The Victory Garden

companion.

PART ONE

1. The Great Wall

‘Weeeeeee ooooooooooo Weeeeeeeeeee ooooooooooooooooo Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee oooooooooooo.’

‘The ambulance is coming.’

A small group of children gazed at me with wide eyed concentration. Our recent calamity made a great story.

‘Two big men carrying large bags come to our door.’

‘Where is the patient?’ they ask.

‘At the top of the stairs,’ I tell them. ‘They wear bright yellow jackets and climb the stairs three steps at a time.’

‘My daddy wears an orange jacket,’ Daniel said.

‘Thank you Daniel, perhaps I had that bit wrong. They wear bright orange jackets,’ I continue.

‘The ambulance men put a stethoscope on Peter’s chest and a needle in his arm. They take him down the stairs in a funny chair and put him in the back of the ambulance. Yes Daniel?’

‘My daddy is very strong.’

‘Yes it would be good to be very strong if you were an ambulance person wouldn’t it? Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee oooooooooooooooooooooo Weeeeeeeeeeeeee oooooooooooooooo Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee oooooooooooooooooo … Peter goes off to the hospital.’

We had moved into our dream house nine months previously. Our two-storey abode had large, double-glazed windows and thick concrete floors to attract and store the sun. Downstairs, two bedrooms, a bathroom and lounge area were prepared for the transitory needs of adult daughters. Upstairs, Peter and I each had a small study at opposite ends of the house. I had chosen soothing colours inspired by sand and pebbles for the inside décor. The external colours of blue, gold and cream reflected our waterside view.

…

We had chosen our designer and builder carefully and continued our research and involvement during the building process. The result was a warm and bright home, both cheerful and soothing. We had however, given insufficient thought to our social environment. The clues had been there if we had paid attention.

‘Look at all that water.’ Peter pointed to muddy footprints and large puddles at our building site.

‘We’ve got our own moat,’ I concluded.

‘It hasn’t been raining. Where on earth is it coming from?’

On another occasion, when clearing the block, ‘What’s that awful racket?’ I held my hands over my ears.

‘It’s the young bloke next door. I’m sure it’s only occasional. It won’t bother us when we’re in,’ Peter replied optimistically.

I wasn’t so sure. We constructed temporary fencing after discovering our land had been used as a turning circle for local vehicles and a dumping ground for broken beer bottles and cigarettes.

…

‘Pete, the earth is moving,’ I exclaimed to Peter, shortly after moving in.

Peter gave me a bleary-eyed, have-I-been-dreaming look.

‘What moving?’ he sat up from his pillow.

‘Can’t you feel it?’ I persisted.

‘No.’

‘Can’t you hear that whirring sound?’

‘I can hear something but I just tune it out,’ Peter replied in his that’s-the-obvious-solution tone.’

‘I don’t come with a tune-out button,’ I sulked.

Similar conversations continued for months before we discovered the source of the noise.

‘They’ve both got air-conditioners and the external units face our house,’ Peter pronounced.

‘The one on the right has theirs on 24/7,’ I said indignantly as I adjusted the red industrial earmuffs now needed for gardening.

After some joint research we found that the air-conditioner unit on the left was too close to our bedroom and breached council noise guidelines. Solutions were available which ranged from night mode function and free heat pump checks to specialist sound barriers. We decided that if necessary we would pay for a sound barrier. With this can-do, solution-focused optimism, I broached the subject with our neighbour. Mrs Neighbour, grey/blonde bob severely pruned around utilitarian glasses, strode up the path with the mail. Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth set in linear order as I forced a cheerful greeting.

‘I was wondering about the air-conditioner. It’s rather noisy in our house … ’

Using the strategy of the best defence being a good offence, our neighbour fired a volley of vociferous verbiage.

‘You yuppies … the place is full of you now … you complain about everything … you just make trouble … you people with nothing to do … I’m a hard-working nurse …’ She frowned and clutched the circulars for emphasis.

‘I don’t complain!’ she shouted as she continued her account of my deficiencies.

‘We don’t care. We’re not doing anything,’ she concluded.

The gate shuddered. The wire door banged and quivered. The inner door slammed. A stray autumn leaf shivered its way to earth.

I had kept my temper. I had tried reasoning in the odd moments she had drawn breath.

I walked, shaking into the house. Sara had heard every word.

‘That awful woman! I would’ve come out and given her a piece of my mind if I’d been well enough. You did so well mum, keeping your temper.’

‘I think I need a cup of tea,’ I said.

My survival instinct sought solutions. I valued both peace and justice. I responded to the war with migraines, and aches setting up camp all over my body. I would often find my jaw and right hand clenched and would dream of aiming a satisfying punch into the middle of a pair of ugly glasses.

Sara continued attempts at comfort.

‘Some people just don’t think. They open their mouths and out comes effluent.’ Or, ‘Just remember, mum, an empty vessel makes the most noise,’ she said as she patted my arm soothingly.

A council representative visited. On her initial visit, after reading our well-researched facts on decibels, measurements and regulations, she agreed that action must be taken. On her second visit she had changed her mind.

‘This is turning into a neighbour dispute,’ she sniffed.

‘They probably find yours annoying.’ She looked at her watch pointedly, pinned her clipboard under her arm and clicked her high heels to the front door.

I visited the mayor armed with a concisely written paper of the problem and solutions. ‘Noise from air-conditioners is the most commonly reported nuisance in every council in Australia,’ he stated.

I waited in vain to hear if my solutions would be adopted.

