‘I can’t believe the police said there was insufficient evidence to charge the Hills.’ Frankie reaches for the dried apricots. She’s developed a thing for dried apricots this last month. ‘I mean,’ she says, through a mouthful – passing one to Bijoux who is clenching her hands squealing, ‘want, want, want,’ – ‘they can’t seriously believe us to expect that some random person was walking along a quiet suburban street and went, “I know, I’ll throw my perfectly good knife over this perfectly random fence.” I mean, c’mon.’
Brandon doesn’t answer. He’s like this a lot lately. The birth of the baby is drawing near and, Frankie is pretty sure she’s not imagining this, Brandon seems to be withdrawing into himself. Oh he still goes through the motions with the kids and all. There’s been no more incidences at school, thank God, and Marigold loves the promotion to the big kids’ room at kindy. Bijoux, well Bijoux is Bijoux. Although she’s developed a bit of a cough, Frankie observes, reaching for another handful of apricots. She really shouldn’t eat this many, her mother told her she is getting fat.
‘You’re not a small girl to start with, Francesca,’ Noelle had said when she’d come into town for lunch the other day. Frankie didn’t have the time to spend an hour having lunch but whenever she declined, her mother’s coldness went straight to the bone. It was easier to capitulate but at the moment it was particularly problematic as work was in a bit of a crisis. Firstly, the new Hush Hush Eco range hadn’t met the forecasted sales figures she’d signed off on. There were complaints from customers that the new patented super absorbent liners in the nappies were giving off a strange odour whenever they became wet. It should have come out in the testing. Everything they did was market-tested, they didn’t breathe unless the market told them it approved. So it was beyond Frankie’s reasoning that the nappies were giving off an odour akin to rotten prawns. No one wanted to walk around with an infant who smelt like a garbage bin full of Christmas day leftovers.
‘Pass me a wipe will you, Brandon,’ Frankie says, holding Bijoux still as she wipes her nose. ‘I think she’s getting a cold.’ Frankie lays her hand on Bijoux’s forehead. ‘She has a fever. Maybe we should give her some paracetamol.’
Brandon passes her the bottle. ‘I think she might be teething.’
Frankie throws the wipe in the bin, then reseals the packet of apricots and puts them back in the pantry out of temptation’s reach.
‘At your age, darling, you can’t afford to let the weight creep on. No more babies,’ Noelle had said.
Frankie, who was about to order the fettuccine boscaiola, had instead chosen a quinoa and roast vegetable salad. As she picked at it, she wondered why she persisted in trying to have a normal relationship with her mother. Incompatible couples divorced all the time. Her sister Georgette divorced David simply because he bored her. It was true, too, that of all her children, her mother clung to her. Was it the paradox of parenthood that Noelle needed her but then forgot to treat Frankie as the adult she now was? Her mother gushed about how Martin had arranged for Bernard and Noelle to fly to London to see the premier of Tim Minchin’s new musical, Demon Dentist. After a tinkling laugh, Noelle had leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Not that I personally like Tim Minchin. He’s a bit crass but all those awards he’s won. Matilda was just divine.’ She’d even clasped her hand to her breast before sipping her soup du jour.
Frankie worries about the rumour going around the office that Kimberly-Clark are taking them over. Key staff are to be offered sign-on deals but everyone else’s jobs are up for grabs. Frankie isn’t concerned about her job per se. She is, after all, an integral member of the senior management team and account director for Hush Hush, but she is going on maternity leave at Easter and everyone knows how vulnerable that makes you in the corporate world. Without her physical presence to remind the new management of her past and future value to the company, her prospects are not assured. She needs one of those retention bonuses, financially yes, but also to ensure she has a job to come back to.
Brandon is making a pile of Vegemite and cheese sandwiches. She hasn’t told him about the goings-on at work. He already faces a future where he will have to get a full-time job, find his own place to live and stand on his own two feet instead of relying on her. She plans to sell the house after the baby is born. The idea of continuing to live here is unbearable, and although she is the majority shareholder in this house, Brandon will expect a sum to kickstart his new life. It irks her having to pay him anything but her solicitor said he’s entitled to a share of the matrimonial wealth even though he’s barely worked a day during their years together and has contributed little. Her solicitor is drawing up the paperwork so that when Frankie gives the word, there will be no delay in proceedings.
