hold the rubber ring up against the light and squint through the tiny hole.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, careful not to look at him. “What am I supposed to do with this little rubber ring? It’s for docking lambs’ tails with – I can’t do anything with it if I don’t have that gadget – what’s it called again – oh, ja, the elastrator … I need one of those to stretch it open, otherwise it’s useless.”
I look at the circlet between my fingers and shake my head. “But you know,” I say, smirking in the small silence, “I don’t think even an elastrator would be able to stretch this wide enough …”
“I’m telling you, Jennifer,” he says, “I won’t stand for any funny business in this house, you hear? Not before you’re married. You tell him!” He shakes his thick forefinger at me.
Propriety is of paramount importance in Uncle Leslie’s house; the yellowwood floorboards squeal under the slightest pressure, and Allan’s bed has been made up in the furthest corner of the farmhouse lounge. On this dark winter’s night, the room is frigid with cold.
Allan glances around the lounge with a bemused look on his face.
“I did warn you, Al – remember? I told you it would be cold.” My breath clouds in front of me. I hold out a hot-water bottle. “Here,” I shake the rubber bag in front of him, “I’ve just filled it, so it’s nice and hot – let me put it in your bed for you.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need a hot-water bottle, Jen – you know me, I don’t feel the cold.”
His nonchalance makes me uneasy.
“You’ll feel this cold, Al, really, you will. You’ll see, come the middle of the night, it’ll be freezing in here – you’ll be very happy to have a hottie!”
He smiles at me. “I’ll be fine,” he says loudly, “and if I do get cold in the night, I’ll just come and warm up next to you!”
I put my hands up and look around furtively.
“Shh! For God’s sake, don’t let anyone hear you, Al,” I hiss. “Don’t even think about tiptoeing down the passage tonight – I’ve already been warned!”
“What d’you mean, warned? Who warned you? What about?”
I sit down on the edge of the bed and pat the place beside me. Al sits down and puts his arm around me.
“Look!” I lean against him and hold my hand out to show him the little rubber ring lying in the middle of my palm. He blinks, peers down at it, picks it up gingerly with the tips of his fingers, and holds it up to the dim light.
“What is it? What’s it used for?”
I snort. “You really don’t know, do you?”
His forehead creases. I reach across his lap and take the little ring from him. The mattress groans. The sound travels across the wooden floorboards.
“Well, you see,” I say in my best teacher-voice, “in order to use this little rubber ring successfully, you require the help of a gadget called an elastrator.”
I glance at his frowning face.
“So, if you’ve got this gadget – this elastrator,” I continue, “you slip the ring over the ends – it looks a bit like blunt scissors, you see – and then you pull the two handles apart, and the little ring is stretched wide open.” I hold my thumb and forefinger far apart. The penny drops. Allan’s frown deepens. “It has to be stretched open, you see, so you can slip a lamb’s tail through it?” I indicate with my forefinger to show how it’s done.
“You’re kidding?” he breathes.
“No-o, I’m not. It’s used for docking lambs’ tails – it cuts off the blood supply, you see. It’s quick – only takes a week or so, and then it just drops off. You can find little woolly tails lying all over the veld during the lambing season!”
He looks horrified. I grin.
“Oh, Al, you mustn’t be squeamish about these things! The lambs hardly feel a thing – it’s just a little bit sore, and it doesn’t last long – and the lambs are very young when they get their tails docked.” I glance at his face. “They’re not more than a week old when their tails are banded. That’s what it’s called – see?” I hold up the little rubber ring. “This little ring is called a band.”
He shudders, a long, city-boy quake. I go in for the final thrust.
“It has to be done, Al. If you had to see the disgusting, matted mess when a sheep with a long tail gets diarrhoea …” I pull a face. “Can you imagine having to shear something like that?”
Allan looks nauseated.
“It’s a lot easier to shear a sheep when it’s got a short tail.” I smile at him. “And they get all sorts of diseases too, you know, sheep?” I keep going, gathering steam. “They can get fly strike if they don’t have their tails docked. D’you know what fly strike is?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think I want to know, thanks.”
“No, but I’ll tell you, anyway. It’s revolting. In the summer, the blowflies look for the sheep with dirty wool – you know, like those with diarrhoea? And then they lay their eggs in the skin under the lamb’s tail, and when the wool maggots hatch out, they hatch out under the skin, and they burrow right into the sheep’s flesh.”
“Enough!” he howls. “I believe you!” His face is pale.
“Wimp!” I snicker. “Farming’s not for the faint-hearted.”
Allan looks down at the green ring in my hand. “So … why’re you showing this to me, then?”
I raise an eyebrow and sniff. “Because my uncle Leslie gave it to me earlier this evening – he told me to use it on you if you try any funny business …”
Allan’s jaw drops. “What?” The corners of his mouth hover between a moue of dismay and a smile of amusement. He crosses his legs and clutches himself. “Get thee from me!” he shouts. “Don’t you come near me with that thing – get off! Go away!”
“Not so fast,” I laugh. “You think the elastrator’s bad? Just wait till he starts threatening you with the emasculator – then you can start clutching yourself!”
“The what?”
“‘Oranges and lemons’ say the bells of St. Clement’s …” I chant “… And here comes the chopper to chop off your …” I throw myself on top of him. “How do you think ram lambs get castrated?” I shriek. “Well, some of them do, anyway – it makes them less aggressive, you know – easier to manage. Like male dogs, once they’ve been de-sexed?”
Allan re-crosses his legs. His hands move back to his lap.
“Ja-a,” I say, nodding vigorously. “There are all sorts of ways of emasculating ram lambs …” My voice trails off. I look down at the floor and then back up.
“Uncle Leslie just bites them off, you know?”
Allan’s face is fixed in a grimace of horror.
“Ja,” I continue. “He can’t be bothered with tools and things. Lots of farmers do it that way. It’s common practice on sheep farms.” I try not to smile, make no mention of the gory accoutrements of sharp knives and buckets, mouths and faces smeared with the blood of those innocent lambs.
Hysteria and excitement rise like a tide. I clamp my hand over my mouth – I can’t stop laughing.
“Don’t worry,” I gasp. “I told Uncle Leslie, the elastrator wouldn’t work for you – it wouldn’t be able to stretch the ring out wide enough!”
He smirks, gratified, and then a look of horrified embarrassment