Carolyn, Peter’s cousin had her own answers to the problems of suburbia,

‘Frogs encourage frogs. They short-circuit the boards,’ she stated in a phone call from her property in outback New South Wales. I had only seen one frog in the garden so filed this away for a possible 10-year plan.

‘A wall. What about a large wall?’ I pleaded to Peter. ‘We could paint it. It would look really good and give us more privacy too.’

‘It’s going to be expensive. How about checking out some prices?’ he relented.

It was August, 8 degrees Centigrade and snowing when Peter began removing lattice ready for the wall installation.

‘What are you doing?’ our neighbour hissed. ‘I’m going to get my solicitor on to you.’

Peter uncharacteristically suggested she help the environment by keeping her mouth shut.

Mr Neighbour came over in an attempt to heal the breach.

‘She doesn’t mean it you know,’ he pleaded. He reminded me of a dumpling, round, bald and squidgy.

Peter doggedly removed 15 metres of lattice.

Mr neighbour plodded over again.

‘She wants it back up again. Decided it looks better,’ said the malleable orb.

Peter groaned, shivered and began to reconstruct the lattice. Snowflakes glistened in his hair.

‘She’s a nasty little snitch and he’s a pudding of a man … a spodge,’ I declared.

The next day, Pete assisted the building contractor to position slabs of aerated concrete, chosen for its ‘superior acoustic abilities’. Cold weather, icy winds and hail continued.

‘Thump!’ I raced to the first-floor window. Peter lay crumpled under a 40kg slab of concrete.

I raced down the stairs rehearsing first aid and emergency nursing procedures. Peter gazed at me with a shocked expression, skin glistening with sweat. Shallow and irregular breaths came at great effort. I phoned the ambulance. I waited an eternity. I phoned again.

‘Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Oooooooooooooooooo Weeeeeeeeeeeee Oooooooooooooooooo, Weeeeeeeeeeeeee Oooooooooooooooooooo …’

Four hours later, in the casualty ward, ‘You’re a very lucky man.’ The young doctor studied the computer X-ray reader. ‘There is obvious bruising and perhaps a cracked rib.’ His eyes were compassionate as he considered the injury. ‘Forty kilograms of concrete on your chest. Phew.’ He shook his head. ‘No lifting for 12 weeks.’ He peered over his glasses and frowned.

‘I want you to see your GP next week. We will send a referral letter. Now, I want to see you walking. Could you hold your husband’s arm?’ he looked at me.

Peter and I walked up the shiny linoleum, past curtained cubicles and shiny, swab-filled trolleys.

‘Let’s go for a walk in the garden, Peter. Can you smell the roses, hear the birds, feel the breeze on your skin?’ I pretended.

The doctor smiled and committed the care of Mr Foster into the hopefully capable hands of Mrs Foster.

The Great Wall.

2. The Victory Garden

‘That looks great Pete, our own river bed.’ I looked at the meandering border of round white pebbles in our front garden.

‘We don’t have much choice do we?’ Pete responded as he listened for water sounds in the drain pipe. Pebbles reflected the summer sun. Patches of concrete driveway surfaced from the deluge.

‘There it goes. Can you hear it?’ he asked.

‘Water sounds,’ I exclaimed. Water tumbled and gurgled.

The moat mystery had been solved. Mr right-side next door had given the phrase just add water new meaning. His aquarian approach – ‘More like water torture,’ I had observed more than once – could be summarised in three points:

1. Water for long periods with sprinkler. Apply in equal measure to lawn and driveway.

2. Do not concern oneself with the weather. Persist in periods of sun, drought and rain.

3. Relax. Chill out. Sit outside. Utilise the external sound system so that the neighbourhood may benefit from an exclusive range of musical choices. ‘Don’t break my heart, my achy breaky heart …’ Light a cheap cigarette. Inhale deeply. Exhale long and lazily over next door’s washing. Put elbow to good use. Burp.

‘What breaks my heart is all that water running down the hill,’ I responded.

‘They never go away, not even for a day. They’re always working. It says here in the paper it’s a sign of a fraudster,’ Sara looked up knowingly.

‘He’s definitely dodgy,’ I decided.

The days of breaking hearts were clearly over for Mrs Dodgy. Her age was indeterminate though she persisted in adolescent behaviour and dress. Youth had been replaced by neither style nor grace.

‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’ Pete observed.

‘Here she comes. I can hear her way off.’ A shiny, white, late-model Toyota sedan, emblazoned with Mrs Dodgy’s new retail enterprise, tore up the driveway, loud doof sounds booming from the car stereo.

‘It’s a wonder she’s not deaf,’ Sara held her ears.

Mrs Dodgy walked quickly, with I-am-so-busy steps, to the mailbox, leaving the car reverberating with noise for our enjoyment. Her mouth was set in a thin, grim line. Her face suggested vinegar or very sour lemons.

She walked past the temporary stick and string fence erected by Dodgy to enclose his newly shaved lawn. ‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I saw him trimming that lawn with scissors,’ I said.

‘Mmmmmmmmmmmm,’ Pete agreed, shaking his head.

‘CUBs,’ Sara remarked. ‘Cashed up bogans,’ she explained to my mystified expression.

‘You mean enough money to try being middle class?’ I checked.

‘That’s it.’

‘Maybe we should call them TTHBSMTPBs … trying too hard but still missing the point bogans?’

‘I have other names for them,’ said Peter.

The Dodgy week was predictable. From Monday to Saturday Mr and Mrs Dodgy whizzed in and out of their driveway on their way to and from work. Mrs Dodgy left a little later in the morning in order to launder and display a full line of white business shirts. Both started the day early with a fag and a cough. On Friday night they went to the pub.