*
Frankie’s month goes from bad to worse. Over dinner, she decides not to tell Brandon about this morning’s meeting with the human resources manager.
‘Officially I can’t say anything, Frankie, but unofficially, it’s not looking good for most of us,’ Carol said, offering Frankie a chocolate from the tin of Quality Street she kept in her bottom drawer.
Frankie said no, still smarting from her mother’s comments about her weight. It didn’t help that she was now on fortnightly weigh-ins with the obstetrician.
Carol pointed at Frankie’s stomach. ‘You picked a bad time to be going on maternity leave. You sure you’re not taking the full twelve months off?’
‘God no,’ said Frankie. ‘I can’t afford to do that. I was going to take three months off but with this takeover business, I’m thinking I should cut it short.’ She wasn’t really thinking that. She was wishing she had an escape hatch so she could tell the whole lot of them to get nicked. If only I had a husband like Carol’s who was headmaster at a private boys school, she thought. If only I was like Carol who only worked to keep her brain exercised, for whom losing her job would be inconvenient but financially beneficial.
‘That’s crazy, Frankie,’ Carol said, eyeing her email and opening a file. ‘Nothing is more important than your health and the health of your newborn baby. If you lose your job, there’ll be a lump sum. You’ll get a job at a competitor in no time. I’m sure the only reason the headhunters aren’t circling is because they know you’ll be out of action for a few months. You’re not a man, it’s not like they’re stripping you of your identity.’
Carol laughed at this but Frankie didn’t. She’d wanted to shout, ‘You’re wrong! This job means everything to me,’ but she couldn’t say that. People assumed that Frankie was sacrificing being at home to support her family. That Brandon being the primary caregiver was a decision born from economic necessity. And Frankie let them believe that because it was more palatable than the truth. Children were needy, repetitive and physically exhausting. No one thanked you for raising good children. There were no annual bonuses, pay rises or performance appraisals to recognise your contribution to the bottom line. Without measurement, what was motherhood worth?
‘Between you and me, Frankie, stay on board as long as you can but once you’re gone, you’re gone. It’s out of our hands. You know what takeovers are like. They woo you until the paperwork is dry and then three-quarters of the staff are out of a job. It makes me wonder what they think the assets are. The intellectual property they fire en masse or the widgets? It’s all a game, Frankie, don’t take it seriously.’
‘It’s garbage night,’ Brandon says, checking the council calendar. ‘Bottles,’ he says and begins collecting the recycling.
The children are watching ABC3. It is late. The television is usually off by 6 pm, no arguments, but tonight it is drifting towards eight.
‘I’ll check the bins,’ she says but Brandon doesn’t acknowledge her.
Frankie ties the top of the plastic bag in the bathroom and grabs the one from the kitchen. Outside, Brandon wheels the bins through the front gates. She follows him down and jams the garbage in the red bin, which is already full to overflowing. Brandon passes by her to fetch another load of plastics, tins and bottles. Frankie decides to check in the garage in case there is more and as she turns, her mobile phone rings. The screen tells her it is her boss.
‘Hello, Francesca speaking.’ She hopes all he wants is an update on the latest sales figures for the Hush Hush Eco range but in her heart she knows there is no need for such a call.
‘Francesca, it’s Tony. Sorry to call you so late,’ he says.
‘No that’s fine, Tony, you’ve caught me at a good time,’ she lies.
‘Ah, great. Look it’s not a good news call I’m afraid. KC have made it official. They’ve asked us to cut staff numbers by twenty percent. We’ve decided that the fairest way of tackling this is to downsize numbers across all divisions except finance, they’re to remain intact for now.’
‘Right.’ Frankie wonders which of her fifteen staff she can afford to let go first. They already run a lean operation in Product and Marketing, three heads will hurt.
