“Because I’m in the British Museum studying coins,” said Uncle Runyon, glancing nervously around.
“Why?” asked Madeline.
“Because they don’t keep elephants at the British Museum.”
“No, why are you at the British Museum? Why are you in London? Why aren’t you in Africa?”
“It’s a long story. We can’t talk here. Can you and your family meet me in the Court Restaurant in ten minutes? I have to put this stuff away.”
“All right,” whispered Madeline. “We can sit with you but we can’t order anything. We haven’t any money. In fact, we’re stranded here because we have no money whatsoever.”
“Well, now, why doesn’t that surprise me? What have Mildred and Flo been up to?”
“That’s a long story too,” said Madeline.
“All right, we’ll exchange long stories in the restaurant. And you needn’t worry about money. I’ve got plenty of it. I’m bleeding the stuff. Order what you like. I’ll pay for it. And order cornflakes for me. The British are the nastiest cooks imaginable. You wouldn’t believe what they eat. Toad-in-the-hole. Sticky toffee pudding. Bubble and squeak. Butler’s deviled kidneys. Luxury toad-in-the-hole. That’s where they give you extra amphibians, I guess. All the visiting scholars live on cornflakes.”
Madeline made her way back to Flo and Mildred and Katherine and they trooped up to the Court Restaurant, where they ordered large meals. Without any money, who knew when they would eat again?
“Well, well, here we all are,” Uncle Runyon said jovially when he’d joined them. He seemed much more relaxed than he had in the coin room. “So, you first. What are you all doing here?”
Flo told their story, complete with his theory of synchronicity.
“And you see, I told Mildred to trust the universe. Trust the universe and where does it lead us? To the British Museum, where Uncle Runyon can lend us the train fare. The stars are aligned, man. They’re aligned!”
“Yes, yes, interesting things, stars,” said Uncle Runyon, pouring seven packets of sugar on his cornflakes. “You know, of course, that they shine because of nuclear fusion at their center. Well, of course also because their gravitational energy is set free. When the hydrogen gives out, the stars can’t continue with their nuclear fusion, but even after fourteen billion years of the universe’s existence, this hasn’t happened. Of course—”
“Yes, way cool,” interrupted Mildred. “But the thing is, Uncle Runyon, as Flo said, we need to borrow some money.”
“I’ll give you the train fare to Bellyflop, no problem. But you mustn’t speak to anyone about me or tell them that I was a decoder or studying animal languages. People will question what I’m doing here. To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I mean, I know what I’m doing here, it’s just that it is very odd that I’m here doing it.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Mildred.
“It’s synchronicity,” said Flo staunchly.
“Yes, Flo,” said Uncle Runyon irritably. “By that I assume you mean you’re having a great deal of luck. But you might ask yourself if things were so synchronistic, why Mildred blew all that money to begin with. Wouldn’t it have been easier for the universe to simply arrange that she hold on to your money? If things were so synchronistic, why are you stranded here with no money?”
“We’re not. You’re here. I know you’re, like, a scientist, man. And scientists figure they gotta find things out themselves, they gotta know everything. But I don’t have to find things out because I figure, you know, more will be revealed,” said Flo placidly, eating his salad. “Is this union lettuce?”
“How did you end up here?” asked Katherine.
“Ah! Good question,” said Uncle Runyon, spooning up more cornflakes. “Well, you see, I was busy studying the elephant language, making great headway. Fascinating creatures, and I thought they liked me. They seemed to not mind me hanging out with them. I thought we were becoming if not exactly interspecies pals, at least interspecies amiable acquaintances. Unfortunately, when I got a certain degree of fluency, I began to understand some of their conversations, and that was when I realized that in fact they didn’t like me at all. Their name for me was BIGPOOEYWHITEGUY. They were trying to decide which night to knock down my camp and trample me to death. I was shocked. I thought they had pacifist leanings. Anyhow, after deciding to trample me to death, they went on to plan the total destruction of the archaeological dig nearby. They didn’t like this archaeologist, they didn’t like that one. They didn’t like anyone. They were extremely crabby elephants. They had politicized their crabbiness, as so often people do, and had started a coalition called Africa for Elephants.
