Forty-Seven Jumps the Wrong Way

Mabel was eighty-one and could not get to sleep, so every night she counted sheep, and she did it properly.

She had tried other things first: warm milk, the cool side of the pillow, and the dullest book in the house, which was about drains. Only sheep worked. Mabel counted them in a whisper, so as not to wake Dumpling, her large cat. She never skipped one. And she never counted a sheep until all four of its feet were down on the far side of the fence, because a sheep in the air, Mabel said, is not a sheep you can be sure of.

The fence was a real one. It stood across the field outside her bedroom window, low and wooden, with three rails, and in the moonlight it shone silver. Her sheep came trotting out of the long grass, hopped over it one at a time, and went off to join the flock on the far side. For as long as Mabel was counting them, they were perfectly real.

One night she got as far as forty-six. The next sheep jumped, and his front feet came down on the far side, and Mabel, who was very sleepy, began a little early. “Forty—” she said, and fell asleep before the seven, and before his back feet came down.

She woke because a small voice on the rug said, “Excuse me.”

A sheep was standing on her bedroom rug in the moonlight. He was small, and so woolly that he was mostly wool with a worried face at the front. His number was painted on his side, but backwards, the way writing looks in a mirror, because he had been counted from the other side of the fence. Under one front leg he was holding a long piece of wood.

“I’m so sorry,” said the sheep. “I’m Forty-Seven. You stopped halfway through me. My front got counted and my back didn’t, so I didn’t know which side I was on, and I grabbed the fence to steady myself.” He looked down at the wood. “I’m afraid I’ve brought the top rail.”

Mabel looked out of the window. The fence had two rails instead of three. On the far side the flock stood about, looking at the place where Forty-Seven ought to be.

Dumpling, who would sleep on anything woolly and always chose the woolliest, had been asleep on Mabel’s bed socks. Now Dumpling got up, crossed the rug, and lay down on Forty-Seven instead. Forty-Seven stood very still, because he was polite.

“Well,” said Mabel, putting her slippers on over her bed socks. “I should like you home, and I should like to be asleep. I don’t mind which comes first.”

“There are rules,” said Forty-Seven. “I can only go back if I’m counted. In order. By someone awake.”

Mabel liked rules. “Then we shall start again from one,” she said, “and this time I shall stay awake.”

She went to the kitchen, because the kitchen chair was hard and her bed was not. She sat up straight by the window, which looked out on the fence too. She folded her hands, shut her eyes and listened for each sheep’s four feet to land, because that is how counting is done.

“One,” she said, in a whisper. “Two. Three.”

Now, you should know something about sheep. Sheep follow sheep. It is the first thing about them and very nearly the only thing. The last sheep over that fence had gone the wrong way, so every sheep Mabel counted went the wrong way too. They came out of the flock and hopped the fence towards the cottage. It was one rail lower now, which they did not care for. They let themselves in at the kitchen door. Mabel’s eyes were shut, so she did not see.

“Twenty-nine,” said Mabel. “Thirty. Thirty-one.”

The chair was hard, but it was not hard enough.

* * *

When Mabel woke up, the kitchen was full of sheep.

There were thirty-one of them, and they were being very polite about it. They stood in rows with their backwards numbers facing out, so she could tell who was who. Number Nine was standing on the doormat so as not to get the floor dirty. Number Twenty-Two had got into the sink to take up less room. Dumpling was asleep on Number Thirty, the woolliest, and Forty-Seven stood in the doorway with the rail under his leg, looking more worried than ever.

“Oh dear,” said Mabel. “Well. I shall have to catch up.”

So she counted fast. “Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four,” she said, and for the first time in her life she did not wait for all four feet. The sheep came over the fence so quickly they bumped noses. There was no room left in the kitchen, so they climbed the woodpile and went up onto the roof. Mabel could hear them shuffling on the tiles and saying, “Sorry,” and “Mind my ear,” and “Has she said me yet?”

“Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six,” said Mabel, and stopped, because a sheep was looking at her upside down from the top of the window.

“This is not working,” she said. “I did it in order. I was awake for nearly all of it.”

Forty-Seven had been thinking. He turned round to look at the number on his own side, which is hard for a sheep, and went round twice before he managed it.

“It’s backwards,” he said. “Everything this side of the fence is backwards. Look at me. If you count us forwards from here, we only come further in. You have to count us backwards.”

Mabel thought about it properly, all the way through. “Forty-Seven,” she said, “that is very clever.” He went pink under all his wool.

So Mabel opened the kitchen window as wide as it would go, sat up straight, and began again. Backwards, and properly. In a whisper. Not skipping one.

“Forty-six.”

Down off the roof came Forty-Six, onto the windowsill, out across the grass, and over the silver fence the right way. Only when all four feet were down on the far side did Mabel say, “Forty-five.”

Down came Forty-Five, and then Forty-Four. The roof emptied, and then the kitchen. Twenty-Two climbed out of the sink. Nine gave the doormat a last wipe and went. Dumpling had to move from sheep to sheep as they left, crosser each time, until there was only Number One, with a cat on top.

“One,” said Mabel. She lifted Dumpling off, and Number One hopped onto the draining board, out of the window and over the fence, and every sheep was home but one.

“Forty-seven,” said Mabel at once. She had been waiting all night to say it.

Nothing happened.

“It’s no good,” said Forty-Seven. His face looked very small inside the wool. “You can’t count backwards to forty-seven. You have to come down to it from forty-eight, and there isn’t one. And sheep follow sheep. I need a forty-eight to follow.”

Mabel did not answer. Her head was nodding. Now that there was nothing left to count, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Forty-Seven watched her for a while. “You’re tired,” he said. “You’ve been up all night with us.” Then, in a whisper, very properly, he counted the next one himself.

“Forty-eight,” said Forty-Seven. “Mabel.”

And Mabel, who had never been counted in her life, went soft and sleepy as wool. She got out of the hard chair without quite waking up. She went out of the window as easily as any sheep, and across the grass in her slippers, and there was the fence, one rail lower than it ought to be. It was exactly low enough for an old woman to hop.

So she hopped it.

She landed with both feet down, which for Mabel was all of them. And because she was Mabel, and it was proper, she turned round and whispered the next number before she did anything else.

“Forty-seven.”

Forty-Seven came trotting across the grass and over the fence, and as he went he set the top rail back where it belonged. He landed beside her with all four feet down.

“Thank you for having us,” he said.

“Any time,” said Mabel. “One at a time, preferably.” She yawned the biggest yawn of her life, because the far side of that fence, as anyone who has counted to it knows, is sleep.

* * *

In the morning Mabel woke in her own bed, which is where the far side of that fence always turns out to be. Dumpling was curled up on her feet again, on the bed socks, which were the woolliest things left in the house. Out in the field, the fence had all three of its rails. On the kitchen windowsill there was a wisp of wool. And on the toe of her left slipper, in neat white chalk, someone had written 48, the right way round.

Every night after that, Mabel counted her sheep in a whisper, and she never skipped one. When she got to forty-six she said, “And you, Forty-Seven.” Over came a small, very woolly sheep with his number the right way round. He waved a front hoof at her as he went. That is not an easy thing to do in the middle of a jump, and he managed it every time.

She never got as far as forty-eight again. By then she was always fast asleep, all night long, with the cat on her feet and every one of her sheep at home.