‘I expect it would,’ I said.
‘It doesn’t even have to be that dramatic,’ he added more thoughtfully. ‘A vicar levitating would probably do the trick just as well. I mean, something.’
‘I’m not sure miracles are really the C of E’s thing.’
‘No? Hmm. Look here,’ he said, suddenly thinking of something else and leaning closer, ‘can you and I have a word? Man to rabbit?’
‘Of course.’
‘Connie said you knew one another quite well at university and … well, you’re not planning any hooky-doo, are you?’
‘We were just friends,’ I said, suddenly feeling defensive, ‘nothing happened.’
‘My dear chap,’ he said with a laugh, ‘I’m not suggesting it did. But correct protocol is always observed in rabbit marriages, so if you make a play for the missus either above or below the table, I will probably have to kill you.’
‘What?’ I said, suddenly taken aback.
‘Not for real obviously,’ he said, giving me a friendly nudge, ‘symbolically. In a duel. Or even in a symbolic duel, where you concede your beta-male status in a meek and self-deprecating fashion without a shot being fired.’
‘How would I do that?’
‘Rolling over and weeing on yourself is the most usual form, but a written note of apology and a decent bottle of Chablis will probably suffice.’
I paused, trying to get my head around the complexities of rabbit culture.
‘I admit I liked her,’ I said slowly, ‘but not like that. Besides, I’ve not seen her for over thirty years, and she’s your wife.’
‘She’s only “mine” so long as that’s what she wants,’ explained Doc. ‘I’m here more by permission than commitment. She’s not mentioned a change in husbands, so until she does, I’ll warn off any newcomers.’
‘O–OK,’ I said, still a little confused, ‘but I’m not going to make a play for Connie.’
‘That’s great news,’ said Doc, clapping his paws together happily and seemingly satisfied. ‘I’m glad to hear it – and I’m very happy we’ve managed to have this little chat. Come into the living room, why don’t you?’
We walked across the large oak-panelled hall and then into the front room, where Connie was working on a large jigsaw that depicted, as far as I could see, a huge meadow covered by thousands of dandelions.
‘Good evening,’ I said, her large and very luxuriant eyes staring back at me. I guessed she hadn’t mentioned to her husband about our meeting in Waitrose that afternoon.
‘Good evening, Peter,’ she said, stepping forward to give me a light hug as Doc looked on. ‘Nhfifh hi hniffr i hffnuh: our burrow is your burrow. Was your daughter not able to come?’
‘A prior engagement. She sends her apologies.’
‘Another time, perhaps?’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘I must just go and stir the stew,’ she said, pausing on her way out to momentarily adjust a picture of Dylan Rabbit that was displayed next to a battered guitar. She turned back.
‘Make yourself comfortable, have a chat and … I’ll be back in just a jiffy.’
I watched her walk across the hall and back into the kitchen, and my gaze might have inadvertently strayed to her cottontail. When I turned back Doc was staring at me and I suddenly felt acutely embarrassed.
‘So, Doc,’ I said, eager to move the conversation on, ‘you’re a medical man?’
He laughed.
‘No, no. The “Doc” epithet was the result of barracks banter. There was a certain … hazing that I had to endure before being accepted in the army. Copies of Watership Down and heads of lettuce left on my bunk, taunts about Mr McGregor and the always hilarious “What’s up, Doc?” I’m sure you can imagine it.’
‘Well, no, not really – but then I’m not a military man. Or a rabbit.’
Doc shrugged.
‘We can’t all be so lucky. Anyway, I took this all on the chin except the lettuce, which I ate. But the good thing about the services is that you win or lose respect solely on merit. Show some steely resolve and the species barrier evaporates. I won the respect of my fellow soldiers during some fun and games in Kandahar, but the “Doc” name stuck, so I use it to this day.’
‘I heard you almost served in Afghanistan.’
Doc laughed again.
‘Not strictly true. I was almost served up in Afghanistan. I weighed two hundred and forty pounds then, and was unlucky enough to be captured. After interrogation and discussions over whether I was haram or not, they were going to make me into a hearty meal for at least thirty-two hungry mujahedin. No British officer had been eaten since Suez, so Command put on a bit of a show on my behalf – close air support, artillery, the works. Want to see a memento?’
