The Constant Rabbit

Dinner & Dandelion Brandy

The most decorated service rabbit in history was RAF Navigation Officer Danielle ‘Thumper’ Rabbit, who ejected from a Tornado over Iraq when it was hit by a surface-to-air missile. She wrote about her time as a POW in Bouncing Out of Tikrit, and it was quite a good read, although critics did find fault with the overlong detail of Iraqi salad in the latter part of the book.

After prevaricating all afternoon on which Labstock names I should send down to Mr Ffoxe, I selected four who were already dead or long missing – but wouldn’t be readily apparent as such. Someone would have to do some research, and that might give me breathing space for a couple of days.

The evening was warm and clear with white mares’ tails flecking the sky as I drove back towards Much Hemlock. I said nothing to Toby on the way home, my mind full of spotting, LitterBombs, Mr Ffoxe, Connie – and, of course, the fox turd I found in my breast pocket when fumbling for my dark glasses. After I’d dropped Toby at his house, I drove home and had a shower, a shave, and went through the cupboard to find something to wear for my evening over at the Rabbits’. I eventually chose slacks, white shirt and casual sports jacket. I’d put on a few pounds since I’d bought them, and they felt a little tight, but were about the best threads I had. I didn’t go out much.

Pippa had decided not to come with me as she’d half-promised to meet Toby at the new Welsh-Thai fusion restaurant that had opened in the village. She’d got wind of the leaving fund, too – the move to have them ousted was already known around the village as ‘Rabxit’.

‘Are you really going to ask them to shove off for cash?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure being a mouthpiece for the Malletts can lead to anything but trouble.’

‘I’ll be diplomatic,’ I said. ‘After all, it’s possible this might be the Rabbits’ plan, and fleecing everyone who’s put in some cash does have a sense of poetry about it.’

‘Aside from the vicar who raided the church roof appeal.’

‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘maybe I could arrange some sort of ecclesiastical cashback arrangement.’

She told me to be careful, I said I would, and I walked across to their house.

Major Rabbit opened the door almost as soon as I knocked.

‘Hello, Peter,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Peter, do you?’

I said that he could, and he replied that I should call him ‘Doc’ because everyone else did.

He squeezed my hand in his two paws, then beckoned me in. Although it was still light, most of the curtains were drawn and what few lights were on had only low-wattage bulbs with an orange colour bias, so the interior appeared gloomy, yet warm. There was a rich, almost loamy scent of fresh earth in the air, and in a prominent place on the wall was a circle of delicately braided copper wire that represented the symbol of their faith, the five circles of lifefullness. We had a cross, they had a circle.

‘The Circle of Lifefullness,’ said Doc, following my gaze, ‘and the circle of trust. It also represents home, the burrow, the bounty of ovulation, the birth canal from which we all emerge, and the mother earth to which we all return. It is incumbent upon us all to complete the circle.’

‘What exactly does that mean?’ I asked, as the term ‘completion of the circle’ had always remained ambiguous.

Doc shrugged and stared at the braided copper circle for a moment, deep in thought.

‘The linguistic translation is easy, but the cultural translation much harder. It’s … the completion of an individual journey of one’s own making. For some, it’s simple, like seeing all the Die Hard movies in order, or collecting versions of Spider Man mini-figures. For others, it’s harder, like attaining a truth, or bringing about a change in others. For me and Connie, it’s about leaving this world in a better state than we found it.’

‘That sounds a noble cause,’ I said.

‘It’s a noble goal,’ he corrected me. ‘Ninety-two per cent of circles remain broken – which is why some rabbits go for mini-figures and Die Hard. If you really want to achieve your life goal, it’s probably best to keep it fairly simple.’

UKARP and Smethwick had long been worried about the whole Bunty ‘Completing the Circle’ issue, and always maintained – without evidence – that a noble goal in the rabbit’s eyes might not be one that was compatible with humans. Bunty, as far as Smethwick was concerned, was not a spiritual leader at all, but a leader-in-waiting, poised to a seditious overthrow of the UK.

Doc had gone silent and was standing on one leg, as was the custom when venerating Lago, the Grand Matriarch, and I did the same. Doc looked at me oddly, so I put my foot down again.

‘Connie has met the Venerable Bunty, you know,’ he said quite proudly. ‘Worked on her staff for a while – and was present when the Bunty performed one of her miracles.’

‘Which one?’

‘Number 16b: the reattachment of an ear following an unfortunate accident with a bacon slicer.’

Bunty’s apparent ability to perform miracles confirmed her divine status to rabbits. Although it made her a powerful spiritual leader, there was no evidence to suppose she wielded that power for anything but good. The Taskforce had different ideas.

‘Your bunch should do a few miracles,’ said Doc. ‘If your archbishop made someone’s missing foot regrow, it would give the credibility of your church a massive boost.’

