The Constant Rabbit Page 16

We nodded greetings, then Norman lowered his voice and began:

  ‘I’m not sure this is the sort of village where rabbit females should disport themselves almost naked,’ he said, his eyes not leaving her form for one second. ‘Flaunting herself in that manner is unhealthy for our young men – might give them ideas.’

  ‘Semi-nudity encourages unsound moral behaviour,’ agreed Victor, also staring, possibly to make absolutely sure he disapproved. ‘Women should be chaste and demure, lest they lead men into temptation and precipitate their fall.’

  The brothers nodded their heads vigorously, unaware they were talking crap, while still staring, eyes like organ stops.

  ‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Norman, suddenly noticing Doc, ‘is Major Rabbit digging up the lawn? Mr Beeton spent thirty years cultivating that piece of turf into the finest slab of green this side of Mansell Gamage, and what’s more, it was going to be one of our major selling points to the Spick & Span judges: “so smooth we could play snooker on it – and have”.’

  ‘I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you take it up with the Rabbits?’

  They looked quite taken aback.

  ‘What’s the point? So long as you do your job and persuade them that Rabxit benefits us all, the problem will be over. Have you mentioned the leaving fund?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, don’t dally. Wait a moment: what’s that indentation on your lawn?’

  I’d noticed it earlier: there was a mild dent in my garden only ten feet from where it shared a common boundary with Hemlock Towers.

  ‘It’s been there for a while,’ I lied, ‘the remains of a garden pond.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Victor, ‘love a garden pond, me. Restful. Takes one’s mind off the pressures of life.’

  I wondered what possible pressures Victor Mallett could have to contend with. Cosy retirement, enviable social position, a compliant wife who cooked and cleaned, and, as wagging tongues had it, an extramarital love interest over in Bobblestock.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ he continued, ‘life can be tough, but thank God I have the strength of character and humility to endure. Have you seen Toby, by the way? He wasn’t at church and Granny Mallett had to give the lesson on forgiveness and tolerance on her own.’

  I told them I hadn’t, and they stared at Connie in her tiny bikini one last time – then made disapproving noises and moved off.

  Once they’d gone, Doc sauntered over.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

  I decided not to mention their comments about Connie, so instead repeated their remarks about digging up the lawn.

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ said Doc, ‘that fresh veg in neat lines, bean poles tied with natty green twine, cloches sweating with early-morning dew, seed packets on lolly-sticks in crumb-crisp soil, and all weeded to perfection, has a simple elegance that the judges will find hugely attractive. Veg is the thing, Pete. Exquisiteness merged with edibility, form merged with function. Consider,’ he said, eyes half closed, ‘the taut skin of a ripe courgette, the rough hardiness of an unearthed spud, the reassuring yet somehow saddening snick one hears when snapping the tap root on a carrot when pulled.’ I nodded, but he wasn’t done. ‘The thud of a windfall apple against mossy ground, the colour of peas as the pods ripen to burst. The furry lining of a broad bean pod, the way raindrops settle on a ripening lettuce head.’

  He sighed deeply, then turned to me with a smile.

  ‘OK, I’m done.’

  ‘I agree with you veg-wise,’ I said. ‘It’s just that the village take the awards very seriously; in thirty-six years the closest to a Spick & Span we’ve ever got was a “Merit” due to Mrs Ponsonby’s wisteria in 1997 – and even then, I think they only gave us the award to annoy the village of Mansel Lacy. And look, what’s this?’

  I pointed at the indentation in the grass on my side of the hedge, and he bounced clean over the hedge to have a closer look.

  ‘Subsidence,’ he said after thumping a rear paw on the offending dip. ‘Probably a sinkhole or something.’

  ‘We’re on gravel,’ I said, ‘I don’t think that’s very likely. That fence post looks a bit squiffy too.’

  I pointed at a fence panel that had fallen out of skew. It was on a direct line between the dent and the Rabbits’ house.

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re driving at,’ said Doc, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘Do you think we’re involved? Tell me what you’re thinking. We like to be straight about things.’

  ‘I’m thinking … perhaps … burrowing?’