“Well, I sneaked away to warn the archaeologists one night when I thought the elephants were sleeping, but as I got to their camp I saw a bunch of irate elephants already knocking down the dig and chasing the archaeologists in circles. I don’t like to generalize, but as a whole, I would have to say that scientists—more endurance runners than sprinters. When the elephants spied me, they started racing after me. They said they didn’t want to be studied. They didn’t want to be understood. They liked their privacy. They thought it was cheeky of me invading their territory and eavesdropping on their conversations.
“I ran through the jungle. I could feel their hot elephant breath on my neck. Just when I thought I was a goner, I spied one of the archaeologists’ trucks with crated artifacts, getting ready to be shipped off somewhere, and without thinking I jumped in a crate just as the truck pulled away. It wasn’t terribly comfortable but it was more comfortable than being under the elephants’ feet. A while later the truck stopped somewhere and they hammered lids onto all the crates. But they never noticed me.
“It was cozy enough in my crate. I must have slept for hours, and the next thing I knew, I heard the roar of engines. From the freezing cold I deduced that I’d been transferred into the cargo hold of an airplane. But flying off to where? I slept more and when I awoke I was somewhere warm and silent. I kicked the lid off the crate and there I found myself in the British Museum all alone in the middle of the night. I used the washroom and raided the cafeteria’s fridges and finally fell asleep in the coin room.
“The next morning I awoke with a start because people were coming and taking coins out of drawers and sitting at desks and tables, writing about them. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just took some coins out of the drawers and looked like I was studying them too. I’ve known enough eggheads to know that they never notice anything that isn’t six feet long and shoved up their nose, and indeed no one questioned my being there. I stole some paper and pens and some of their coin books and a laptop that was just lying about, and all day I pretended to be studying coins. My idea was to leave later and get Jeeves to wire me some money.”
“Where was Jeeves?” asked Madeline.
“Who is Jeeves?” asked Katherine.
“My butler. He came to Africa with me but the climate didn’t agree with him. It made him rashy. So I sent him home. And a good thing. He was more useful to me there. Jeeves is always good in a crisis. I figured I’d settle into a hotel and get some money and fly home. But as soon as I stepped outside the British Museum I was attacked by squirrels.”
“Squirrels?”
“London’s full of them, and they’re nasty buggers, let me tell you. At first I thought they must be attacking everyone but soon I realized it was only me. They were targeting me. Let me tell you, you don’t know terror until you’ve been targeted by squirrels. They were gathering for vicious organized assaults with acorns. Somehow they KNEW. The elephants must have sent them a message! They’d started a worldwide animal vendetta! I mean, the whole thing would make a fascinating paper if I could gain some objectivity, but I’m afraid every time I think about it, it just makes me mad as a hornet. Squirrels are bad enough—suppose some of the bigger animals come after me? Dogs, for instance. Dogs can be very fierce. Or gerbils. Good Lord, you don’t want to s
tart annoying gerbils. I had to beat a hasty retreat back to the museum. And here I am.”
“Oh, Uncle,” said Madeline. “Are you sure the squirrel attack was really related to the elephants? Are you in fact sure you were attacked by squirrels at all? I mean, how could the elephants possibly have told the squirrels?”
“Oh yes, oh yes, you take the layman’s point of view. Most people, I’m afraid, are unaware of the deep connections between living things. Did you know that an aspen grove is not a bunch of separate trees but one living organism? If you could see beneath the ground you’d find all the trees connected by a root system. And even trees not so connected talk to each other. And not in some Wizard of Oz, mean-apple-tree way. When some infestation is upon a tree it increases its tannin production to make itself taste bad so it will be left alone by caterpillars or whatnot. And it releases a chemical that tells other trees that an attack is under way so they can step up their tannin production.
“People try to replicate this kind of unspoken communication using technology because they don’t trust that it really exists. They don’t obey their instincts.
