The Constant Rabbit

Shopping & Sally Lomax

The more outlandish conspiracy theorists suggested the rabbit had ambitions for galactic domination. Exponentially increasing reproduction would, mathematically at least, cover the globe with rabbits, then eventually expand outwards from the earth, first beyond escape velocity and eventually towards the speed of light – presumably carrying a capsule in front of the mountain of ever-reproducing rabbits. It was dubbed ‘HyperRabbitDrive’.

Despite my misgivings, there was no fall-out over the incident with Fenton DG-6721, and neither was I asked to present more random names to be detained. After two more days of fruitless searching for Flopsy 7770 I was returned to other duties, something that rankled with Lugless, who complained bitterly to anyone who would listen that his investigation had been ‘cut off at the knees’. He tried several times to restart the enquiry, but by Friday his investigation was on hold, his superiors citing ‘unwelcome scrutiny from the biased press on the MegaWarren project’ as the reason.

The weekend break was therefore something of a blessing, and Pippa and Bobby’s shopping trip on Saturday seemed to go pretty well. They were quiet on the way in, but animated on the way out. Pippa seemed delighted with Bobby, and despite the enormous differences between their species, they had a lot in common: career, food, political activism, taxonomy (both belonging to the class mammalia), and feminism – the latter a subject upon which Bobby had some interesting thoughts.

‘Before the Event we were a matriarchy, and as far as we were concerned everything worked really well. Males were basically bodyguards, with payment in mating rights. The problem,’ continued Bobby, ‘was that the Event gave us not just some of the physical attributes of your species, but many of the social ones, too – including a switch to the patriarchal system. Almost immediately the bucks realised that under this new system they could do what they did before and hoover up some fringe benefits at the same time. Simply put, they wanted us all to embrace some of the more egregious male-centric bullshit you guys seem go in for.’

‘How did you deal with it?’ asked Pippa.

‘Well,’ said Bobby with a smile, ‘for a rabbit, the power lies in the workers who control the means of reproduction, so we told them that unless they agreed to a nine-point gender equality constitution, it was strictly no sex of any sort.’

‘How long did that last?’

‘A seventeen-day shutdown was all it took, as it turned out.’

She laughed.

‘Before my time, of course, but by all accounts they were climbing the walls. Mind you, so were the females, but when you feel that strongly about something, I guess sacrifices are always worth it.’

‘What were the nine points of the constitution?’ asked Pippa.

‘Oh, the usual suspects,’ she said, ‘all the stuff you Fudds bang on about but are slow to implement. Strict gender split in governing bodies both on the institutional and corporate level was the biggest, as I recall. Simultaneously, we also formulated a long-term plan to water down the seemingly innate sense of male hierarchy entitlement, and head towards a goal of hard-wired pluralism.’

‘By education?’ asked Pippa.

‘No,’ replied Bobby. ‘We decided to tinker with toxic masculinity at the evolutionary level, where we can make a lasting difference. Simply put, we’re sexually sidelining the Byronic male rabbits with looks, aggression and drive in favour of breeding with the also-rans. The nice-enough, good-enough bucks who are – shall we say – less impulsive, less exciting, less willing to take ridiculous risks. Boring even. Evolutionary biology is a fascinating subject, but if you want to use it to bring about meaningful societal change, then you have to play the long game – I reckon we might see some results in a couple of thousand generations.’

‘So some time next year?’ I said somewhat daringly, but she took it in good humour, and laughed out loud.

‘Or sooner. Exploiting unity and focus in the quest to effect change should never be underestimated.’

Pippa and I fell silent, pondering Bobby’s words. The human version of unity and focus was probably more akin to vague agreement and self-serving muddling.

‘So what do the males think about having their mysogyny being bred out of them?’ I asked.

‘We thought it best not to tell them. Not a word now, especially to Doc. He’s a terrific stepfather – ambitious, fun, a born leader and with a never-ending supply of bawdy limericks – but Mum will have to head for someone less dynamic to father her next litter if she’s fully committed to the machismo dilution plan.’

I thought about Connie and her talk of Rupert being ‘not rubbish enough’. That must have been what she was up to.

‘What if it doesn’t work?’ I said. ‘What if it turns out you actually need your bucks like that for broad societal advantage, even with the pitfalls?’

‘Then we’ll reverse the policy,’ she said simply. ‘But look, if you don’t try these things, you’ll never know if they’ll work or not.’

‘Wow,’ said Pippa, ‘you really take your social issues seriously.’

Bobby smiled.

‘It’s a rabbit thing.’

‘You are such a sweet darling!’ said Connie when I saw Bobby to their front door at Hemlock Towers. Mrs Rabbit smiled and blinked her large eyes, and I could detect that warm earthy scent again.

Bobby asked Pippa whether she wanted to see her collection of Rick Astley memorabilia, and Pippa said, ‘That would be totally awesome’ and they disappeared into the back of the house somewhere. Where possible, rabbits avoided heights, and that included going upstairs. The rabbit version of the Extreme Sports Club centred around daring each other to climb to the top of a stepladder.41

‘I think they got on quite well,’ I said.

‘Seems so,’ she said, and then, voice lower, added: ‘Look, thanks for not mentioning to Doc we bumped into one another in Waitrose. Did I really pop a Little Gem in the fruit and veg section?’

I nodded, and she grimaced.

‘A woeful reversion to stereotype – most regrettable. Sorry I legged it; there was a family emergency.’

‘About Rupert?’

She looked at me quizzically.

‘Who’s Rupert?’

‘The cousin you were having the affair with?’

