“No, we’re just modern Canadians,” said Katherine.
“OH!” said the mother. “I’ve always wanted to see one of those. Harry, take a picture!”
Mildred growled slightly.
“Oh, listen to the sounds they make! I TOLD you to bring the video camera, Harry.”
The family stayed rooted, waiting to see what Mildred would do next, so Madeline shuffled Katherine, Mildred and Flo into the next room.
“So!” she said when they were sure the tourists hadn’t followed. “We have no money at all? We’re stuck at the British Museum, which must be about ready to close, with no money and no place to stay? How are we ever going to get to Bellyflop? What are we going to do?”
Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny were on a train, trundling happily if somewhat overtiredly through the English countryside, all their bunny currency intact.
“What a lovely country,” said Mrs. Bunny rhapsodically. “How it does put me in mind of the poets. I wandered lonely as a cloud …,” she began.
“Mrs. Bunny, please tell me you’re not going to declaim all through Europe,” said Mr. Bunny in the crabby way of overtired travelers everywhere.
“Humph,” said Mrs. Bunny. “We are not going ‘all through Europe,’ and I have been waiting to declaim in England for a good long while. The least you could do is lend me your bunny ears.”
“If you ask me, this place hasn’t got a nickel on the hutch and our own backyard. Not a wooden nickel’s worth better than the Cowichan Valley, a valley of mild and temperate climate.”
“And how lovely to be on land again in such countryside after our long sea voyage.” The crabbier Mr. Bunny became, the more Mrs. Bunny was driven to rhapsodic crescendos.
“Lovely to be on land if the land would stay still. Ever since I got off that boat my legs have been trying to keep the earth from rolling about so.”
“Oh, that’s just your sea legs. They’ll go away,” said Mrs. Bunny airily. “I can’t wait to see our B and B. Isn’t this countryside like a storybook, Mrs. Treaclebunny?”
But Mrs. Treaclebunny had earlier used the three idioms “all my eye and Peggy Martin,” “cor, blimey!” and “for donkey’s years” all in the same sentence, proving that her Briticisms were picking up speed now that she was in England, and Mr. Bunny may have bitten her just a bit. Mrs. Treaclebunny had flounced out and found a whist tournament in the club car and had no plans to return anytime soon.
Oh well, thought Mrs. Bunny. She gazed out again on the emerald fields. “Can’t you just not wait to see our B and B?”
“Won’t have the three-hundred-thread-count cotton sheets I have at home, I bet,” said Mr. Bunny gloomily. “And I like my own shower at the end of the day. Not some foreign contraption.”
Mrs. Bunny gave up then and just recited poetry quietly to herself. She hoped Mr. Bunny would be in a better mood after a fine English dinner and a good night’s sleep.
It was dark when they finally got to MacRabbitville in North Yorkshire. Mr. Bunny grabbed his and Mrs. Bunny’s luggage. Mrs. Treaclebunny joined them and handed hers to Mr. Bunny too.
“I hope this is a good accommodation,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Oh, it is. It got many fine reviews in The International Bunny and Condé Rabbit Traveler. And it’s very close to the train station—we can hop right over,” said Mrs. Bunny.
Mrs. Bunny and Mrs. Treaclebunny hopped out of the train and along the village sidewalk, but Mr. Bunny, who was dragging three suitcases, did not so much hop as shuffle. He was even more crabby and sweaty when he arrived at their bunny accommodations.
But when they saw it, their jaws dropped.
“This can’t be right,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “There’s no B and B sign or even a card in the window.”
“One whole side of the building looks collapsed,” said Mr. Bunny.
“But it’s the right address,” said Mrs. Bunny, checking and double-checking her computer printout.
Mrs. Bunny and Mrs. Treaclebunny stood for five minutes without moving, as if the door would open on its own. Finally, Mr. Bunny let go of the luggage, hopped up to the door and banged away on its heavy knocker.
“Oh, look at that charming knocker,” sang Mrs. Bunny. “It’s probably been there since the time of the medieval rabbits.”
There was a long silence. They could hear no one coming to the door.