  Doc showed me his paws. His nails were in pretty good shape.

  ‘Do I look like a burrower?’

  ‘I’m only trying to help you,’ I said. ‘The villagers are looking for any excuse to complain.’

  ‘Let them,’ he said, ‘and just so we’re clear: we’re here to stay, Peter. Only a fox or a gun will get us out of here.’

  ‘A fox?’ I asked.

  ‘Where?’ said Doc, suddenly looking around nervously.

  ‘No, I mean have you seen a fox around the village?’ I asked, suddenly worried that the Senior Group Leader might escalate his interest in Doc and Connie.

  ‘Not seen or heard or smelled,’ said Doc, ‘they switched from Hai Karate aftershave to Old Spice when we figured out that’s what they were using to mask their scent. Cunning, you see, always ahead of the game.’

  And we were both silent for a few moments.

  ‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘you’ve every right to live where you want. Just don’t tell anyone I said that. And for goodness’ sake, be careful.’

  ‘Rabbits are born careful,’ said Doc, patting me on the back, ‘it’s our edge. That and large litters, early sexual maturity, a short gestation period and an easily exploited niche in the ecosystem.’

  He took out his pocket watch and stared at it for a moment.

  ‘How about that,’ he said. ‘The cricket’s just started. Nothing like the crack of leather on willow to round out a Sunday. Rabbit 1st XI versus the MCC: should be a corker.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like gladiatorial contests?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing even remotely gladiatorial about cricket,’ he said with a snort. ‘It’s a craft, not a sport. See you later.’

  And with a single hop he bounded across the hedge into his garden, and then into the house by way of an open window. There was a crash as he landed on some furniture, followed by some choice words and an admonishment along the lines of ‘what damn fool left that bloody table there?’ to which I heard Constance reply: ‘You did.’

  I went inside once the lawn was mowed, meaning to tell Pippa the latest on the Malletts, but she had something unusual of her own to contend with.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ she asked, handing me the phone. ‘I lost my mobile and this is all I get when I ring my own number.’

  I listened intently down the line to a series of softly spoken squeaks and sniffing noises, interspersed with short gasps.

  ‘It sounds like Rabbity,’ I said. ‘You could ask Bobby to translate.’

  ‘I know,’ said Pippa. ‘I asked her over, that’s probably her now.’

  There was, indeed, the sound of thumps growing closer from outside, and true to rabbit form – they regarded doors as less of an aid to privacy, and more as something that simply stopped draughts – Bobby bounded into the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Knox,’ she said with a grin, clearly unaffected by the previous night’s revelry. ‘Hello, Pip. What’s the problem?’

  Pippa handed the phone to Bobby, who listened intently for a few moments, then broke into peals of squeaky laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Madame Bovary being read out loud in real time,’ said Bobby. ‘Rabbits are very into French literature at the moment, and phones are often hijacked to help rabbits on the production lines deal with boredom through the injection of a little Flaubertian virtuosity. There’ll be an announcement b
y the reader at the end asking if you’d like to pledge a few pounds if you liked it. They’ll do anything to make money in the colonies. Madame Bovary is a firm favourite – kind of racy, you see – Emma would have made a fine rabbit. Best of all, it pisses off UKARP – they’re not fans of any literature that isn’t British.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘but what do we do about Pippa’s phone?’

  ‘Just tell your provider. They’ll soon shut them down. Hang on a second.’

  Something on the telephone had just caught her attention. Her ears twitched and she grimaced.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ she said, ‘Rodolphe’s left a note in a basket of apricots. Will he? Won’t he? Will they? Won’t they? Oh … dang. Never saw that coming.’

  She pressed the off button and handed back the phone.

  ‘Flaubert never gets boring, does he? l hope for your sake they haven’t been calling the other colonies on your mobile. Rabbits have lots of cousins, and they do like to chat.’

  She looked around, then expertly scratched her ear with her left foot while balancing on her right.

  ‘I can smell coffee,’ said Bobby, ‘any going begging?’

  So I poured her a cup of coffee as Pippa called Vodafone Customer Support, who suddenly became really interested when she explained that rabbits were involved.

