The sun still hasn’t nudged over the horizon by the time I arrive at Mr Scarecrow’s. But the sky is beginning to turn and is streaked in the first greys of dawn. There’s just enough light to guide me down the long, red dust driveway. This is a bit more than a city backyard veggie patch. Even from inside my car, I can feel the vastness that surrounds me – acres and acres of farmland. It’s a humbling feeling to be reminded that you are but a tiny speck on this planet – and therefore, all of your problems must be the tiniest of specks too. I breathe in deeply as I get out of my car and am hit with the heavy smell of fresh manure. It’s so strong and full-bodied that I can taste it. I try not to gag, chasing the wretched flavour with a sip of coffee.
Cedric had issued strict instructions to be at Mr Scarecrow’s at 6 am sharp. He mentioned very loudly and repeatedly how much earlier he and Stacey have to be there to set up. Rosie, it’ll be pitch black. But these are the sacrifices I’ve made and continue to make for brilliant radio. There was lots of flailing, dramatic arms to the forehead, so I reminded him that it was all his idea.
The farm is out past Horizons, so I enjoyed the drive, passing vineyard after vineyard and finding quaint roadside stalls selling fresh figs, oranges and honey. I’d stopped at one with a chalkboard out front that read, ‘Coffees, breads, pies’ and purchased fresh apple pies (they smelt so delicious, I just couldn’t resist!) and coffees for everyone – even Markus.
The car’s dashboard informs me that it’s 8ºC outside, and that it’s 6.20 am. Shit! I pride myself on being punctual, but I got carried away browsing the lovely country fare.
I hurry along the dirt path, trying to make up for lost time, while also trying not to slip on the frost underfoot. It feels closer to 0ºC. I shudder to think how icy it will get here next month, once winter arrives.
I hug the coffees to keep warm, a chorus of birds singing sounds overhead – nature’s alarm clock. Pity mine sounded an hour ago. The chirping becomes louder and livelier as I get closer to the trees at the edge of the paddock. I stop as I reach a fence. It looks electric. Where to from here? There are no signposts to direct me.
As my eyes adjust to the low light, I spot Markus. He’s in gumboots on the other side of the fence, standing ankle deep in mud and bending down over an overturned cow. Even in the half-darkness and clad in a denim shirt, it’s impossible not to notice the width of his shoulders. He runs a hand from the cow’s head right down along its back, stopping as the animal lets out a deep moo. The movement is not unlike the way I’ve learnt to elicit a soft, throaty purr from Squash.
I sneeze.
Bloody hay fever.
Markus looks up startled. ‘Rosie, hi! I didn’t realise you were there!’
He lifts his free hand to greet me. I note that his arm is the size of the cow’s hind leg, without the soft skin folds.
‘Hey, Markus. Where’s Cedric?’ I call out.
‘Up in the barn, I think,’ Markus says.
‘Shouldn’t you be up there, too?’
‘Yup, I was headed there, but poor Braveheart needed a quick hand. Fell victim to some evil cow tipping last night.’
Braveheart doesn’t look too fussed. She clamps a tuft of grass between her teeth, tears it from the ground and chews slowly.
‘Boozed-up morons,’ Markus mutters.
‘Is that really a thing though?’ I can’t stop myself from asking. ‘I thought cow tipping was an urban legend, or only happened on, like, Beavis and Butt-Head.’
Markus laughs, a real, eye-crinkly laugh. ‘Unfortunately, yes. Although, it would have taken the force of three well-built teenagers to topple Braveheart over. Do you want to come say hello?’
Braveheart is eyeballing me like she knows I polished off a medium-rare T-bone last night.
‘I’m not really dressed for it . . .’ There’s no way I’m muddying my Converse.
‘Next time then.’ Markus smiles and goes back to stroking Braveheart.
I thought he’d try harder to convince me. Where have all of his grand gestures gone? I was half expecting him to pull me into the field and declare that he’s named the Milky Way or some constellation after me. Not that there are any stars in sight; daylight has arrived with a vengeance and the early morning sun has cast a golden haze over the paddock.
I guess there’s no witnesses here to report back to Eryka and make her jealous. No bar full of people, or thousands (okay, hundreds) of radio listeners . . . just a cow.
