The Constant Rabbit Page 8

  ‘Your eyes,’ I said, ‘and the West Country accent.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, blinking so I could almost hear her long eyelashes swishing through the air, ‘those are a bit of a giveaway, aren’t they?’

  We stood there for a moment.

  ‘It’s really good to see you again, Peter,’ she said, breaking the impasse and holding my hand in both of her incredibly soft paws. ‘A lot of catching up to do. Are those for me?’

  She was pointing at the basket that contained the carrots.

  ‘For all of you,’ I said rather foolishly.

  ‘How … sweet,’ she said in an uncertain voice. ‘Really, you shouldn’t have troubled yourself.’

  There was another uncertain pause. I could have left there and then, but I was on a mission – and I admit I was curious, and not just about reacquainting myself with Connie: it’s not often rabbits move in next door. I needed a conversation opener, so went for the most obvious.

  ‘Will your children be going to the local school?’

  ‘Not for a week or so,’ she replied, I think also relieved by the mundane direction in which the conversation had headed. ‘We need to speak to the headmistress Mrs Lomax about certain … special requirements.’

  I decided to tackle the elephant in the room.

  ‘About being … rabbits?’ I said, in as matter-of-fact a tone as I could muster.

  ‘No,’ she replied innocently. ‘Bobby has a potentially fatal allergy to peanuts.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling awkward now that the elephant in the room had denied its own existence, ‘that must be very … challenging for him.’

  ‘Her. Roberta, but known as Bobby. Like in The Railway Children?’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘Jenny Agutter played her in the movie.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, but not really remembering.

  ‘Who’s at the door?’ came a voice from inside the house.

  ‘This is Peter Knox, our new neighbour,’ said Connie, opening the door wider to reveal Major Rabbit hopping aggressively across the hall carpet. Since he was powerfully built and quite tall – at least six-four without the ears – I found him somewhat intimidating.

  ‘He and I shared a few lectures at Barnstaple University.’

  ‘Was he part of the infinitesimally small crowd that demonstrated against your expulsion?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘I would have been there,’ I said, ‘but was away that weekend.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Major Rabbit.

  ‘At my aunt’s,’ I explained, making it suddenly sound even more of a lame excuse than it was, ‘she was ill.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Major Rabbit, looking at Connie and then me, ‘were he and you a thing?’

  ‘Goodness me, no,’ said Connie with a laugh, ‘what an idea. No, we just did some coffee and films. Look,’ she added, ‘Peter brought over gifts.’

  Major Rabbit took the basket from her, lifted the gingham tea towel, stared at the carrots for a moment and then scowled at me.

  ‘What is this? Some kind of joke?’

  ‘Clifford, please,’ said Connie, ‘you’re embarrassing me. I’m sure Peter had no idea. Fudds are just impossible when it comes to following our ways and customs.’

  Major Rabbit ignored her and continued to stare at me in a menacing fashion. I noticed that one of his eyes was slightly milky, and his ears had a dozen or so duelling bullet holes, evidence of loves lost and won. His left ear had a kink a quarter of the way up where a wound had healed badly, but Mrs Griswold and Pippa had been right: he was ex-military – his blood group, tissue type and favourite strain of carrot26 were plainly visible, tattooed inside the right ear. Rabbits who had been marked in this manner never came up on our screens. No need.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, moving away slowly, ‘I meant no offence. I thought rabbits liked carrots, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course we like carrots. We live for carrots. We’d die for a sodding carrot. But not like that. Not scrubbed … topped … and in a basket.’

  He stared at me dangerously, awaiting an explanation that I couldn’t give.

  ‘Clifford,’ said Connie more firmly, ‘calm is as calm does, remember?’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’ve no idea what I’ve done to offend you, but whatever it is, I apologise. I’m your neighbour.’

  I pointed across the dividing hedge to my house and both Connie and Major Rabbit looked at my house for a moment, twitched their noses in unison, looked at each other, then back at me.