Mr. Bunny knocked again. This time he might have even kicked the door a little. Finally, a very grumpy bunny in a long gown and nightcap and carrying a candle opened the door.
Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bunny, this proprietress would whip up some toad-in-the-hole or other tasty native fare and sit them in front of a roaring fire. But no, she did not look the sort. Her eyes were very slitty and mean.
“WHAT?” demanded the proprietress bunny, angrily staring at them through particularly menacing-looking spectacles.
“Oh, look at her nightcap! And the candle! No electricity! Oh, this is just so full of picturesque charm! It has all the culture shock I was wishing for and more!”
“Mrs. Bunny, if you wax rhapsodic again, I’m going to throw your suitcase into the Thames,” said Mr. Bunny. “This is not the time for sensitive travelogues. Madam, we have a reservation. Show her your receipt, Mrs. Bunny.”
So Mrs. Bunny did.
“Tough toenails, ducky,” said the proprietress. “We’re closed.”
“CLOSED?” said Mrs. Bunny. “But I prepaid.”
“Yeah, well, we had a fire two nights ago. Got no rooms left to let. Fire destroyed the whole guest wing.”
“But I prepaid!” said Mrs. Bunny again.
“Can’t help that. Act of God.”
“Now see here, my good woman,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “You owe us two rooms or a refund.”
“If it’s a refund you want, you’ll have to wait for the insurance money to come through. In the meantime, as I already made plain, we got no rooms. Burnt to a crisp, they have.”
“Well, can’t you find us a room somewhere else in town?” asked Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“There aren’t none. What do you think this is, America, with Holiday Inns on every corner? You’ll have to go to another town. I’m going to bed.”
“We’re not from America, we’re from Canada,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “You and I share the same queen.”
“Don’t know what the queen’s got to do with it, never had no use for her meself,” said the woman, and slammed the door in their faces.
“Well!” said Mildred. “This is a fine how-do-you-do.”
“Let’s think, let’s think,” said Madeline, beginning to fidget and pace. She didn’t mind being stranded like this so very much for herself. In fact, it was just the sort of situation she would expect to find herself in on a trip that Flo had arranged. But she minded terribly for Katherine, who was used to somewhat normal people. “What can we do? Surely there must be something we can do.”
“We’ve got to trust in the same force that brought us the mystical Pop-Tarts,” said Flo.
“Those Pop-Tarts were not mystical,” said Madeline. “They were—”
“Even I would feel better if we had a plan,” Mildred interrupted.
“I do have a plan,” said Flo.
“Well, thank goodness,” said Mildred as they all turned to him expectantly.
Flo had taken the brochure from Mildred and was flipping through it. “I’m going to check out the British Museum. This place looks really cool. And it’s FREE!”
The others didn’t know what to do, so they tripped dispiritedly after him, still wheeling their suitcases along.
They were so tired that only Flo was able to focus on the exhibits. The rest of them followed him mutely.
They had been there an hour when Madeline said to Katherine, “I guess synchronicity is a crock. I guess there’s no big universal plan or we wouldn’t be stuck here. I’m sorry you got dragged along. This is just another idea that Flo and Mildred didn’t plan properly.”
<
br /> “But there’s been a charming lack of sports equipment,” said Katherine politely.
“You know, I wish I knew more about all this stuff,” Flo said as they went up one aisle of exhibits and down the next. “Wait a second, there’s a tour over there. Let’s join it.”
“I think you have to pay for those tour guides,” said Madeline. “We can’t just glom on.”
But Flo had already edged his way into the group.
“These may look like bookcases,” the tour guide was saying. “But in reality they are doors. If we open them we find secret passageways that run through the museum. Passageways that only special museum personnel are allowed to use. I’ll open one for us to take a quick look but we mustn’t enter.”
The guide opened one of the bookcase doors.
Madeline gasped.
Standing there was the last person she expected to see.
It was dark and rainy on the sidewalk. The rabbits stood in disbelief as their fur dripped on the pavement.
“Well!” said Mrs. Treaclebunny at last. “This is the last trip I let you plan.”