‘You should wrap it up soon though. Cedric will skin you alive if you’re late.’
Braveheart gives a distressed, high-pitched moo.
‘Rosie! Slaughterhouse language . . .’
‘Whoops. Sorry.’
‘All good. We know that I don’t always say the right thing . . .’
I assume he’s talking about his intermittent on-air awkwardness. ‘You are getting better, Markus.’
‘You think?’ He sounds genuinely happy and not like he’s digging around for extra compliments.
‘Yup, I do.’ I only say it because it’s true.
‘I wasn’t sure that I had it in me. I prefer to be out here.’ He closes his eyes and inhales, taking a deep gulp of manure air.
‘Well, we won’t have a show if we don’t get ourselves to that barn quick smart. Cedric will shoo–’ I censor myself in the nick of time. Braveheart still lets out a sharp, warning moo.
‘You’re right. Let’s go.’
Markus gives Braveheart a final stroke then squelches towards me, exiting the paddock through the nearby gate and joining me on the other side of the fence.
He glances back at Braveheart. ‘Later, girl.’
We start in the direction of the barn.
‘Is one of those for me?’ Markus asks.
I’d forgotten that I’m holding the carton of coffees.
‘Yup,’ I say casually, handing him one of the cups.
Maybe it is a sort of peace offering – it’s exhausting having to hate him.
The walk is uphill. I match Markus’s long strides and I’m out of breath by the time we reach the barn’s sliding timber door. He puts an arm to the door and pushes it open in one swift move like it’s made of feathers and not solid wood.
Baaaaaa, oinnnnk, hoooonk hoooonk hoooonk.
There’s a medley of farmyard noise, followed by the unpleasant odour of what I can only assume is more fresh manure combined with damp feathers and fur. Inside is a brigade of farmyard animals. There’s a pen of goats, sheep, a couple of pigs and a gaggle of geese.
Cedric is perched on a haystack in the middle of the chaos. This would be the ideal occasion for activewear, but he’s wearing leather pants.
‘Welcome to the jungle!’ he announces grandly, like he’s atop a Mardi Gras float. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed that we’re late. ‘Where the hell have you two been?’
Oops.
I remember the pies and plunge a hand into my pocket to retrieve the paper bag.
‘Apple pie?’
Cedric waves it away, motioning to his hips. But of course, the wedding diet.
‘My fault, Cedric,’ Markus chimes in. ‘I needed Rosie’s help with something.’
‘No, you didn’t!’ I exclaim.
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Cedric smiles smugly. ‘Anyway, enough dilly-dallying, lovebirds, we have a show to do.’
He’s having far too much fun with this. I’ll have that word with him as soon as we’re done recording.
The goats bleat loudly. I haven’t been in showbiz long, but I’ve heard what people say about working with animals (and children): don’t!
I follow Cedric over to the plastic trestle table set up in the corner of the barn. A cluster of white plastic chairs and a bunch of tangled cords complete our ‘studio’ set-up.
‘G’day folks.’ I hadn’t noticed the older man crouching down at the side of the animal pen. He stands and extends a blistered hand. His narrow face is weathered, scored with deep lines that make his face appear full of character, but also older than his sixty or so years. He’s tall and thin, and there’s tufts of scraggly hair sprouting from underneath his straw hat. In fact, he looks very much like a scarecrow.
‘Fred Abbott, howdoyoudo?’ His handshake is firm, yet welcoming. ‘You can call me Mr Scarecrow, folk usually do.’
‘Rosie Royce. Thanks for having us here, Mr Scarecrow.’ I try to match the eagerness of his grip. ‘I do hope we’re not keeping you from the cow milking and all the – ah – tending of things you must need to do.’
I think I hear a snort from Markus on the other side of the barn.
‘Not at all, little duck. I’m excited to have you media folk visit. Although Janet here looks like she’s not too far off now.’ Mr Scarecrow gestures to the sheep at his knees. ‘She’s showing early signs of labour.’
I look for a bulging belly, but apart from perhaps a thicker than expected fleece, Janet seems like a fairly ordinary sheep.
Markus crosses the barn to us. ‘Do you mind if I give her a quick once-over? I’m a vet.’
