The Constant Rabbit

The Thespian Talk-Through

Rabbits never drove fast. They liked to enjoy the view, didn’t much care for speed and besides, it was wasteful of fuel. If you want to get somewhere a long way away, just leave early. Days, if that’s what’s required. Or, as Samuel C. Rabbit had it: ‘nhffnfhfiifhfnnffhrhrfhrf’ or ‘to travel joyously is better than to arrive’.

The Toby issue now out of our hands, Pippa went off to read about the Rabbit Way, presumably to be better informed when she next met Harvey. For my part, I wheeled the Austin-Healey48 out of the garage to rectify a fault with the brake lights and tinkered for an hour before deciding to go for a walk. I told Pippa to have fun at the cinema, while privately thinking she was probably far safer in Harvey’s company than she ever was in Toby’s. I then wended my way up the pyon49 to the brick octagonal building that sat on the summit. It had been derelict for a long time, and the walls were daubed with graffiti. Discarded cans of Stella Artois surrounded an old sofa that someone had lugged up there, and the location, which once had been mysterious and magical, now seemed shabby and sad.

I returned by way of the church. The vicar was in the graveyard with Mrs Pettigrew, and although I had known them both for over twenty years, they were suddenly in haste to be somewhere else, gave me a curt ‘good evening’ and hurried off.

Pippa had gone by the time I got back, but had sent me a text saying not to worry about her, which had the entirely opposite effect – who tells you not to worry about anything unless there is something to worry about? I shrugged, then went through to the kitchen and was staring into the fridge for some sort of dinner-for-one inspiration when I heard the front door open. I walked through to the hall, thinking that perhaps the film was booked up and Pippa had returned early, but she hadn’t. It was Connie, and she was carefully removing her outdoor shoes and placing them neatly by the grandfather clock. She was dressed in a pale blue summer dress with a crocheted button cardigan. She spoke without looking up.

‘Bobby bumped into some friends of hers and they went too,’ she said. ‘I gave them some vouchers to eat at Vegamama’s50 afterwards,’ she added. ‘Bobby’s pals were colony, so barely have two carrots to rub together.’

‘Was one of them Harvey?’ I asked. ‘I think he and Pippa might have a thing going.’

‘You may be right,’ she said with a smile, ‘but don’t fret. Harvey’s a nice lad – for a Friend of Starsky.’

‘Friend of Starsky’ was one of the politer names Wildstock used for Petstock, the less polite ones being ‘Petters’ and ‘Bottle-Lickers’.

‘Oh, and listen,’ she added, sucking her lip, ‘sorry about the scene in All Saints Church. I hope it didn’t cause you any trouble at the Taskforce.’

I had kind of expected this, but even so was unprepared.

‘You knew that I worked at RabCoT?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Connie with a smile. ‘I got the lowdown on you from Mrs Griswold at the newsagents soon after we arrived. When it comes to trading salacious gossip of a seriously hanky-panky nature, rabbits have a lot of ammunition. Mind you, I was surprised that Mr Ffoxe knew you by name. Are you important there?’

‘No,’ I lied, ‘I’m just a junior accountant. I – ah – bring Mr Ffoxe his petty cash.’

‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be a Spotter. You recognised me the first time in the library, although I think you were pretending you hadn’t.’

She said it with her head cocked on one side, and staring intently into my eyes.

‘Junior accountant,’ I reaffirmed.

‘Well, someone has to do these jobs. Our beef is with head office, Nigel Smethwick and the Regional Fox, not rank-and-file officers trying to earn a crust to feed their families.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that’s good. Did you think it was wise,’ I continued, wanting to move on, ‘threatening Mr Ffoxe in that manner?’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t know, but if you let people – foxes, politicians, media outlets, platforms, whatever – get away with unacceptable behaviour, then it emboldens them and others to greater and more extreme conduct. Besides, he knew I wouldn’t have harmed him – I’d be killing my own if I took him out. No, I just wanted to make my feelings known.’