“In parts of Africa a visitor has been known to set out to travel from tribe to tribe, none of whom have any modern communication devices, only to find that when he arrives, he was expected. Somehow his arrival has been communicated in advance. But how? So we make Facebook and Twitter and all those silly devices, which we then rely on, and lose the ability we had to communicate without them. It’s the same with global navigational devices. People who use them lose the part of the brain that navigates naturally. We are evolving ourselves right out of our natural skills. We are giving them away to electronics. So don’t tell me about elephants and squirrels.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” said Madeline hastily. Once Uncle Runyon got started on a new theory, it was hard to deflect him. “But can’t you just go home now? I mean, Jeeves could find a way to get you past the squirrels, couldn’t he?”
“Oh, yes indeed. Jeeves came with a trunkload of ideas, starting with a mailbag, which I was to climb into and he, dressed as a postman, was to leave the museum carrying over his shoulder.”
“The squirrels wouldn’t know it was you?”
“Well, his reasoning was that they might, but they would say to themselves, ‘The mail must go through!’ ”
“And it didn’t work?”
“Well, that is where the story takes a twist. I didn’t actually try it because, you see, it took him a little while to get to England, and while I was waiting I went back to the coin room and pretended to study coins again, like everyone else, but the thing is, I began to get interested. Fascinating things, ancient coins. And, well, I began to have theories. And I began to share them with the others, who encouraged me to apply for grants, and by gosh, I got them. First one, then another—everyone was sending me money. Hundreds and hundreds and thousands of pounds. To study more coins and come up with more theories. And before I knew it I was hooked. Anything you begin to study in depth can grab you. It’s all so terribly interesting.”
“What is?” asked Katherine.
“Everything. Everything, dear. Every little thing. Now I sleep in the coin room and use the washroom down the hall and eat in the museum’s restaurant and cafés. It’s really not such a bad life, so long as they keep cornflakes in stock. Fascinating things, coins.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting,” said Mildred, yawning. “But can we get back to the subject of train fare before the last train for Bellyflop departs?”
“Right,” said Uncle Runyon, and pulling out his wallet, he passed them a thick wad of money.
“Thank you,” they all said, rising from the table and heading for the door.
“Goodbye, Uncle. We’ll be in Bellyflop if you need us,” said Madeline.
As they left the restaurant, Madeline turned and surveyed her uncle. He had gotten himself some more cornflakes and was eating them while reading a journal about coins. He had a cornflake stuck to his nose. Then she noticed that the restaurant was full of scholars, reading journals with cornflakes stuck to various bits of them. She was no longer so sure about becoming a scholar.
“Remember, man,” called Flo, “you’re here because of the stars!”
“I’m here,” said Uncle Runyon, without looking up from his journal, “because of the squirrels.”
The Bunnys and Mrs. Treaclebunny were so exhausted when they arrived at the castle that they hardly registered anything except the maids showing them to their rooms. Mrs. Bunny said sleepily to Mr. Bunny, “This castle has very big furniture. I shall have to do a major hop to get into that bed.”
And Mr. Bunny, who had already hopped beneath the heavy tapestry covers, replied drowsily, “A major mighty hop.” And immediately began to snore.
In the morning, after a sound twelve-hour snooze, Mrs. Bunny awoke full of curiosity about where they were. She pushed open the shutters and such a sight met her eyes! The English countryside, just as she’d imagined it, rolling out greenly in all directions.
“Oh, Mr. Bunny!” she exclaimed, hopping back on the bed and lifting his head up by his ears so he could see out the window. “We’re in a castle. And look!”
“Ow,” said Mr. Bunny. “How many times do I have to tell you—I do not like being awoken by having my ears pulled.”
Before he could say more there was a knock at the door and a very odd-looking maid brought in a tray. There was jam and crumpets and tea and strawberries.
“And what is this?” asked Mr. Bunny, poking at something buttery-looking in a little pot.
“That’s clotted cream, sir,” said the maid, and then padded out.
“Their cream clots?” said Mr. Bunny. “Hmmm. Don’t like the sound of that. Blood clots. Blood is supposed to clot. That’s how you get scabs. But Mr. Bunny doesn’t care for clotty comestibles or scabby cream. It’s against nature.”
