Russell

Just after 5 PM on that first day, Russell came home from work. I was in another room when he arrived, so after hearing him, I went to join everyone in the kitchen for introductions. Oddly, I thought, Russell didn't actually look at me when I walked into the room. He and Biddy were having some sort of quiet discussion about something involving sheep. After a few minutes of standing around awkwardly, he nodded toward our general direction and walked out the back door. We followed.

Russell, Russell, Russell.

He walked us into the "garage" - basically a shed off the back of the house that is full of more of Biddy's spinning supplies, as well as the usual tools and random junk. I was wearing my Chaco's at the time (sandals, like Tevas), having no idea what we were going to do (I had been told nothing), and he looked at my feet, frowning, and asked me if I didn't have any proper shoes. Um, I have tennis shoes? Here, he said, just put on these boots, and threw both Bjorn and I a pair of tall black gum boots. Appropriately geared up for whatever we were about to do, we exited the garage, at which time I decided I really ought to introduce myself. The man, after all, had not yet asked my name, or even really acknowledged that he'd never met me before.

"I'm Ellen, by the way," I said in a friendly tone. He again nodded in my general direction, said, "Yep" and continued walking. Well, okay then, I thought. Wow, this guy might be a real asshole.

We followed him down a side driveway, to yet another shed, this one open on one side and housing a huge bunch of hay (200-something bales he later told us proudly), Biddy's car, more miscellaneous farming tools, and a little four-wheel motorbike.

"You know how to drive one of these?" he asked Bjorn gruffly (and may I point out that he directly asked the male member of our party?). Bjorn strode eagerly forward - driving a motorbike is fun! - and Russell showed him how to start the engine. He ably hitched a large trailer onto the back of the bike and took a seat on one edge of it, apparently waiting for Bjorn to drive off somewhere. "Should I sit here?" I asked, motioning toward the opposite edge of the trailer. "Sit wherever you like," he said, and I quickly took a seat and held on for dear life as Bjorn pulled us recklessly through the 30 acre farm.

Russell seemed to enjoy watching me act like a nervous girl, clinging to the trailer, and he finally made eye contact with me, cracked a smile, and made some comment about Bjorn's driving. We drove through several paddocks (little fenced off areas of farm - this is how they separate certain groups of sheep from others), pausing briefly to open and close gates on our way, and made our way to the far back paddock, the last one on their property, bordered on one side by a little creek. We were, it was finally revealed, going to move a temporary fence that had been set up back there. Someone was supposed to come the following day to bale the hay laying around the paddocks, and the fence was in the way.

Out on the farm, Russell was a different person. He pointed out different groups of sheep, talked about the property lines, explained what we were doing and why. His quiet bruqueness from before had disappeared.

By the time that we sat down for evening tea (this is what they call dinner, in an irritating British fashion), however, the old Russell was back. Biddy yapped on and on about something, and Russell kept his head down til he was finished eating, when he scooted back his chair, took his plate and cutlery from the table, placed them in the sink, and then retired to an easy chair in the back of the room, while the rest of us sat around the table, finishing our meals. He didn't make one attempt at small talk or getting-to-know-you-conversation during the meal (though to be honest, he probably didn't have a chance against Biddy's prattling). It was so bizarre, I thought. Such completely incorrect behavior. Surely this was not how it was going to be for two weeks!

The next day, as we headed down the driveway for our day's task of clearing out an overgrown garden by the mailbox, I asked Bjorn what he thought about all of this. Opposites attract, he said. Ha. He didn't seem particularly bothered by Russell's behavior or think that it was unusual really, but I couldn't let go of it that easily. People were supposed to like me. This man was going to like me, damnit!

That evening, as we milled around before dinner, I noticed that Biddy was having a glass of wine while she cooked. There were wine glasses and wine bottles hanging on racks around the main room, so I assumed they were drinkers, but had yet to see either of them drink (and I mean, drink ANYTHING, for that matter. One of the strangest things about Russell and Biddy is that they sit down for their meals without even a glass of water and never offered us one either! Russell, Biddy later told me, doesn't drink water. "Would never think of drinking the stuff. Hates it," she said. Can you imagine?! A grown man who won't drink water?) Russell abstained from the alcohol for the evening, though. Maybe we need to buy some alcohol and share it with them, I told Bjorn. That would be a good ice breaker, I think.

So the next day, after we had completed our five hours of work, we went into the local liquor store, and bought some wine and beer. We cooled down the beer when we got home, and when Russell arrived home from work, offered him one. He seemed pleased by the gesture and sat out on the front patio with us for a while, drinking his beer and engaging in pleasant conversation (or maybe I should say pleasantly listening while Biddy talked). Over dinner, I made a point to asked Russell some direct questions about the sheep, forcing him, I hoped, to talk. He did say a few things, though Biddy, of course, jumped on an opportunity to talk and sort of took over. But, I thought, we were making progress.

We fell into a nice routine during that first week. We were expected to be up and eating breakfast by 8 AM, after Russell had left for work. We were given some task or other - mostly involving tidying up the gardens - which we were expected to do for five hours. Sometimes Biddy invited us in around 10:30 AM for a cup of coffee and biscuit (cookie), and lunch always started just after noon, when Russell's little white car pulled into the driveway. We'd eat, Russell would sit on the couch quietly eating an apple for dessert, and then he'd nod, and take his leave, heading back to work. We'd go back out to our task, laboring on until Biddy came out around 3 PM, notifying us that it was quitting time, and the rest of the day was ours.

Every Friday afternoon, Biddy drives herself to Queenstown, where she has a stall at the Saturday morning craft fair. She then drives to Wanaka on Sunday morning, for their craft fair, and returns to Gore on Sunday evening, in time to get Russell's dinner on the table. When our first Friday afternoon rolled around, Bjorn and I were both thrilled to get a break from Biddy's non-stop yammering.

Apparently, Russell was, too. He was in a grand mood when he got home from work, talkative and full of interesting things to say. He went out to the garage and brought in 6 beers, offering to share with us. We, of course, obliged, and sat with him in the living room for a couple hours, watching some big horse race in Auckland that was on TV. Russell is big into horse racing. His father raced horses, his brother races horses on the old family farm, and Russell has also raced horses from time to time. Though neither Bjorn nor I have any real interest in this, we were delighted to have Russell opening up to us a bit, getting him onto a subject he was interested in.

Later that night, I told Bjorn that it was the victory of my life getting Russell to like us. He laughed, and told me I shouldn't jump to any conclusions before Russell was able to evaluate my farming skills. He would be taking us out to work with the SHEEP the next morning.