‘I know it’s hard, Francesca,’ Tony continues, ‘you’ve had a great run with the Hush Hush brand despite the disappointing figures with the new range.’
Frankie grimaces. It’s not good he’s mentioning the Eco range flop. For the life of her she can’t figure out why the results are so bad.
‘Have a think about it over the weekend but first thing Monday morning, I’m calling all the heads together to put names on the table. People will be given their marching orders the same day. There’s no use stringing these things out. It only adds to the pain and anxiety for those that stay and no one gets any work done.’
Frankie only half listens. She is listing each staff member and working out who she can do without the most. Brandon walks past with another load. She hopes he hasn’t overheard.
‘I’m also going to have to find twenty percent from my reports, Francesca,’ Tony says gently. ‘I don’t want to be alarmist but I need to find one or two people willing to take the fall. I’m going to argue long and hard for decent payouts to recompense those who go but . . .’ he trails off.
But she’s pregnant. Tony doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t have to. She’d been on maternity leave with Bijoux when the preliminary planning was underway for the new Eco range. She had only come back in time for the final stages pre-launch. Whilst the poor sales figures might not be directly laid at her feet, as the department head, they were ultimately laid there anyway. And she is about to go on maternity leave, again. She could fight it, argue discrimination, but she knows the heavy emotional price women pay if they dare take on an organisation for discrimination. Whatever she says next might mean she will have a job to come back to but with the smear of a troublemaker. Or, she can accept redundancy and hope Carol from HR is right when she said Frankie would be snapped up by the opposition within months.
‘Tony, I –’
Frankie doesn’t get to finish what she is about to say because there is a screech and smash as the bins go flying. Turning towards the noise, she sees headlights bearing down on her. She steps back, but the cold metal of the multivan prevents her moving further.
Time slows and events seem to happen frame by frame. Frankie goes from assuming the car will brake to realising that it has in fact accelerated. If she doesn’t move, she will be trapped between the two vehicles. Run, she orders herself but, paralysed by fear, remains glued to the spot. She hears Tony calling her name. She should answer him. Blinded by the headlights, Frankie’s instincts finally kick in and she dives to one side. As she falls, she hears an almighty crash and feels an immense pain searing up her side. Breathing is like breathing razor blades. She lays on the cool dirt, her head pounding. People are shouting, someone touches her face. Frankie blinks and tries to focus. Such a gentle hand, she thinks, as a soft voice speaks to her. She has no idea what they’re saying but she likes the sound of their voice. Brandon is shouting at whoever is driving the car but they do not shout back. Frankie is tired. She closes her eyes and listens to the soothing voice, enjoys their hand smoothing her hair. Is it Amber, she thinks; of course it’s Amber, my eldest, before slipping into unconsciousness.
*
For days afterwards, Frankie has a cracker of a headache. Because she is pregnant, there is only so much pain relief they are prepared to give her. Her list of injuries is not extensive. Three cracked ribs, concussion and a monster bruise running the length of her side where she took the brunt of the fall. And a black eye that no one can account for.
But all that is secondary to the welfare of the baby.
‘Babies are tougher than we give them credit for,’ her obstetrician says after examining her. The ultrasound results are a comfort but Frankie doesn’t want to alarm anyone by telling them that, actually, the baby doesn’t feel right at all. Not because it is still in the breech position, something else. With all the fuss about her physical wellbeing, her feelings don’t come into it.
Brandon sits beside her, Bijoux too, eating a rice cracker. The twins and Marigold are playing snap on the floor. Once again Brandon is banging on about the accident. Frankie is tired of listening to him.
‘That stupid old fuck. What was he doing in our driveway in the first place? The police said he shouldn’t have been driving at all. He’d had his licence revoked the week before.’ Frankie’s accident has scared the life out of him. The night of the accident, Amber, Silver and Marigold wailing, ‘Is Mummy going to die?’, and him thinking, God I hope not. It’s one thing to imagine a future without Frankie because they’re divorced but that’s not the same as imagining a future with no Frankie in it at all. He wants to lash out at someone, protect her, though too late. But every time he sits by her bedside, sees her so pale and fragile, this violent ball of emotion erupts inside him that he cannot contain. She is his Frankie, no one has the right to harm her.