“Oh, Mr. Bunny, don’t be a poo,” said Mrs. Bunny, slathering clotted cream on a crumpet. “Everything probably clots here. It’s probably just a very clotty country.”
“Mrs. Bunny, you never told me how travel makes you rhapsodic. I don’t believe I would have married you if I had known.”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Bunny. My rhapsodies are one of my finest features. What kind of creature was that maid? She wasn’t a bunny or a marmot. I can’t seem to place the species.”
“I know what she is. It’s on the tip of my tongue,” said Mr. Bunny. “There were some of them in Alice in Wonderland.”
“Well, let me know when it comes to you, Mr. Bunny. My, this room has wonderful dimensions. It would be very spacious if it weren’t for all these bushes they seem to be storing in it. Pots and pots of bushes.”
“I prefer Canada and its custom of keeping the bushes outdoors. Have the last crumpet? No? Don’t mind if I do.”
He popped it into his mouth and swallowed.
“I was going to suggest we split it,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Too late,” said Mr. Bunny, and sighed with satisfaction. “I like a good breakfast. It helps to kick my big bunny brains into gear. Big breakfast, big brains. Little breakfast, little brains.”
“I prefer a light breakfast myself,” said Mrs. Bunny.
Mr. Bunny just smiled. He did so like it when Mrs. Bunny made his point for him.
Mrs. Bunny caught his smile and was about to retort when there was another knock on the door and there stood Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Come on then, get dressed and come downstairs,” she said briskly. “You must meet my cousin, the Duchess of Bungleyhog.”
“A duchess?” said Mrs. Bunny. “You didn’t tell us you were related to a duchess.”
“I do not like to toot my own horn,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Watch yourselves around her, I warn you, because she’s very prickly.”
Mrs. Treaclebunny closed the door and the Bunnys swiftly got out of their pajamas and into respectable meeting-a-duchess clothes.
“Of course she’ll be p
rickly,” said Mrs. Bunny. “So much of the aristocracy is. When I am made queen, I plan to be very prickly indeed. I plan to prickle all over the place.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Mr. Bunny as they came down the stairs. There stood Mrs. Treaclebunny speaking to a very odd-looking animal in a riding habit.
“Who do you suppose that can be?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, may I present my cousin, the Duchess of Bungleyhog.”
“How do you do. Is it Miss or Mrs. Bungleyhog?” asked Mr. Bunny.
Mrs. Bunny thought again how fortunate it was that she and Mr. Bunny had become fluent in English so they could now join in the duchessy conversation.
Mr. Bunny held out his hand in his best Canadian manner. “Or Ms.?”
“It’s Duchess Bungleyhog,” said the duchess.
“I like to call her Bungs. Of course, I can do that because I am related,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Yes, dear, but I do wish you’d stop announcing that in public,” said the duchess. “After all, no one need really know we’re related. And for heaven’s sakes, try to look more like a hedgehog. It was bad enough when it was just you and Mr. Treaclebunny, God rest his poor disintegrating fur, but now that you’re bringing all your rabbit cohorts to visit”—heavy sigh—“I really think the best thing is to try to disguise you all. You will never look like the best of hedgehogs, but you could try to look a little more hedgy and a lot more hoggy. Violet, bring me my extra quills.”
“That’s what they are!” Mr. Bunny whispered excitedly to Mrs. Bunny. “They’re hedgehogs!”
“Shhh,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“You said to tell you when it came to me!”
“It didn’t come to you. She told you she was a hedgehog. Now shh.”
“You shh.”
“Both of you shh!” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
The duchess’s maid, Violet, scooted out of the room and was back a short time later with the duchess’s makeup kit. Inside was a large bag of extra quills that the duchess put on when she was going to a particularly fancy event. With hedgehogs, the more quills, the better. She and Violet stuck them into the bunnies’ fur with Krazy Glue. When they were finished the bunnies didn’t look so much like hedgehogs as like rabbits with quills stuck in them, but the duchess seemed satisfied.
Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty! Page 9