Without waiting for an answer he hopped to the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a walnut case which contained a set of antique-looking percussion pistols, each one decorated with engraved animals, and both with a barrel about twelve inches long.
‘Without opposable thumbs, operating any sort of weapon is tricky,’ he said. ‘These have been modified to work with a squeeze action rather than a trigger. Here.’
He handed me a pistol that was beautifully made, all wood and brass and blued steel with a crocodile inlaid in silver on the butt. It was surprisingly heavy, but quite well balanced. I’d shot a .22 target pistol at school, and had won several prizes.
‘A handy last-resort close-combat weapon,’ he said. ‘Takes a whopping three-quarter-inch ball. With a double charge of powder, a round can go clean through two people and then at least as far as “plumbers” in the Yellow Pages. They’re my family’s old duelling pistols, but I took them with me – so they’ve seen action in combat.’
He grinned, retrieved the pistol and placed it carefully back in the box. Despite the mildly threatening tone engendered by showing me the pistols and his warning earlier, I was intrigued, as duelling was a part of rabbit culture that was rarely talked about.
‘Have you used them?’ I asked.
‘More times than I would have liked,’ he replied, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen, where we could hear Connie singing softly to herself. ‘Nothing of any value was ever easily gained. I’ve had a few losses, too, mind.’
‘How can you lose a duel and not be dead?’ I asked.
He pointed to the neat bullet holes in his ears which I’d noticed when we’d met the day they arrived. There were about nine obvious holes, then others partially hidden by fur and several more which were more like nicks off the top and sides – and might easily have been mistaken for general wear and tear. There was one very near the base of his left ear, too – two inches lower and he would have been dead.
‘Closest to the head wins the bout,’ he said, ‘and a miss is a lose. Some serial rabbit Lotharios have ears like Swiss cheese, but if your aim is too low you might kill someone by accident – and that would entail a heavy financial penalty for the family. Did you know the biggest cause of male rabbit bankruptcy is accidental rabbitslaughter during a duel?’
‘I did not know that.’
‘You know it now. My goodness,’ he added, ‘I’m being a terrible host.’
He moved in a single bounce to the drinks trolley, narrowly missing the light fitting as he sailed elegantly through the room. ‘Fancy a snifter?’
‘Whisky if you have it.’
‘Never touch the stuff. Have you tried dandelion brandy? Distilled from root. Makes you piss like billy-o and has the kick of a mule.’
I read something that described dandelion brandy as ‘the diabolical three-way love child of methanol, crack cocaine and U-Boat fuel’. I’d been warned never to even go near the stuff, let alone drink it. So I said, without so much as a pause:
‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’
Major Rabbit poured me a large measure of an oily liquid that had a vague pink sheen and smelled of rose petals. He then poured one for himself and another for Connie, who had just retu
rned.
‘Here’s to new friends,’ said Connie.
‘New friends,’ replied Doc and I together.
The brandy tasted of cough mixture mixed with summer harvest, bilberries and sweetened paint thinners. It slid down the throat easily and apparently without ill effect. Then, like a volcanic caldera that had been rumbling to itself for several millennia and suddenly chose an inopportune moment to erupt, the brandy kicked into life. The colour in my vision shifted from red to green with a sound like crinkly cellophane and I felt the sweat suddenly stand out on my forehead. A warmth coursed through my body as though I’d been given a blood transfusion with hot chocolate, I suddenly felt exceptionally amorous both mentally and physically, and the image of Helena, Pippa’s mum, popped into my head – but not when we were married or just before I lost her, but just after we’d met and couldn’t keep our hands off one another.
‘Wow,’ I said, to the evident amusement of Doc and Connie, ‘any more?’
‘Steady, tiger,’ said Doc with a smile, ‘best enjoyed in small amounts.’
‘We distil it in the basement,’ added Mrs Rabbit, ‘but not a word to Customs & Excise. They want to slap a tariff on it to match that on cognac. Shall we sit down?’