The police have already been to see Frankie. They said Eric Hill had been confused. He’d been looking for the row of crab apples and driven into the wrong driveway. In his panic, he had pressed the accelerator instead of the brake. Frankie had been very lucky, they’d said. Another second and she would have been crushed between the two vehicles.
No more Frankie, she thinks. It doesn’t sound so bad. No more bad husband, no more stressful job, no more guilt about being a terrible mother. Just peace and quiet. She sighs.
‘I can’t believe you told the police you didn’t want to press charges. It’s a criminal offence.’ Brandon helps himself to one of Frankie’s chocolates. He knows salted caramels are her favourites but it’s hardly worth arguing over.
‘The police have the footage from the security cameras, Brandon. They’ve charged him with negligent driving occasioning bodily harm and driving without a licence. What else can we do?’
Brandon huffs. ‘Loss of income,’ he flounders. He seems shocked Frankie is taking this so calmly.
Brandon doesn’t know she’s already lost her income, thanks to Tony. There is nothing else with which to charge Eric Hill. If she’s being honest with herself, she feels a bit sorry for the old man. He has dementia, he hadn’t meant to harm anyone. She feels a bit crazy herself.
Tired, she sends Brandon off to make her a cup of tea. He takes Bijoux and Marigold with him, leaving her alone with the twins.
‘Come here, you two, I can’t give you a cuddle but we can hold hands,’ she says.
The twins stand side by side, staring at her with round, serious eyes. Apparently, after the ambulance drove her away, they’d become hysterical. Frankie remembers Amber talking to her the whole time they waited for the ambulance. Some of the words waft around her head.
She says, ‘Do you remember holding Mummy’s hand whilst we waited for the paramedics, Amber?’
Amber frowns. It wasn’t her holding Mummy’s hand, it was Mrs Hill.
‘We were talking about something. Can you remember what it was?’
Amber nods though much more slowly. Mrs Hill hadn’t said very much but Mummy kept talking and talking.
‘What did we talk about?’
Amber looks at her brother. Silver stares at his shoes. She doesn’t want to say.
Frankie senses they are sharing a secret.
‘Amber?’
Amber’s eyes fill with tears. ‘You were talking about the knife, Mummy,’ she says.
Oh yes, Frankie remembers that. They found a knife in their front yard. The police had questioned the Hills but refused to lay charges. ‘But why were we talking about the knife?’
Amber presses her lips to Frankie’s ear, the relief of truth tumbling out of her. ‘I didn’t find the knife in the front yard, Mummy.’
Frankie remembers sitting in a teensy weeny chair. She says, ‘You took it to school for show and tell.’
Amber shakes her head. ‘I just said that.’
Frankie tries to sit up on her pillows but gasps in pain. ‘I don’t understand, sweetheart. You told Daddy and me that you took it in for news day, that you found it in the garden.’
Amber glares at Silver. ‘Tell Mummy.’
Silver squirms, glancing at the door, as if hoping his father’s return might earn him a reprieve.
Amber pokes him. ‘Tell her, Silver. Mummy almost died.’ The last said with wide eyes.
Silver clutches at his crotch, refusing to meet his mother’s curious stare.
Frankie frowns. Why is Amber being mean to Silver? Why is he so upset? She squeezes his hand. ‘Silver, darling, you can tell me anything. I promise you won’t get in trouble.’
Silver wrenches his hand free. ‘I just wanted it for a little while. It has a shark on it. Mr Hill lented it to me.’
‘What are you talking about, sweetheart?’
‘The knife, Mummy,’ Amber explains. ‘Silver stole the knife from Mr Hill.’