“Hasn’t any use for the queen!” said Mrs. Bunny. Her fur stood on end. Her claws popped out.
“Down, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny mildly.
“I suppose we’d better take the train back to London,” Mrs. Bunny said uncertainly, retracting her claws. “If there is one. There’s sure to be a room in London somewhere. I’ll just check my Condé Rabbit for a recommendation.”
“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “That’s the last Condé Rabbit recommendation I believe I’ll be using.”
“To be fair,” said Mrs. Bunny, “that proprietress bunny can hardly be blamed for having a fire in her B and B. And Condé Rabbit can’t be responsible for such things.”
“To be fair to us,” said Mr. Bunny, “and we are the only bunnies I care to be fair to just at the moment, that proprietress bunny can be blamed for not even offering to assist us in finding somewhere else to stay. The least she can do is let us use her phone to make alternate plans.”
“Yes, knock on the door. Knock on it as hard as you can!” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Rouse her from her sleep and make her help us out.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Bunny faintly. “I do so hate to bother sleepy bunnies.…” But it was too late. Mr. Bunny was pounding on the door for all he was worth.
It opened to an extremely irate proprietress bunny. “What’s all this then? YOU? I thought I’d gotten rid of you.”
“We need to make some phone calls,” said Mr. Bunny.
“The well-prepared traveler always carries a cell phone,” said the proprietress, sniffing.
“I do not care to stand out here in the rain arguing the point,” said Mr. Bunny, storming in with Mrs. Bunny in tow. “We need to make other arrangements and we need your phone to make them.”
“All right, but hurry up. I was about to have a nice hot bath. It’s quite the shock I’ve had today. First a fire and then foxes.”
“Foxes?” said all three bunnies, dropping their suitcases in alarm.
“Yeah. Foxes, all right. Was minding me own business. Next thing I know, me guesthouse is burnt down and there’s foxes scurrying about.”
“Did the foxes set the fire?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“Never thought of that,” said the proprietress bunny, who, perhaps, was not the brightest carrot in the bunch. “But now that you mention it, they was carrying gasoline cans and matches, some of them.”
“Of course they set the fire,” said Mr. Bunny. “Foxes are the same the world over. They’re no-goodniks through and through. My good woman, please bring us a phone book and phone.”
“Got nothing better to do … wanted me bath … vexin’-enough day it were without demanding bunnies showin’ up on me doorstep,” muttered the proprietress bunny, shuffling off. “Next thing you know, they’ll be asking for a pomegranate, some Marmite, a jellyfish.”
“Perhaps you’ve had previous acquaintance with Mrs. Treaclebunny,” muttered Mr. Bunny. “Now I shall call around and see if I can find us a room somewhere else.”
“But where?” moaned Mrs. Bunny, who was beginning to come undone with all the stress and fatigue of the day. “We don’t even have a train schedule.”
“Getting a train schedule is the least of our problems,” said Mr. Bunny as the proprietress returned with a phone and silently handed it to him. She escorted them back outside, then marched back inside to run her bath.
“All I wanted was to become QUEEN. Was that too much to ask?”
“I suppose we could stay in a castle,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny ponderingly. “That would be safe from foxes and fires, at least.”
“Yes, yes, one with big towers and dungeons. Will you get ahold of yourself, Mrs. Treaclebunny, and stop talking nonsense. It’s bad enough one of you wanting to become queen without the other deciding she needs a castle,” said Mr. Bunny. “We must make a practical plan, and soon. After all, if there are foxes about, I’d just as soon not hang out on this doorstep forever.”
“Here,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, “give me the phone. While the two of you ‘make a practical plan,’ I will just call my cousin and have her pick me up. If you want to tag along, fine, or if by then you have a better ‘practical plan,’ do let me know.”
“You have a cousin?” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Here in England?” said Mr. Bunny.
Mrs. Treaclebunny didn’t even bother responding. She was busy dialing. Then chatting. Finally, she hung up. “All right then. My cousin has sent her driver for us. He should be here in an hour. She said we could stay with her. Not that it’s such a great place to stay. Damp. Full of wet hedges.”