‘They’re an unlikely ally of humans,’ I said. ‘Before the Event we used to hunt them on horseback and shoot them on sight.’

‘It’s a shame you still don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s a your-enemy-is-my-enemy-you-must-be-my-friend deal. Now,’ she added, giving me a twirl there in the hall, ‘what do you think?’

I didn’t know what she was referring to: her figure, her clothes, or even her general demeanour. They were all pretty much perfect. I stammered for a moment, and she helped me out.

‘It’s called Flopsy Chic by Stella Rabbit,’ she said, indicating the clothes. ‘Very in at the moment. A sort of Beatrix Potter juvenilia mixed with practicality, and of stretch fabric so bouncing is unencumbered.’

‘It’s very nice,’ I said, still unsure why she was in my front hall, but very glad she was.

There was a pause.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I came over here to ask a favour, but if this is a bad moment I can leave.’

‘N-no,’ I said, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘I mean, no, it’s fine, really – I was just wondering what to do with myself for the evening. There’s always Casualty on the telly, but it’s not been the same since Brenda Fricker left.’

‘That was years ago,’ said Connie. ‘Have you really been watching it all that time hoping it will get better?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, maybe now and again. Please, come in.’

I led her into the living room and she draped herself over the sofa.

‘Nice curtains,’ she said, stretching her toes out over the arm of the settee. ‘We don’t have carrot patterns on ours, by the by, that’s a myth. It would be like you having bacon sandwiches on yours.’

We both sat in silence for a few moments.

‘You don’t mind me popping round, do you?’ she asked, blinking her large eyes. ‘I don’t have many friends in the area, rabbit or otherwise, and I always thought you and I got on well, y’know, back in the day.’

There was a pause, and to fill the empty air I asked whether she’d like a drink.

‘Thought you’d never ask. Any dandelion brandy?’

‘A friend gave me some earlier today.’

I poured two small measures, stopped, then made them larger.

‘Bobby said Doc was on assignment in the Middle East,’ I said over my shoulder.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘something regarding security but I didn’t ask. It’s best not to know in his line of work.’

I told her I understood, and handed her the drink.

‘Bottoms up,’ I said.

‘Cottontails to the ceiling.’

I sipped mine but hers went down in a single gulp.

‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘very good – maybe a little “kitteny” for me, but heigh-ho: are refills free in this house?’

We both laughed even though it wasn’t funny, and I went and fetched her another.

‘So what’s this favour I can help you with, Connie?’

She produced two scripts from her bag.

‘I’ve got an audition on Monday and was wondering if you could run some lines with me?’

‘Of course,’ I said, and sat down beside her. ‘But I’m not an actor.’

‘We are all actors,’ said Connie. ‘Our true feelings and desires hidden behind masks carved from the trammels of accepted social norms. Wouldn’t you say so?’

She didn’t wait for me to answer and instead passed me one of the scripts.

‘There’s no acting required. I just need someone upon whom to project, and to feed me my cue lines. This is the scene I want to run,’ she added, placing her warm paw on my hand and moving closer. ‘I’m a manipulative Lapin fatale who is trying to ensnare a social inferior in order that she can use him to murder her husband in a duel. I wrote it myself.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘a thriller?’

‘Domestic drama. We’re very social creatures, and the close proximity in which we live our lives has engendered a strong tradition of family drama. The last remake of The Flopsy Bunnies was three hours long and sort of like Neighbours, Amadeus and Fast & Furious all rolled into one.’

‘Sounds complex.’

‘Not to us. Our version of The Comedy of Errors has nine sets of identical sextuplets. It’s much funnier. Shakespeare really missed a trick on that one.’

‘Rabbit society seems quite full on.’

‘I’d agree with that. We like to enjoy the fruits not just of being rabbits, but being partly human, too.’

‘Such as?’

‘Speech is super-useful, along with reason, free will and abstract thought. Appreciation of literature, music and the visual arts is also a winner. We especially like Barbara Hepworth and Preston Sturges’ films – plus anything with Jimmy Stewart or Dame Maggie Smith.’