The table was laid in the large dining room next door, the dark oak panelling hung with paintings of Connie and Doc’s relations, each portrait looking pretty much the same as the next, with only variations of costume to give an idea of gender or age. The furniture was old, dark and well used; I guessed the house came furnished. The children were already seated, and politely stood up as we walked in.
‘These are our two wonderful children,’ said Connie, beaming. She indicated the male first. ‘This is Kent.’
Kent was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt which featured Patrick Finkle and the Rabbit Support Agency motto All Life is One. His two-paw squeeze was a bit lacklustre, and his fur felt stiffer than Doc or Connie’s. It would not have surprised me to learn that he used gel.
‘Good evening, Mr Knox,’ he said politely, yet with a certain degree of teenage reluctance.
‘Hello, Kent,’ I said, trying not to sound a little patronising and failing.
‘And this is Bobby,’ said Connie, ‘who will take her Rabbalaureate next June.’
‘It’s Roberta, actually,’ said Bobby with a toss of her head. She had large brown eyes, but was less elegant than her mother in manner, and somewhat sulky; I was amused to see that rabbit teenagers are not much different to ours.
‘Hello, Roberta,’ I said. ‘Baccalaureate, eh?’
‘A Rabbalaureate,’ she corrected me. ‘Much harder, and for rabbits. Physics, philosophy, horticulture, European languages, economics, botany, politics and mixed martial arts with an optional module on weapons training.’
‘Thinking of the military? Officer training?’
‘No – childminding. Rabbits make excellent childminders. We’re cuddly, natural parents, and if required will fight to the death to protect our children.’
Doc and Connie laughed politely.
‘The idealism of young childminders,’ said Connie.
‘I have a daughter,’ I said, ‘Pippa. She’s twenty, training in hospital management.’
‘You must have hundreds of grandchildren,’ said Kent.
‘Humans have far fewer offspring in a litter and breed only occasionally, if at all,’ said Doc to Kent. ‘And aside from very large asteroids, steep staircases, mosquitoes and themselves, have no natural predators.’
‘No shit?’ said Kent with some interest.
‘We’ve had them in a single-species school,’ explained Connie apologetically. ‘We’re hoping their move to a human school will teach them a little bit more about the Niffniff.34 Perhaps Bobby and your daughter could go shopping together?’
‘I could ask her.’
‘Good. Shall we be seated? Peter, you can take the head as you are the guest, and I shall sit here, next to you.’
We all sat down, and once I had placed a carrot-embroidered napkin on my lap Connie lifted the lid from a large tureen. The smell of stewed vegetables filled the room, and the effect was mesmerising. The Rabbits arched their backs, lowered their ears and breathed in deeply.
‘That’s quite—’
‘Shh!’ said Connie, and after a few more seconds of silent contemplation, twitching limbs and rapt enjoyment, they all relaxed.
‘Goodness,’ said Connie, ‘the scent of meadowfield stew always makes me feel a little frisky. Is it hot in here or is it me?’
And she fanned herself with her paws.
‘Does vegan stew stir you somewhat in the nether regions, Peter?’ asked Doc. ‘It does us. Big time.’
‘Well,’ I said, trying to be as relaxed as them over matters sexual, something that I knew dominated a good deal of a rabbit’s thought processes – if not all of them – ‘a good meal can definitely be part of the romantic process.’
‘How interesting,’ said Bobby in a sarcastic tone, and Connie shot her a threatening glance.
‘We shall say grace,’ said Connie, and they bowed their heads for a moment and thanked Lago, who gave herself so that they could be saved, and for the bounteous wisdom that she had brought through the Way of the Circle. Doc and Connie said it in English, for my benefit, but Kent and Bobby spoke in Rabbity.
‘Do you say grace at home?’ asked Bobby.
‘Not usually,’ I said, meaning ‘not at all’.
‘In our faith we say grace quite a lot,’ said Bobby, ‘and on many different occasions. Eating, pulling up vegetables, having a shit. It engenders humility.’
