for the best. I make to go in and get my rifle but Pete waves. “Nah, we'll just use mine, same model.”

So I jump over the fence, where he has a bunch of cans set up on a plank atop some drums. He shows me how to cock, lock and load, then aim. I have a go, my aim's a bit off but I get three out of six in a couple minutes.

Pete laughs. “Don't worry, a body's a bit bigger than a can. Warning shot's probably all you need anyway.”

Right then, two cars pull up and Pete gets a call. His face turns serious. He waves at me and makes it clear I should make myself scarce. I hand him back the rifle and vault over the fence.

To come face to face with Anna. It's clear she's been standing there for a while, so when she asks what I've been doing, it's also pretty clear I've been engaging in a little target practice.

“Are you going to get a gun?” She asks.

Now I can't lie to Anna. She can see through me like I'm gauze. So I confess to having already made the purchase, and from the look in her eyes, the gauze should be aflame.

“Show me.”

So I dig up the ordnance and she handles it carefully before turning to me.

“You've had some practice? With cans?” I nod.

“Set a few up for me.”

We go to the back yard, I show her how to lock and load, set up half a dozen cans and stand well back. And blow me if she doesn't prove to be a crack shot. All six cans in about a minute. I stand, suitably awestruck. I'm asking how when she strides past me, planting the gun on its butt by my feet.

“I do needlepoint.” She says,.“I have an eye for accuracy.”

“Okay,” I call after her. “You're in charge of defence from now on.”

“Damn straight.” She says before slamming the door.

We eat fried chicken and hash browns while watching “D.O.A.”, an old fave of ours.

We cozily snooze together until about eleven, when all hell breaks loose next door. Voices are raised, shots are fired, sirens wail. We scramble to the window to see a multitude of cops, an ambulance, and Pete being led out cuffed as best they could do him. Looks like the house is on fire but there's no fire brigade handy. It burns through the night.

By morning next door is a pile of rubble and soot. It also happens to be the day our lease runs out, so we pack and head back into town.

We return to a very different landscape. The streets are cleaned up. The fence has been replaced with a new, almost painful shade of yellow. Our psycho neighbour is gone, replaced with a seemingly very nice gay couple, with a seemingly very annoying French bulldog who yaps a lot. It's all a bit weird: we half expect kids in bowties and shorts running around on scooters, faces freshly scrubbed by their over protective mothers.

We brood around the flat for a couple days, feeling like we miss the open space, the bush, the beach, the bach. We eventually come to the same thought, pretty much simultaneously.

“Lets go back.” We say. Almost in unison.