Here at Lush Places we are grappling with a perplexing riddle: who is the mysterious Midnight Rider?
Only two of the characters involved in this true crime story know. The Midnight Rider is unlikely ever to admit to being the Midnight Rider. Mavis knows. But she’s not talking, and is unlikely ever to talk on account of being a sheep.
Mavis, to put it kindly, is not a looker. She has a ripped ear, and spots. Our sheep, who are really Miles the sheep farmer’s sheep, are East Friesians, who we believe to be the supermodels of the sheep world. We are snooty about the common or garden ones, like Romneys. They are dumpy things, we sneer. Our sheep have long eyelashes and elegantly narrow faces and tails like tassels.
The NZ Sheepbreeders Association adds that they are “very clean around the back end”. The best you can say about Mavis is that she is very clean about the back end.
We, and Miles, admit to having a soft spot for her. Between us, we have done everything we can to get her into condition. We both give her supplementary feed every day. She remains a scrawny thing. But she is a nice and affectionate thing. She also has a sense of humour. She likes to butt me gently up the bum.
One morning this week, Greg went out into Apple Tree Paddock and Mavis had had a lamb. Mavis was not supposed to have a lamb this year. It is a very nice ewe lamb. But who is the father? No ram has been near Apple Tree Paddock. As far as we know. I said to Miles that at least somebody found Mavis alluring. The mysterious Midnight Rider, presumably.
All we know about him is that he is a ram, that he is a white ram and that he moves, with intent, unseen, in the paddocks. There is also the possibility that Mavis has had an immaculate conception. She is very clever. A ewe who has a lamb is in no danger of being sent away to the horrible works.
It is early morning, late winter here at Lush Places. Late winter is not terribly lush. Which we are glad about. Being refugees from Auckland, with its barely noticeable seasons and trees that go on being green all year round, we celebrate our deciduous leaf-changing trees, which go from green to reds and yellows to bare limbs that catch the frost and sparkle with icy crystals.
We look out our windows and say, “Spring!” From the bedroom, the plum trees have suddenly, miraculously, exploded into snow-like blossom even while the Tararua Ranges are still dusted at their tips with actual snow.
From the kitchen, we see past the daffodils to the sheep paddocks and crisp, white-frosted grass, and our ewes gently fattening as lambs grow in their bellies. On a frosty day, you pat them and encounter rimy fleeces.
The sheep know that spring is coming. Xanthe, Greg’s lamb, who is now an elderly sheila, knows. She has been a right snooty cow lately, so I reinstigated a game we used to play with her when she was a lamb. It is called “Everybody Chase Xanthe”. I chased her around the paddock and she galloped and leapt in the air sideways just as she did when she was a lamb.
It is a very nice thing to play with a sheep. Some sheep have a sense of humour. Xanthe, like Mavis, definitely does. My lamb, Elizabeth Jane, now round as a large barrel full of – hopefully – twin ewe lambs, does not. When Miles the sheep farmer sees her, he says, “Hello, fatso.” She does not crack a sheep smile. She is very serious.
What she is serious about is eating my pockets in search of biscuits. If you tease her, she sulks and proffers her enormous arse. She will accept a bum rub, then, once she has ascertained that the pockets are now empty of biscuits, wander off. I say, “See you, fatso.”