Frankie flinches at the word ‘stole’. Her children do not steal. That’s not how they were raised. But then again, Brandon’s infidelity is a form of lying. Her pretending they have a happy marriage in front of the children is lying. Children are not stupid. They see through the cracks. So why should she be surprised that Silver might lie too. Still, there are missing elements to the twins’ story. She says, ‘But it was in the front yard.’
Amber shakes her head. ‘Silver goes next door all the time, Mummy, to play with the dollhouses. You hid our dollhouse so he plays with Eric’s.’
Frankie winces at this indirect accusation. She had hidden the dollhouse. The same as she had put up the fence to keep their children from harm but they in turn had seen it merely as an obstacle to be circumvented. Telling them they are not allowed next door, locking the gates, has not prevented them from escaping and seeking refuge next door. Any control is illusory. Was it really any wonder that the children had sought escape, refuge even, at the Hills’? It would be easy to blame Brandon for inadequate supervision but now they have the fence, they can’t see into next door unless they stand at the lounge room window. Even from there, there is no way they could tell if Silver was sitting in Mr Hill’s workshop.
‘You stole the knife, Silver?’
‘No! I lended it,’ Silver shouts.
‘Shh, sweetheart. There’s no need to yell. You shouldn’t borrow things and not return them.’ Frankie looks at Amber. ‘But why did you say you found it in the yard?’
Amber’s bottom lip trembles. ‘Silver hid it in my schoolbag and I went to get my Beanie Baby for news and Mrs Rayner saw me holding the knife. I knew Silver would be in big trouble.’
Frankie’s confused. She knows she’s concussed but the twins are making little sense. ‘But what’s that got to do with the accident?’
Amber begins crying, ‘Because I saw them in the workshop. Eric was mad because he couldn’t find the knife. That’s why he drove up our driveway, Mummy. He was going to tell you the truth.’
Frankie doubts that’s true. Eric Hill is a sad and confused old man. The police have the knife, not the twins. ‘Amber, you can’t tell lies for Silver. And, Silver, I can’t believe you’d steal something that’s not yours and then let your poor sister take the blame.’
But what she really wonders is how she and Brandon have always assumed that Amber is the ringleader. Amber’s sassy ways might be more about covering for her twin brother than confidence. Maybe Frankie doesn’t know her children at all.
Brandon returns with a cup of tea and a latte for himself. Frankie puts her finger to her lips, indicating that they will say nothing more about the knife. What is there to say? They are her flesh and blood. It is her responsibility to unravel this complex relationship between the pair. And maybe it needs to start with her and Brandon being a little more honest with each other.
After they leave, she dozes for a while, her mind swirling with these fragments of her life that have been flung in the air and now fall into new configurations.
She is woken by the arrival of Carol with a massive bunch of flowers on behalf of the Hush Hush team. Tony had rung her to tell her she had almost given him a heart attack but he was glad she was all right. He mentioned nothing more about her losing her job but that’s all right, Carol has come personally to give her the heads up.
She rests her cool hand over Frankie’s as she breaks the news. ‘Hun, what can I say? I tried to warn you and I know Tony feels dreadful after the accident and all, but the decision had already been made. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.’
‘When’s it effective?’ Frankie asks, wondering why she doesn’t care more. Her ego, like her body, is bruised but the panic she expected to feel at the prospect of unemployment is absent.
‘This coming Friday. I’ve brought the paperwork if you feel up to signing it?’ Carol produces a wad of papers from her briefcase.
Frankie signs them. Carol’s right, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Nine years she’s been at Klaussman’s. Working her way up, sacrificing her personal life to serve the company. She loved being a somebody with a big office, a team of people working under her. She remembers the first time she held her newly minted business card, the words ‘Account Director’ embossed in bold capitals. The rungs of the corporate ladder rose above her and each time she was promoted she felt just that little bit more validated. When she reached the management team, she had bought a new suit. Sat there in the boardroom with the men in the inner sanctum and knew she’d made it. She remembers thinking how they all looked at the executive chair at the head of the boardroom table and had the same thought – one day that will be mine.