“Mrs. Treaclebunny, you have saved the day,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“I always say travelers must be content, don’t I, Mrs. Bunny?” said Mr. Bunny, pounding Mrs. Treaclebunny gratefully on the back and trying to imagine what kind of hutch was full of wet hedges. A greenhouse-type hutch, perhaps?
“Well, he always says something,” said Mrs. Bunny in the effusive way of travelers who have almost been stranded bedless and then saved.
“Any hutch in a storm,” said Mr. Bunny.
“There he goes again!” said Mrs. Bunny, beaming fondly. “Mr. Bunny is nothing if not handy with an aphorism!”
“Well, it’s not a hutch, that’s the thing,” sighed Mrs. Treaclebunny. “The last time I stayed there I said, never again. It’s cold and drafty and it doesn’t have granite countertops or recessed lighting. But I suppose it will have to do.”
The proprietress had filled her tub and returned for the phone. “Are we all done now?” she asked acidly.
“Yes, we have been saved!” Mrs. Bunny told her rhapsodically.
“Yeah, I’m chuffed to bits, ducky,” said the proprietress, and slammed the door.
The bunnies huddled under the overhang shivering until the lights of a Rolls-Royce appeared and a uniformed driver came out to load their luggage.
“Mrs. Treaclebunny!” he said warmly. “Welcome back. And how is Mr. Treaclebunny?”
“Toast.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Well, we all have to go sometime, Charles. Have you got any chompies back here?” she asked as the bunnies climbed into the car.
“Yes, madam, slide the door on the cabinet there. And plenty of hot chocolate.”
“Excellent. Drive on,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny grandly as she passed around steaming mugs of cocoa.
The bunnies sipped and nibbled. As the journey was long, they snoozed a bit on the big comfortable seats until the car jerked and rumbled over a wooden bridge. Mrs. Treaclebunny slept on but the Bunnys’ eyes snapped open.
“Where are we?” whispered Mrs. Bunny.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Bunny, looking into the dark rain. “But I think we’re going over a … moat.”
“Uncle Runyon!” yelled Madeline in alarm. The tour turned and stared at her and her family. “Wha
t are YOU doing here?”
The tour guide was so startled that she let go of the secret bookcase door and it banged closed. When she opened it again Uncle Runyon was gone. Madeline ran past the people on the tour and, before the guide could stop her, disappeared up the stairs behind the hidden door.
“HEY!” yelled the guide. “You can’t go up there!”
Flo and Mildred and Katherine tried to follow, but the tour guide had by then recovered herself and slammed the door.
“Museum workers only.”
“But my daughter just went there,” said Mildred. “And Uncle Runyon. Practically my entire family is up there.”
“You’re well-enough represented, then. The rest of you can just stay put.” The guide folded her arms over her chest and looked quite fierce. And then they were all shuttled out of the way by a German tour guide and a group of German tourists, several of whom kicked Flo’s and Mildred’s suitcases aside to get a better vantage point, despite the fact that they were still holding on to them.
Flo and Mildred waited patiently for all the tour groups to move on. Once they had left, Flo grabbed the hidden doorknob and tried to turn it. But the door was locked and wouldn’t budge.
Meanwhile, Madeline ran up the stairs as fast as she could. She could just see the back of Uncle Runyon’s balding gray head as it whipped around corners. He went into a room marked COINS and the door clanged shut behind him.
Madeline tried knocking gently on the coin room door, but when no one answered she slowly opened it and entered. She was in a room with millions of little drawers with little drawer pulls. There were offices all about, opening onto the room with the coins, and at long tables men and women slumped over books and old coins, studying them and writing furiously. And at the end of a long table, writing most furiously of all, sat Uncle Runyon.
There was not a sound in the room. Madeline crept gently up and whispered, “UNCLE RUNYON!”
“Shhh, I beg you, shhh,” said Uncle Runyon.
“Why aren’t you in Africa studying the language of elephants?” she asked, for this was where he was headed when last she saw him.
Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty! Page 8