‘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 returned.

‘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.’

I hope they didn’t see me take a deep breath, and a soft flush rise to my cheeks. If they could by some miracle overlook my work at the Taskforce, they’d never overlook the hand I had in Dylan’s death.

‘I’d fancied Connie for a while,’ said Doc, ‘so it seemed quite natural to ask her. I’m just sorry that our happiness came on the back of such loss.’

She put out a paw and Doc held it tightly. He lifted his glass.

‘To Dylan,’ said Doc.

‘Dylan,’ said Connie.

‘Daddy,’ said Kent and Bobby.

‘As you can see,’ said Doc, ‘rabbits talk truthfully about most things. Life is too short for hidden agendas, vapid posturing and mendacity. Lago’s third circle is about the truth which follows truth. Lies, conversely, make for more lies, one after another. It darkens the circle, and a circle that is dark leads to imbalance, and collapse.’

‘Collapse,’ echoed the others in unison.

‘Truthful about everything?’ I asked, thinking perhaps the question over Helena gave me a free pass.

‘Yes.’

‘Why is Kent wearing an ankle monitor?’

‘Burrowing without due care and attention,’ said Kent, quite matter-of-factly.

‘Really?’ I said, but Kent hadn’t finished.

‘Burrowing without a licence; going equipped to burrow; reckless burrowing leading to property damage; causing death by dangerous burrowing; burrowing while under the influence; incitement to burrow; burrowing while under a two-year burrowing ban; belonging to a banned burrowing organisation; and failure to stop burrowing when ordered to do so.’

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘they really threw the book at you.’

‘Every single one a bullshit charge,’ said Bobby. ‘That utter twat Smethwick has engineered the judicial landscape to be skewed against the rabbit.’

‘The reason Kent’s not banged up,’ said Connie, ‘is that there were many rabbits involved and Kent was a small cog, a bagman, removing spoil. Kent got two years supervised probation; all the rest got between three and nine years in jail.’

‘Only six of the 5,672 rabbits currently incarcerated are in prison for violence,’ said Bobby. ‘Most are in for burrowing offences or theft of root vegetables, neither of which we consider a crime at all.’

‘Anything that grows beneath the soil is a gift from Lago,’ said Kent. ‘Root veg can’t be owned.’

‘Kent might have got longer,’ said Doc. ‘It was a good job RabSAg lent us one of their lawyers.’

The Rabbit Support Agency had been formed only three weeks after the Event, and had worked tirelessly – and mostly in vain – to improve rabbit/human relations. ‘Our work is finished,’ their spokesperson Patrick Finkle said, ‘when we see a female rabbit as prime minister.’

‘So, Peter,’ said Connie, ‘more dandelion brandy?’

‘Thank you.’

Connie poured me another tot and I downed it eagerly. It was powerful stuff, and I felt warm and tingly all over.

The conversation turned to education cuts and the NHS after that, and the differing ethical benchmarks between medical and veterinary science.

‘We’d like to enjoy the ridiculous amount of attention you pay to minor ailments,’ said Doc, ‘and in return, you might think more carefully about the huge benefits of euthanasia.’

And then Connie served up a blackberry parfait for pudding that melted on your tongue. Once the meal was over and the children had been packed off to do homework, Connie shooed Doc and I into the living room and said she’d bring in some coffee.

‘May I ask you a question?’ I asked as Doc poked the fire.

‘Of course.’

‘Yesterday, when I gave Connie the basket of carrots, you seemed angry. I was wondering—?’

‘You must excuse me my temper,’ he said with a trace of embarrassment, ‘scrubbed carrots given to a married doe can really only mean one thing: spouse appropriation.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘hence your comments about a duel.’

‘Pretty much. It’s a good job for you it was only the Autumn King variant. If it had been a Cosmic Purple there would have been no room for ambiguity and I’d ask you to name your seconds35 and we’d be standing back to back at dawn on a foggy heath somewhere.’

‘Oh,’ I said, realising how this might have been a hideous faux pas, ‘sorry.’

‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ said Doc amiably, ‘but if you do want to make a play for Connie and she’s up for it, it’ll be pistols at dawn.’

‘I’m not looking to appropriate your wife, Doc.’

‘Good thing too, old boy. Cigar?’

‘No thanks.’

I thought for a moment.

‘So what’s your explanation for how you came to be anthropomorphised?’

‘Do you know,’ said Doc with a frown, ‘I’m not sure it’s ever been fully explained – or even if it’s relevant. Some say it was a spontaneous miracle performed by Lago the instant she died at the hand of man, or alternatively, a retrospective miracle performed by the Venerable Bunty, but I’m not sure that’s possible. Bunty herself thinks that it might have had a satirical component—’

‘Coffee!’ said Connie as she bounded into the room with an energetic flourish, and placed the tray on the table.