  ‘It was simply a moving-in present,’ I added, ‘but I can see this is bad timing. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  I turned to go but Major Rabbit took a powerful bound and was instantly at my side. He laid a paw on my shoulder.

  ‘You had no idea?’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, warming to my task, ‘I’ll admit there’s been some negative sentiments about you moving here, but I’d thought and try and show you that despite the vocal minority, some of us are at least—’ I tried to think of the right phrase ‘—harmlessly indifferent.’

  Major Rabbit looked back at Connie, then at me, then smiled.

  ‘If you’re merely selling indifference, we’ll buy that with cabbage. I think I owe you an apology.’

  He slapped me on the back.

  ‘I’m Major Clifford Rabbit, DSC, Powys Regiment.’

  We shook hand/paws.

  ‘Mr Knox,’ he said after thinking for a moment, ‘have you ever tried meadowfield stew?’

  I had to admit that I hadn’t.

  ‘We shall deal with this woeful lapse in your life experience. Constance, my sweet? Are we busy tomorrow night?’

  ‘Bridge club in Ross,’ she said. ‘No, wait, that’s the night after.’

  ‘Good,’ said Major Rabbit, ‘how about tomorrow night?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Excellent – and please, Mr Knox, bring your daughter.’

  ‘How did you know I had a daughter?’

  ‘From the size of her clothes on the washing line,’ he said, seemingly without looking in that direction at all. ‘She’s probably nineteen or twenty, slim build. Working in management, I think.’

  He leaned closer and sniffed at me delicately.

  ‘But there’s no scent of adult female on you,’ he continued, seemingly quite carried away with his own precise observations. ‘You are not partnered, but it’s not by choice. I can smell emptiness, loss and a deep melanch—’

  ‘That’s enough, sweetness,’ said Connie, walking up from the porch and taking her husband’s arm. ‘You can bring your elder brother, too, if you want, Peter. Have you had him tested? He looks a little simple.’

  I frowned.

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘No? Then you have a burglar. I saw him nipping furtively into your back door while we were standing here talking. Had a sort of lumpy face that looked like a pothole repair done in haste and on a limited budget.’

  ‘That’ll be my gardener,’ I said, realising she was describing Norman Mallett with alarming precision. He must be there lurking, wanting to quiz me. I looked at Connie and Clifford in turn.

  ‘You seem very … observant.’

  ‘Almost three hundred and ten degrees peripheral vision,’ said Clifford, pointing at his large eyes. ‘We can see front, back and top. In fact,’ he added with a sense of pride, ‘we can almost see better behind us than in front. If you were once prey, it pays to know what’s going on around you at all times.’

  ‘That must be very useful.’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t stink.’

  ‘Sensing almost everything around us gives us an edge,’ explained Connie, ‘in a hostile environment.’

  ‘Well,’ I said with a smile, preparing to leave, ‘I hope you don’t find Much Hemlock too much of a hostile environment.’

  But they didn’t return my smile.

  ‘I certainly hope that is the case,’ said M
ajor Rabbit evenly. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock tomorrow, then?’

  I had just got back to my own front door when the genuine Carrot-o-gram turned up – four rabbits dressed in stripy blazers and straw boaters. The Rabbity language in song sounded like a series of continuous delicate sneezes, but in four-part harmony.

  ‘What a load of nonsense,’ said Norman, who had indeed made his way into my house, and was now watching the Carrot-o-gram from behind the safety of the net curtains in the front room. ‘What did you learn, Knoxie?’

  ‘Not much. I’m going over there for a meal tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Good man. But don’t get too cosy. Just make friends and then persuade them that twelve thousand would buy an awful lot of carrots.’

  ‘You said seven thousand earlier.’

  ‘The vicar came on board – I think he must be raiding the church roof appeal or something. Actually, we could probably run to fifteen but keep that under your hat, yes?’

  I told him I would then saw him out the back door.

  ‘Act like you’re my gardener,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They clocked you coming into my house, so it’s your cover story.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he said, ‘can’t a fella keep a close watch on stuff without nosy neighbours studying his every move?’