  ‘They’re connecting me to the Fraud Department,’ she whispered, hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Are you going to see Harvey again?’ Bobby asked Pippa once she’d had a sip of coffee. ‘You and he seemed to hit it off really well together.’

  Pippa glanced at me then glared hard at Bobby, who said: ‘Whoops’, and her ears went flat on her back with a faintly audible whap.

  ‘Nice decor you’ve got here, Mr Knox,’ said Bobby, looking around at our unremarkable kitchen in a ploy to divert attention from her last remark. ‘Did you design it or was it your wife who left you because you were boring?’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I said, ‘but if you want to be amongst humans, you’ve got to understand what makes us angry or upset. Saying my wife left me because I’m boring, well, it’s just … rude.’

  ‘Your great-grandfather wore my great-grandfather as a hat,’ she said, ‘that’s hardly polite – and nor is the denial of citizenship, despite us being resident here since Roman times.’

  It was a good point. I was of Maltese descent, and Pippa’s mum was Polish. Bobby was probably more British than almost everybody I knew. Even the Malletts were descended from the DeMalet family, who arrived from France in the fourteenth century.

  ‘Well, OK,’ said Pippa, who sounded as though her conversation with Customer Support was just ending, ‘I’ll await your call.’

  ‘Right, then,’ said Bobby, preparing to leave, ‘I’ll be off. Pop round later, why don’t you, Pip?’

  Pippa said she would, and Bobby bounced clean from the kitchen across the hall and out of the front door in a single hop, a distance of about fifteen feet.

  ‘They don’t close doors much, do they?’ I said.

  ‘They have an odd relation with barriers,’ said Pippa, once I’d shut the door. ‘They like to roam. I think it’s why they find the rabbit-proof fences so iniquitous. Did you know the concrete foundations of MegaWarren extend seventy feet below the surface?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Harvey.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, pleased that she had raised him as a topic of conversation, ‘tell me all about him.’

  ‘Harvey was kinda cute and real smart,’ she said, and I spotted a gleam in her eye that had the warning flags suddenly waving. ‘Labstock by coat and appearance but carries the McButtercup surname so he’s actually a Petstock.’

  I mentally kicked myself. No wonder I couldn’t find him. He wasn’t Labstock at all. Mind you, Lugless hadn’t suggested it either, so I felt slightly better about it.

  ‘Best of all,’ continued Pippa, ‘he didn’t try to hit on me and knew some seriously cool dance moves.’

  I didn’t like the sound of this. Harvey McButtercup was probably connected to the Underground, and if that was so, then Pippa could be at serious risk.

  ‘Listen: you mustn’t …’

  My voice petered out. Since the accident, I’d never told Pippa there was anything she couldn’t do and couldn’t be, and I really didn’t think I should start now. If she fancied a suspected member of a banned rabbit direct action organisation, then I couldn’t stand in her way – no matter how daft that might seem.

  ‘Mustn’t what?’ she asked.

  ‘Mustn’t … be imprudent. Extra-species44 romances are still frowned upon.’

  Rabbit/human couplings raised eyebrows at best, and were met with utter revulsion at worst. While technically illegal, prosecutions were becoming more rare, owing probably to Lord Jefferson, who gave a passionate defence of his relationship with Sophie Rabbit during his resignation speech as Attorney General.

  ‘It’s not a romance,’ she said in the sort of way that meant it was totally a romance. ‘Besides,’ she added, chin held high, ‘coming from you that’s a bit rich. It’s not like you don’t fancy Connie.’

  ‘I most certainly do not. Besides, we go back a way – she and I spent some time together at uni.’

  She stared at me.

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you totally missed out that little snippet. Anyway you go all mushy when she’s around, and you’ve become very pro-rabbit recently.’

  She paused for a moment, then asked: ‘How well, exactly, did you know her at university?’

  ‘We were just good friends.’

  ‘Hmm. Like me and Harvey?’

  I sighed.

  ‘OK, point taken.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Would you like to see him again?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I would.’