The coffee was, again, excellent, and after challenging me to a game of Scrabble that I lost in a spectacular manner to Connie’s placement of Poxviridae36 across two triple word scores for a total of 25737 points, the evening was soon over and they saw me to the door. I had enjoyed Doc and Connie’s company more than I had anyone else’s in Much Hemlock – Pippa excluded – for at least ten years. I remembered more clearly what I’d liked about Connie, too. Her charm, her range of conversation, and her mixture of good humour and perceptiveness. I suddenly found myself feeling a little stupid that I’d never looked her up.

Connie and I paused in the porch as she saw me out, Doc having excused himself to set the VCR to record The Great Escape.38

‘It’s been a very pleasant evening,’ I said, ‘thank you very much.’

‘Likewise and really good to see you again,’ said Connie, staring at me intently.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, suddenly feeling all hot and flustered, ‘too long.’

She moved forward and gave me a hug. Her fur was as soft as the finest cashmere, and when her whiskers stroked against my cheek I twitched involuntarily. We released each other and then, catching me by surprise, she pulled me back in and gave me a second hug, much tighter yet briefer. I was going to ask her why, but at that moment Doc reappeared.

‘Goodbye, Peter,’ said Connie, ‘pop by any time.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Doc, ‘always up for a game of Scrabble, or a gambol in the fields. Do you like gambolling? In moderation there’s nothing better.’

Gambolling in the meadows was a pastime peculiar to rabbits which involved sporadic jumping around on turf, usually just after sunrise, and best enjoyed when little was on your mind. Sort of like mixing jazz dancing and yoga.

‘I’ve not tried it,’ I said. ‘I think our version might be quite close to golf.’

‘Ah!’ said Doc. ‘Do you play?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Rubbish game. What about rugby or soccer?’

‘No.’

‘Glad to hear it. We abhor gladiatorial team sports. Why are you still bringing up your young men to be warriors?’

‘Are we?’

‘Looks like it. You may want to address that, along with the mummying and princeling stuff. You should reappraise the “death as entertainment” bullshit, too – I’m sure it’s not healthy.’

‘We don’t use death as entertainment.’

‘Not real death any more, agreed,’ said Doc, ‘but enacted unrelentingly in the movies and on the TV, it’s got to be sending mixed messages, eh? Death brings only bereavement and loss, and killing is only ever an option if it is the last possible resort.’

‘Often it is,’ I said, inexplicably defending my own.

‘If you really believe that is the case,’ said Connie, ‘then I think your species’ somewhat strained relationship with the beneficial powers of compromise and reconciliation could also do with a reappraisal.’

‘Yes,’ I said after a pause, ‘I think that’s quite a valid point.’

‘Humans talk a great deal,’ said Doc, ‘and seemingly understand how they should behave – but rarely do. All that chat without positive action is nothing but hot air. It’s a mystery to me how you managed to get this far without imploding. Well, pip pip!’

I moved to go. Given Mr Ffoxe’s directive I’d not broached the subject of the ‘shoving off’ fund, and didn’t quite know how to tell the Malletts that I hadn’t. But as it turned out, we did talk about the fund – I just wasn’t the one to raise it.

‘How much are they offering us to leave?’ asked Connie once I’d taken a few paces from their front door. I stopped and turned back.

‘It was suggested I should start the negotiations at seven grand,’ I said after a pause, feeling emboldened by my own honesty, ‘but I think they’d easily go to twenty and perhaps more. How did you know there was a fund?’

‘There’s always a fund,’ said Doc.

‘Can I be honest with you?’ I asked.

‘We ask for nothing else.’

‘Most of the villagers are not desperately leporiphobic, just ignorant and easily led. It’s the Malletts you have to watch out for. They’ve already talked about getting 2LG involved.’

Connie and Doc looked at one another. I got the feeling that anyone who tried to put Doc head first into a forty-gallon drum of gravy would have a serious fight on their hands.

‘Once you start running you never stop,’ said Connie in a low voice. ‘Spread the word: we’ll be friends with whoever wants to be friends, and trouble to whoever wants to be trouble. And believe me, we can be trouble.’

I looked at Doc, who raised himself up to his full height. Even if I was eight inches taller, a lot fitter, twenty years younger and, most importantly, brave, I’d still think twice about tackling him.

‘OK,’ I said, the threatening tone seemingly at odds with the rabbit’s generally peaceful demeanour. ‘I’ll make sure the message gets across.’

‘Good man,’ said Doc, suddenly amiable once more. ‘Drop around any time – always an open door.’

Connie gave me a wave, and the door closed behind them. I walked back to my house, thinking deeply about the evening’s events. Of duels, meadowfield stew, the massive differences between our cultures and being totally thrashed at Scrabble when I thought I was a good player. But most of all, I was thinking about that second hug from Connie.