‘Go ahead, boy. Then I’ll go get her out of your way. We could be in for a big day – and night.’ Mr Scarecrow gives Janet a tender stroke to the head.
Five minutes later and Markus has donned a pair of latex gloves, wrapped a hand around Janet’s swollen udder and bent his head under her hind legs. ‘Looks like she’s been suffering in silence for a while now, Fred. I can already see the amniotic sac.’
I’m watching on, awkwardly shifting my weight from one foot to another, nibbling on a pie.
‘We’re due on air.’ Cedric calls from back atop his bale of hay. ‘Like, now!’
I’ve been so engrossed in the Discovery Channel situation unfolding in front of me that it’s completely escaped me why we’re in Mr Scarecrow’s barn in the first place.
Mr Scarecrow’s eyes widen. ‘You’re not going to leave Janet, are you? I don’t think the vet can get up here in time,’ he rasps.
Markus’s expression tells me the vet definitely won’t make it here on time.
I swing into action. ‘Ceddiiiiie, how far do those cords extend? Stacey, can you bring the mics over here?’
Cedric wanted in the field and he’s going to get in the field. He looks confused for a moment, surveys the scene of Markus with his arm up Janet and a worried Mr Scarecrow, and gives me two thumbs-up.
We’re on!
My breath catches in my chest as I position myself next to Markus and Janet. Stacey presses a mic into my hand, and I assume we’re live on air.
‘Ladies and gents, do we have a treat for you this morning! We’re down at Mr Scarecrow’s farm and our very own Dr Markus Abrahams will be delivering a brand-new lamb live on air. How about that!’
I signal Stacey over.
‘Now, I wish you could witness this miracle with us. I’m going to try to talk you all through it every step of the way, but I think that we can do one better . . .’
I pull my phone from my pocket, quickly key in my pin code and hand it to Stacey.
‘We’ll be broadcasting everything live on Facebook, so head on over to the Gold 86.7 FM page to watch the action live. And give it a like while you’re there.’
Stacey is holding the other mic up to Markus’s mouth while he hovers over Janet. Markus’s arm has now completely disappeared inside the sheep.
He still manages a few words. ‘Hello, everyone. If I’m a little quiet, it’s because I’m trying to ensure this lamb is birthed safely. It feels like it may be breach, so careful does it.’ There’s a glistening of sweat on his forehead, but he seems calm and composed. No stuttering in sight.
Ninety minutes later and I’ve interviewed Mr Scarecrow twice, taken a few calls, and had some piglet cameos. They’re no Babe, so they don’t offer much in the way of conversation, but we all get a few laughs.
The show is about to wrap up when Janet’s bleating becomes deafening. She stretches out her body, then folds back to reveal a muck-covered lamb.
Well, I’ll be damned. There’s the little guy.
Janet begins licking the stickiness off her baby’s head and limbs. Markus’s shirt is completely drenched with sweat and slime. He’s looking down with besotted eyes at the pair in front of him.
Mr Scarecrow rushes forward to embrace him. ‘Thank you, son!’
Markus’s all-denim get-up was already a bold look, but his wet all-denim look is an even bolder one.
I motion to Stacey to come closer for a better view of the lamb, but just as soon as he assumes the new position Mr Scarecrow whisks it away in a bundle of blankets. My eyes stay on Markus as he unbuttons his shirt. He attacks each button painfully slowly, before finally the shirt is off. He turns it inside out and starts using it to towel down his sticky torso. The magazines might edit out some of his wild chest hair, but they definitely don’t photoshop in those abs. He’s like a cardboard cut-out.
A loud ‘pop’ of a cork sounds from somewhere over near the haystack interrupting my ogling. Where did Cedric get champagne from? I glance at the haystack throne, expecting him to summon me over for a glass, but instead he’s making frantic motions at me.
Shit. I’ve been thrown completely off track by the . . . ah . . . excitement and forgotten that we’re still live on air.
‘Well, wasn’t that something!’ I eventually manage to say into the mic. ‘Now, let’s all say a big hello to little Janet Junior.’
A shirtless Markus looks up at me with a grin so wide that it’s impossible not to beam back. I try to keep my eyes on his face.