  All Saints, All Spite

  Fox and Friends is published monthly and caters for the witty and urbane fox-about-town. It contains news, reviews, fashion – and tips on more efficient ways to kill rabbits. It’s sort of like GQ meets Horse and Hounds meets Soldier of Fortune.

  Toby was a no-show the following morning. By long-standing agreement, if he wasn’t there by 9.05 a.m. sharp he’d be making his own arrangements.

  When I got into the office Flemming and Whizelle were both out but Lugless was already there and ignored me when I wished him good morning. I was obligated to tell him about Harvey but had decided I wouldn’t. As far as I was concerned, Harvey was just a white rabbit driving a taxi.

  Nothing unusual in that.

  I made some tea, settled down to my spotting, and had my first Miffy within an hour. I thought of saying they weren’t the same rabbit solely because it would put a spanner in the works, but spotting skills were always under scrutiny; I wasn’t the only one seeing these images. And if another Spotter fingered a Miffy that I didn’t, someone would get suspicious I was developing a conscience and I’d be out of a job. It suddenly occurred to me that the Spotters who claimed to have lost the skill probably hadn’t lost anything at all – just had a daughter like Pippa, or had met some rabbits like Doc and Connie.

  I looked across at Lugless, who was reading in silence. I wasn’t a big fan of Toby but we did talk to relieve the monotony of the day. After another half-hour of silence with Lugless making notes, shuffling papers and sniffing, I finally said:

  ‘Where’s Whizelle?’

  ‘Out,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘Yes, I can see that. What about Flemming?’

  ‘Which one’s Flemming?’

  ‘The female with the eyepatch? Your boss?’

  ‘Ah, her. No, she’s out too.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  He stopped, dropped the file he was reading heavily on the desk, then turned to stare at me. His eyelid twitched.

  ‘Is that all you do here?’ he asked. ‘Talk?’

  ‘It relieve
s the tedium of the day,’ I said, ‘and builds rapport amongst team members.’

  ‘I prefer it when you just do as I say,’ he said. ‘Teams work best with a strong leader.’

  And he carried on with his paperwork.

  After I’d reviewed another twenty rabbits, all of whom were exactly who they said they were, Lugless suddenly said:

  ‘Section Officer Flemming, Whizelle and the rest of senior management are at a MegaWarren site meeting. I would have gone but it’s barred to all rabbits, irrespective of security clearance.’

  He was right. Rabbits had been banned from seeing their new home on the grounds that it might ‘spoil the nice surprise’.

  ‘The official visit for staff that includes me is tomorow,’ said Lugless. ‘You going?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t care a mouldy carrot if you do or don’t,’ said the earless rabbit. ‘Is that enough rapport and comradeship for you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  And he went back to his work. The phone rang ten minutes later. He waited for it to ring six times – he always did that, I’d noticed – and after listening to the caller for a few minutes, said: ‘The fat furry bastard. Don’t let him talk to anyone until I get there.’

  He put the phone down and in an unhurried manner chose a hammer from his desk drawer and departed, doubtless on one of his ‘no rabbit I can’t turn’ quests. I quickly went over to his desk. It was a long shot but rabbits were notoriously lax at computer security, and it was possible that Lugless had been given the usual default password, and hadn’t yet changed it.

  I was in luck, and quickly logged in to the Working Rabbit Database. The reason was simple. I wanted to look at Harvey’s details, but didn’t want anyone to know that I was the one doing it. Lugless looked up rabbits all the time; it would be just one more search of many. Since Harvey was a Petstock, a McButtercup and a licensed RabCab driver, it took me less than a minute to find him. His full name was Harvey Augustus McButtercup, age twenty-six, resident in Colony One and a cabbie for six years. I went through his record, which revealed nothing more exciting than a series of minor traffic offences dotted around the country – either close to other colonies, or en route from one to another. If the Underground needed a courier moving around without restrictions, they’d choose a cabbie. It wasn’t a smoking gun, but factoring in his politics and his work as a courier in Ross made it pretty clear he was Underground. I logged out of Lugless’s computer, and returned to my own desk and worked non-stop until lunch.