She watches Carol stuff the papers in her briefcase, glance at her watch. She stays a few minutes longer but it is clear to Frankie that, her job done, Carol has no desire to stay. After Carol leaves, she reflects on what her life now amounts to. Here she is, in a hospital gown, eight months pregnant, four children and a soon to be ex-husband and a large mortgage. Somehow, she has slipped a few rungs. Corporate life is an all or nothing game. There’s little wriggle room to balance family life and a career. She threw her lot in with Klaussman’s, let Brandon be mum, and now it’s amounted to nothing. No job, no marriage. All for what?
The following day, as Frankie picks at her lunch tray, deciding between the jelly or custard or both, Gwen Hill sticks her head around the corner. She is shielded by a stiff bunch of pink peonies. For a moment, neither woman speaks. Being in the same room as each other has never been a comfortable experience for either and Frankie feels vulnerable lying here naked beneath a flimsy hospital gown.
Mrs Hill steps forward and lays the flowers at Frankie’s feet. ‘These are for you,’ she says.
Frankie thanks her, wishing she could reach her dressing-gown. Instead she fusses with her lunch tray, scrunching the napkin to hide the gravy-smeared plate.
Mrs Hill twists a cotton hanky through her fingers. ‘I came to say sorry. I’m glad to hear you aren’t too badly hurt.’
‘I’ll survive.’ Frankie waits for her to mention her husband. She knows Mr Hill was injured, not seriously, but still.
‘I bought those, you know,’ Mrs Hill says, pointing at the peonies. ‘They’re not from my garden.’ For some reason when she stood in the florist, the peonies had shouted out to be bought for Francesca. They were the perfect flower. And though they were quite expensive, Gwen wanted that poor young woman to have something perfect to enjoy.
‘They’re lovely. They’re my mother’s favourite.’ Noelle’s flowers, a single white orchid in a pot, is on the shelf in the corner. It’s a statement rather than a gift.
‘Oh that’s a coincidence, they’re mine too but I’ve never been able to produce such lovely blooms,’ Gwen exclaims, shuffling towards the door. She’s never liked hospitals, sick people remind her of her own mortality. She hasn’t been inside one since visiting Babs in her last days. Plus, she doesn’t want to outstay her welcome. A quick in and out, that’s what she’d planned. She is sure Francesca doesn’t even remember her holding her hand as she lay in the driveway. It was only a moment, Eric was badly shaken. The knock to his head had bled profusely but had proved minor. Bandaged up, he sat on the front steps and drank a cup of sweet tea whilst Gwen soothed Francesca as she rambled on about the knife, Peanut, and the dollhouse.
The truth is, this fence had claimed more victims than either of them had intended. It is a sorry business. Flowers won’t change that but she wants the Desmarchelliers to know she is sincere in her sorrow, for all of them. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not too sore and sorry. I just wanted to let you know we’re thinking of you.’
Frankie remembers Amber and Silver’s confession, how easy it has been to assume the worst of their elderly neighbours. She doesn’t forgive them. Their behaviour, well Mrs Hill’s really, has been despicable, but a small voice whispers in her ear, ‘Maybe yours has been sometimes too.’
An awkward silence grows between them. There is so much they could both say but what good would it do now? The time for reconciliation has long passed.
‘Well, I should let you rest,’ Mrs Hill says.
Frankie goes to sit up, to say farewell, when a wrenching pain sears down her side. She wails and Mrs Hill steps forward and presses the nurse’s buzzer.
‘My waters have broken. My waters have broken,’ Frankie screams.
Gwen shouts for a nurse. Not wanting to abandon the poor girl, she stays until two nurses run to Francesca’s bedside. It’s best if she goes, she’ll only be in the way but as she turns, Francesca calls, ‘Please, please don’t leave me.’ Her pale face, stretched with fear and pain, reminds Gwen of when she lost first one baby then another. She knows the terror when your body betrays you and terror should never be endured alone. She picks her way over to Francesca’s bedside and slips her hand into hers. Frankie squeezes it tight, doesn’t let go, not until they wheel her into theatre.