  I closed the door behind him, not really thinking about the bribe and the task in hand, but about Connie. I knew what I had felt seeing her again, but wasn’t sure whether she had felt the same – either now, or back when we were nineteen. I could recognise rabbits, but I couldn’t read them. There’s a big difference.

  Searching in vain & Shopping in town

  The United Kingdom Anti-Rabbit Party began as a one-issue pressure group in 1967 and morphed into a political party as their anti-rabbit message spread. Although it was dismissed as a joke in the early years, Nigel Smethwick’s populist rhetoric, a polarised nation and a divided parliament led him to unexpected victory in the controversial 2012 snap election.

  Lugless was in before Toby and me that morning, which was unusual. Rabbits, for the most part, were not early risers. When we walked in he was carefully tidying his desk, even though it wasn’t cluttered. There was his nameplate, several hammers of varying sizes, a paw-compliant keyboard, his own dip pen and ink-pot, a citation of merit awarded him by Nigel Smethwick himself, and a single gourmet carrot in a terracotta plant pot. Behind him on the wall was a somewhat racy rabbit calendar displaying a Daisy Duke-wearing Miss April, even though it was well into July.

  As soon as I walked in Lugless stopped what he was doing, sat back in his chair and crunched on a stick of romaine he had standing by in a jug of iced water.

  He said nothing, so I logged in and began work, sifting through all the Labstocks on the database that were male, had no duelling scars and were six foot or taller.27 I’d been quite close to the white rabbit in the church, and even though I was five foot ten, I barely came up to his shoulder. I’d made a rough sketch of the squashed Tudor rose pattern I’d seen in his ears and we’d dutifully shared it with other departments, but even the two probables they sent me were way off the mark.

  Today I would be going through Labstocks who had died in case he’d faked his own death in order to avoid detection. There were several hundred of these, and since rabbits die frequently, on-colony deaths are not usually corroborated by sight, or pictures taken. After that, I’d have to start on the Labstocks based at the other colonies, which might, I estimated, take the best part of a month. And if he was unregistered – as would be likely – all my work would be for nothing. To be honest, if I were running the Rabbit Underground, I’d use unregistered Labstock rabbit as couriers for precisely this reason: a low to nil chance of identification.

  ‘Any luck on the Flopsy?’ asked Lugless, the ‘7770’ suffix now redundant as he was all I’d been looking for these past weeks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘but there are plenty more bunshots for me to go through.’

  ‘We really need a name, Knox.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘I go the speed I can go.’

  The day wound tediously around until lunch when I wandered off towards the Old Market precinct to buy some socks from TK-Maxx.

  The air was warm but not sultry, the shoppers in a good temper, the town quiet as befits a Monday. As I walked past the car park outside the Odeon I noticed the Rabbits’ Dodge Monaco. I knew it was theirs as, firstly, Monacos are not a frequent sight in Hereford, and secondly, there was a Playboy Bunny sticker on the back, something which was both iconic and ironic: iconic as the logo was the unofficial emblem of Rabbit Equality, and ironic because the Playboy Club had never permitted any real rabbits to ever be bunny girls.28 I didn’t know whether it meant Clifford was in town or Connie, but as I looked around I saw Connie hurrying into Waitrose, and Clifford nowhere in sight. All thoughts of birthday presents vanished from my head as I trotted into the store, grabbed a basket, hastily chucked five or six random objects inside for plausibility, then went to find her while wondering which ‘accidental meeting’ strategy would work best: to just bump into her, or amble past until she noticed me?

  I found her in the magazine section, deep in conversation on her mobile. I nipped back into the next aisle and paused for thought, my heart thumping. I’d not seen her for over thirty years, and even way back then nothing had happened between us, nothing could have happened between us. What was I doing? I began to walk away but my quick exit was abruptly thwarted.

  ‘So how did it go during dinner?’ came a voice behind me, and I jumped. It was Victor Mallett. He always did his shopping in Waitrose, as it was ‘a positive British experience generally unsullied by the presence of foreigners’.