‘We even say it before sex,’ added Doc. ‘Quite aside from the spiritual aspect, it takes half a minute to say and must be said in separate rooms, which heightens the tension in a delightful way, and also gives the other party time to skedaddle if they have second thoughts.’
‘Is it anything like the Lord’s Prayer?’ I asked.
‘The first and last lines are broadly similar,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘but the middle is substantially different.’
‘So, Peter,’ said Connie, placing her paw on my arm, ‘hungry?’
She was becoming more tactile by the minute. Doc coughed politely and she removed her paw.
‘Yes, very,’ I said, suddenly realising that if they knew precisely why I was hungry and tired – a long and frustrating day at RabCoT – they would think considerably less of me, probably kick me out of the house and Connie would doubtless never speak to me again. I didn’t really like the thought of that.
Doc ladled out the vegetable stew, which tasted every bit as good as it smelled. I told Mrs Rabbit that it was perfect, and she smiled pleasantly.
‘Are you still in the army, Doc?’ I asked.
‘Semi-retired. I picked up some shrapnel, lost two fingers, a nut and partial sight in one eye during an overhead mortar burst during that Kandahar number I was telling you about. I’m a freelance security consultant these days, so now I sell deniability.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I said.
‘Modern warfare is quite different from the old days,’ he said, ‘and the ugly spectre of accountability can seriously hamper flexibility in a swiftly changing conflict.’
‘Can we move on?’ said Connie. ‘I’m sure Peter doesn’t want to talk military politics.’
‘Governments ask us security contractors to do the shitty stuff they don’t want to put their names to,’ continued Doc, ignoring Connie’s pleas, ‘so if things go tits-up they can turn around and say it was nothing to do with them. It’s very lucrative, I assure you.’
‘I’m sure it must be,’ I said.
‘So, what about you?’ said Connie brightly, touching my arm again. ‘What do you do, Peter?’
‘I’m an accountant for a small firm in town.’
‘Chartered?’ asked Doc.
‘No, payroll,’ I replied, having been coached on my cover story. I could talk payroll software quite convincingly for about
three minutes – coincidentally, the longest anyone has ever been prepared to hear about it.
‘That explains the precision of the Speed Librarying,’ said Connie. ‘Where is Pippa’s mother these days?’
‘She’s no longer on the scene,’ I said in a quiet voice.
‘Cancer?’ asked Bobby, without a hint of how inappropriate this might seem. It might have been easier to let it go there, and I could have sailed high on the sympathy, but Helena was emphatically not dead, and it seemed wrong to suggest that she was.
‘No, she’s still alive.’
‘In prison?’ asked Kent.
‘No.’
‘Appropriated by another male?’ asked Doc with sudden interest. ‘Like in a duel?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘she just … lost interest in me. I don’t think I was charismatic enough.’
‘I can see that,’ said Doc, sizing me up. ‘Went for someone younger, did she?’
‘A documentary cameraman,’ I replied, getting used to the rabbit’s straight-talking ways. ‘They live in a converted barn in Tuscany.’
‘We tend to die quite often so marriage rarely lasts for long,’ said Connie. ‘Predation, myxomatosis, duels, cars. The words for death and divorce are often synonymous. I’ve been widowed twice already. My first husband died twenty-one years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Was that … myxomatosis?’
I was hesitant as myxy was still a sticky subject with rabbits. Even though developed and used as a form of bacterial pest control before the Event, the effects and contagion had carried over into the anthropomorphised population. It accounted for almost forty per cent of all rabbit deaths, with no effective vaccine yet in sight.
‘No,’ said Connie with a thoughtful sigh, ‘not myxy – a Toyota Corolla. They ran over his head so at least it was quick.’
I tried to figure out how this might have happened, and Connie, sensing my puzzlement, added:
‘Grassy verges still hold a special place in our heart. Never did find the driver. Husband number two was Dylan. Sort of laid-back but played the guitar well and was unflappable, an easy rabbit to love. There was a case of mistaken identity; his name was leaked and he was jugged by those animals at TwoLegsGood. I’d have fallen apart if it hadn’t been for Clifford, waiting in the wings to pick up the pieces.’
The Constant Rabbit Page 11