She sucked her lip and thought some more.

‘But there are drawbacks, too: the knowledge of one’s own demise is a bit of a downer, like a massive spoiler alert, and your spiteful sense of illogical hatred does take a little getting used to. It’s just all so, well, pointless – and such a waste of spirit, especially when you think what could be achieved with a little more unity and focus.’

She fell silent for a few moments.

‘But oddly, hate’s counter-emotion does ameliorate the sense of waste. We had a serious amount of sex when we were rabbits – still do – but it brings everything to an all-new high when love is brought into the mix. It’s like – I don’t know – listening to a six-year-old attempting “A Spoonful of Sugar” on a kazoo for your entire life, then discovering Puccini.’

‘It’s a winner,’ I agreed, ‘but only if the object of that love loves you back.’

‘True,’ she said, ‘and we are often surprised when love strikes in a sometimes illogical and arbitrary fashion.’

Her voice had been becoming gradually softer as she spoke. I shifted my weight on the sofa.

‘I’ll be honest,’ she said, staring intently into my eyes. ‘From the moment I first saw you I knew that we would be together, no matter how insane that was. That love would find a way. That love will always find a way.’

I stared at her, not quite believing what I was hearing. I’d felt the same, too, all those years ago, and still felt it now. Had always felt it. And just as I was wondering how you kiss a rabbit – or even if you kiss a rabbit at all – she suddenly recomposed herself and said in an abrupt fashion: ‘Line.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s your line. In the script.’

‘Oh,’ I said, and in something of a panic looked down and simply read the first line I could see.

‘I’ve been impregnated by your uncle,’ I said, ‘and it feels like it might be octuplets.’

‘I think we’ve missed a page,’ she murmured, taking my script and flipping back a leaf and tapping the first line. ‘Here we are.’

‘You’re very attractive,’ I said, reading the script, ‘but this won’t work.’

‘Yes, you say that,’ she said, ‘but it can’t have escaped your attention that there has been something between us, something stronger than both of us – a mutual attraction that transcends the tiresome normalities of everyday life.’

I didn’t say anything, and she blinked at me.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

‘Say whatever you feel,’ she whispered, closing her eyes and leaning forward.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I really don’t know what to say. I think your ink cartridge ran out.’

I held up the script by way of explanation.

‘Oh!’ she said, looking flustered. ‘Kent must have been using the printer again. Drat that boy.’ She then added: ‘Is it hot in here?’

‘It is quite hot,’ I said.

‘Then you don’t mind if I remove my cardig …’

She’d stopped speaking because there was a knock at the front door.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘It’s Doc.’

‘Isn’t he in the Middle East?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘then maybe Rupert.’

‘Isn’t that affair finished?’

‘No, no, not that Rupert. Another Rupert. He told Doc he’d keep an eye on me in case I was planning to initiate a spousal appropriation. How are you with a duelling pistol?’

‘What?’

‘Just my joke,’ she said. ‘Actually, since they’ve knocked on the door, they’re not likely to be a rabbit at all, are they?’

‘Unless,’ I said slowly, ‘they’re a rabbit pretending to be a human in order to put either you or me off guard?’

‘Good point,’ she said. ‘Do you have a cupboard in which I could hide?’

‘Really?’

‘Yes – hiding in cupboards from suspicious partners has a strong tradition in rabbit culture. Really, Peter, this is all totally normal.’

I opened the broom cupboard, and then, after picking a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo out of her bag along with a torch, Connie stepped elegantly inside.

‘Oooh,’ she said, looking around, ‘you have a Henry vacuum cleaner. Any good?’

‘Very good. Not a word now.’

She sat down on the Henry and opened the book, then flicked on the torch. I had the feeling that she might have done this before – many times.

I walked through to the hallway and opened the front door. But it wasn’t a rabbit, or a rabbit pretending to be a human. It was a human: a Toby Mallett sort of human.