  ‘That’s not until tonight,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Victor, ‘jolly good. The leaving fund is now up to twenty grand, but start low and haggle hard, yes? Make them think seven is our limit. Look,’ he added, having another thought, ‘we’d rather not spend the cash if we don’t have to. The church roof isn’t going to repair itself, and a financial hit of this size could impact on the next Royal Baby street party – so is there anyone at the Taskforce you could ask to pressure them into moving on?’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  ‘Really? I thought that was precisely how it works. You’re at RabCoT, for Christ’s sake – hardly the bunny’s best friend.’

  ‘I’m only an accountant.’

  It was the first time I think I realised how much of a massive lie it was. Victor Mallett, annoyingly, was right. If I’d been honest with myself, I could have easily seen that the Ministry of Rabbit Affairs – who oversaw the Rabbit Compliance Taskforce – were anything but congenial to rabbits. They had, up until we left the EU, been cited seven hundred and twenty-eight times by the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg. They’d ruled that since we were treating rabbits like humans – that they paid taxes, held employment, demonstrated free will, understood mortality and their place within society and the world – they were ipso facto human enough to be classed as such, with all the rights and privileges that went with it.

  The UK government didn’t see it in quite the same way, and legally defined rabbits on strict taxonomic grounds, which unequivocally had them classed as Oryctolagus cuniculus: rabbits. Emphatically not human. It was a decision that was roundly embraced by RabToil, as it meant that annoyingly restrictive employment laws could be usefully circumvented. Additionally, the government argued, giving rabbits equal rights was a dangerous precedence as it then made no legal sense not to give the same to chickens, cows and pigs. Accepting food as pay for being a dog or a horse could very well be defined as paid employment and require sick leave and other benefits, but it was the whole ‘being murdered and eaten’ issue that was so deeply problematic. The Actual Truth headlined the case as: ‘Europe wants to take away your bacon rolls.’

  I sighed, and a little bit more of myself crumbled inside. The really questionable work t
hat RabCoT undertook was done on the floor below me, but even so, I enabled it. Even if I wasn’t part of the problem, I was certainly not part of the solution.

  Pippa’s mum Helena had thought so too, and it was why she left me after a series of increasingly acrimonious arguments. I needed to provide for us and maintain the house, but she didn’t think that keeping the family home in Much Hemlock was worth the price tag. She was the first and last person I told. No one else knew what I did. Not family, not friends, definitely not Pippa.

  ‘I think you’ve got Major Rabbit and Connie all wrong,’ I said in a quiet voice, hoping to smooth this over.

  ‘Oh, “Connie” is it now?’

  ‘She asked me to call her that,’ I said, feeling hot and annoyed and wanting to be away from here. ‘I thought you wanted me to get all friendly?’

  ‘I did,’ said Victor, ‘but not familiar. And my point about criminality has been borne out: their son has a tag on his ankle – for burrowing, I heard.’

  I’d seen the tag too.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ added Victor. ‘Not content with decimating the countryside and taking away all the poorly paid jobs that no one wants to do, they’ve started undermining our towns and villages. Can’t you see the metaphor? Their agenda is as clear as the nose on your face: Undermine and Overpopulate. Do you know how many buildings have been seriously damaged by Vandaburrolism?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, trying hard to remember even a single case.

  ‘I don’t know either,’ said Victor, ‘but it’s dozens at least, perhaps more. The TwoLegsGood website is packed full of examples.’

  ‘If you want to know about Kent, all you need do is ask.’

  It was Connie. She stared at us both in turn, then blinked those large odd-coloured eyes of hers. I had no idea how much of our conversation she’d heard, but I hoped not the bit about how I worked in Rabbit Compliance.

  ‘Have you met?’ I said, swiftly defaulting to introductions. ‘Mrs Rabbit, this is Mr Victor Mallett, chair of the Parish Council and long-time resident of Much Hemlock. Mr Mallett, this is Mrs Constance Rabbit, newly resident at Hemlock Towers.’