The Constant Rabbit

Tittle-Tattle and Toast

Buttons are tricky for rabbits to manage with paws; zips ditto. Velcro would be usable, but is regarded by rabbits as: ‘a hideously inelegant method of clothes fastening’. Buttons can be done up by them, but it’s a two-rabbit job and requires specialist tools. The human equivalent would be ‘trying to mend an aneroid barometer in boxing gloves’.

The following morning over coffee they told me about the previous evening. Rabbit parties, I learned, were pretty wild. There was loud music, booze, fights, impassioned political discourse, more fights, more music, more booze – and a lot of sex, usually in cosy side burrows at regular intervals. But it was the music that impressed Pippa the most.

‘It’s kind of like swing and jazz and mambo all at the same time,’ she said, ‘and played with such gusto. The trombonist actually died of a brain haemorrhage during his solo and the next number was dedicated to him – then everything just carried on as before. They have a zest for life that we don’t possess; as though they need to pack as much fun and good living into their lives as possible.’

‘Rabbits have high mortality issues what with disease, foxes, industrial accidents and trombone solos,’ said Sally, who was now wearing dark glasses, avoiding all sudden movements and speaking in a quiet voice, ‘so have to live life to the full, just in case.’

‘Makes sense, I guess,’ I said. ‘What’s it like inside Colony One?’

‘Like you see on the documentaries,’ said Pippa, ‘centred around May Hill but mostly below ground, and highly ordered. Tidy, neat, zero crime and not a speck of litter anywhere. We were in a subterranean club called The Cottontail Club. While everyone danced bits of dry earth fell from the ceiling. I asked Bobby about whether there were ever any collapses, and she said there were – frequently – but they just burrowed themselves out, and to keep close to her, just in case.’

‘So she looked after you?’ I asked.

‘She was great. Sally and I were being given some verbal over the ecological impact of our toxic anthropocentric agenda, and Bobby led a robust discussion group in which we concluded that the notion of “ownership” needs to give way to “custodianship”, and that individuals must shoulder responsibility for groupcrime – even if they do not know they are doing it or even agree with it – and should atone for their de facto complicity by working ever harder to effect change, and consider restorative justice options. It was quite humbling, but empowering, too.’

‘Can you stop talking so loudly?’ said Sally. ‘Or just stop talking? I’m really not feeling so well.’

I poured her a glass of water and put it next to her. She groaned, and took the tiniest of sips.

‘Who drove you in?’ I asked as casually as I could. ‘Was that a RabCab?’

‘An ex-boyfriend of Bobby’s named Harvey,’ replied Pippa.

It was the sort of information I really didn’t want to hear. A rabbit’s social circle was immensely strong, inclusive and supportive. If Harvey was an ex of Bobby’s, he’d know Doc and Connie well, too – and I knew how the Taskforce worked, and how everyone could be implicated.

‘Bobby and Harvey are still good friends,’ said Pippa, ‘Harvey was there at the club with us.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yes. He and Bobs and two others were talking about how they could suspend the Rehoming of Rabbits Act until a Pan-European Humanlike Rights panel can discuss and advise on the Rabbit Equality Issue.’

‘Sometimes I think that was why Nigel Smethwick was so glad for us to leave the EU,’ I said, trying hard not to think about Harvey, ‘so no one could legally challenge the UK’s record over rabbit rights and the introduction of the maximum wage.43’

‘Give equal rights to rabbits and it makes no sense not to give it to cows,’ murmured Sally, face firmly planted on the tablecloth, ‘or horses or bats or sheep. That’s the bigger issue here. The inherent rights of all life to enjoy the bounteous fruits of the biosphere – and not in a shared, abstract sense – but as a unifying concept for sentient life.’

She then groaned and said she felt she wanted to die, but somewhere glamorous, like Powys.

‘Why Powys?’ I asked. ‘It’s a pretty county, but I’d hardly call it glamorous.’

‘Not Powys,’ said Sally, face still flat on the tablecloth, ‘Paris. Excuse me.’

And she got up and fast-staggered out of the room in the direction of the toilet. I turned back to Pippa, who was staring at me.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

She looked down and traced the pattern on the tablecloth with her finger.

‘You, working for the Taskforce. Do you really think that’s a good idea?’

Conversations about the Rabbit Equality Issue always led to discussion of the Compliance Taskforce. She’d probably talked about it a lot with Bobby and Harvey the previous evening.

‘I’m a junior accountant, darling, an infinitesimally small cog. I’m not leporiphobic; my employer is irrelevant to me.’

I got up and walked to the sink with my empty cup in order to hide the hot flush that had risen in my cheeks. There was another pause and I heard Pippa take a deep breath.

‘Dad,’ she said, ‘you don’t know the first thing about accountancy. You can barely add. You’re a Spotter. You ID rabbits for the Taskforce. I’ve known for years.’

‘What? Oh – well, yes,’ I said, then to cover for the lie, I lied again: ‘We’re forbidden to tell family members for security reasons.’

The hot flush in my face deepened, and I stood there at the sink, my back to Pippa, speechless. I felt ashamed of working there and of lying, but the short exchange also made me feel, well, relieved.

‘I don’t guide policy,’ I said, still with my back to her, ‘or undertake any anti-rabbit activities personally. I just recognise rabbits for forty hours a week, and check they’re being honest. If they were honest to begin with, I wouldn’t have a job. Besides,’ I added, trying to normalise my position through repetition, ‘given that I’m unusual in wanting to do my job properly, I’m actually a net positive to the whole issue. If I didn’t do it, there’d only be someone far worse in control.’

‘Hmm,’ said Pippa.

‘It helped with you, too,’ I added, ‘we always needed a little extra. Putting in a wet room and your bedroom downstairs, that sort of stuff.’

‘Don’t put this on me,’ she said, her temper rising. ‘I can do stairs if I want – and a bath too, at a pinch. Is Toby one too?’

I paused, then nodded.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that makes it easier to dump—’

‘You need more toilet paper,’ said Sally, lurching back into the room, ‘and you may want to put the hand towel in the laundry.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

With Sally present the conversation moved on, and she was picked up by her mother soon after. But instead of the usual touching of her pearls, shy smiles and oblique references to her underused timeshare in Palafrugell ‘with a view of the sea from the bedroom’, Mrs Lomax glared at me savagely – as though it were entirely my fault that Sally was in a state.

After that, Pippa went to do an online training course on how to spot evidence of radicalisation amongst rabbits in the workplace, and I, since it was a Sunday, to wash the car and mow the grass. I did both on autopilot, wondering whether I should tell Lugless about Harvey’s identity. The only really good news about recent events was that Toby now had a greatly reduced chance of becoming my son-in-law. But if Pippa had known for years I was a Spotter, it wouldn’t take Connie too long to figure it out.

The rabbits were also out in the garden. Major Rabbit had his jacket off and was digging the lawn into neat furrows. Every now and then he would stop and mop his brow with a red-spotted handkerchief, which was pretty pointless as rabbits, being fur-bearing, don’t sweat. Connie, by contrast, was sitting on a sun lounger in the tiniest bikini imaginable while reading a copy of Ludlow Vogue. Her figure, like those of nearly all female anthropomorphised rabbits, was very humanlike, with bulges and curves in all the right places. By the way in which the post-church-service pedestrians slowed down as they walked past, I wasn’t the only one who thought this. It wasn’t long before the Malletts turned up.

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 by 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.’