She thought hard.

‘I know thirty-four Ruperts, all are cousins and I’ve had affairs with nine of them. Could you narrow it down a bit?’

‘On your father’s sister’s daughter’s husband’s mother’s side?’

‘Oh, that Rupert. No, it wasn’t working out. I was sleeping with him but thinking about someone else. That never really works, does it?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘In any event,’ she said, moving swiftly on, ‘the family emergency was Diane Rabbit, who is my twelfth cousin on my father’s aunt’s sister’s daughter’s boyfriend’s father’s aunt’s side. She was caught off-colony without a pass and I had to stand her bail. Have you ever been into the colonies?’

The colonies were mostly an underground warren: dark, warm, labyrinthine and a place where humans were traditionally not welcome unless expressly invited. I would visit, eventually, on the day of the Battle of May Hill, my first and last time. But that wouldn’t happen for another two months, and I would see little except the basement of the meeting house and the spinney of trees on the summit.

I’d be there when it all ended.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve never been.’

‘You should. They do tours now, y’know. Peek behind the species curtain, try some carrot gin, smoke some dandelion root, watch a live multiple birth, that sort of thing.’

Her voice trailed off and we stood in silence for a moment, staring at one another. I was thinking of the conversations we’d had back at uni, and I think she was too. We’d found there was little we couldn’t talk about, and our conversations ranged far and wide. Sometimes political, sometimes about movies, sometimes about nothing at all. But for me at least, there was always something more to it than just chat and social intimacy. I had grown fond of her, no matter how ridiculous and impossible that sounded, and I always wondered whether she had felt the same.

‘Well,’ she said, breaking the awkward pause, ‘you and I must have a catch-up some time.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’d like that.’

And there was another long pause. I think she wanted me to suggest something, but again, I couldn’t be sure, and felt sort of tongue-tied and stupid.

‘What happened to Rosalind?’ I asked, referring to the only other rabbit on campus. She’d been big into X-ray crystallography.

‘Her co-researchers took a Nobel prize for physics,’ said Connie, ‘as animals weren’t eligible for the prize at the time. She then worked at B&Q for a bit, and brought up eight children while deciphering Linear A42 for fun. Last I heard she was fitting microwave doors for RabToil. What about your friend Kevin? Did he ever graduate?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘dropped out in the second year, bummed around for a decade, then got lucky, fell in with some whizz kids and made a killing just before the ’08 crash. He lives in Guernsey these days.’

‘Ah,’ she said, and we fell silent again.

‘Has it risen?’ she asked.

‘Has what risen?’

‘The leaving fund.’

‘I think you could almost name your price.’

She laughed, then told me she needed to marinade the carrots for supper, and I smiled politely and turned to go. I was about twenty paces away when I heard the front door close. She must have been watching me walk away.

Pippa returned three hours later, and vanished into her bedroom.

‘Bobby must have a lot of Rick Astley memorabilia,’ I said as she scooted past, thinking myself a lot funnier than I actually was.

She said ‘Ho ho’ and returned thirty minutes later in trousers, a plain blue blouse and a pair of Timberlands.

‘Going out?’

‘A party, with Bobby.’

‘A rabbit party?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with a grin, ‘a wild rabbit party. We’re picking up Sally on the way. She’s been very curious about rabbit parties but never had an invite.’

‘Well, text me if you’re going to be later than midnight,’ I said, then added: ‘Kind of plainly dressed, aren’t you? For a party, I mean.’

‘Bobby said you always dress down,’ she said. ‘Ostentation is frowned upon, and besides, it can get a little dusty in the warrens.’

‘Wait, wait,’ I said, suddenly worried. ‘Warren? You’re going on-colony?’

She didn’t seem put out in the least.

‘Bobby will be there to look after us. Tons of people I know have done it. You’re kind of a loser if you haven’t.’

I said nothing for a moment.

‘Loser means “uncool” rather than “idiot”,’ she said, trying to be helpful.

‘I know what loser means. But the warrens, are they, y’know – suitable?’

‘Hard-packed earth,’ Pippa said, ‘no stairs, smooth as asphalt. I can look after myself.’

‘I know you can – it’s just, well, I forbid it.’

She looked kind of puzzled. I’d always had a policy of allowing her to do whatever she wanted, try anything and be anything, so she was surprised at my attitude, rather than shocked by the order – which we both knew she could and would ignore. She was an adult, after all.

‘Why ever not? Paws and hands across the divide – you know the score.’

Actually, she was right: going on-colony to a bunny bop was quite a common occurrence amongst youth, and you would be perfectly safe – Lago’s fifth circle related to hospitality, which itself begets hospitality, completing the cycle of respect, understanding and tolerance. But my concern was different. If my name had been leaked to the Underground, they might try to get to me through Pippa. Paranoid delusion perhaps, but when it comes to being a father, paranoid delusions really hold sway.

‘I can’t tell you why you can’t go, you just can’t.’

‘Dad,’ she said, giving me the look Helena gave me when I had not the slightest chance of winning an argument, ‘parental orders worked when I was thirteen. They don’t any more. If you have a genuine grievance, I’m all ears – if not, I’m going.’

I thought for a moment.

‘OK – but if asked, use your mother’s surname.’

She paused for a moment, then said:

‘If it makes you happy.’

‘It makes me happy.’

A car horn sounded outside, and Pippa gave me a cheery wave, dumped her coat and bag on her lap and was out of the door in a flash. I followed her outside, where Bobby was standing beside another large American car that I learned later was a Chevy Impala, probably from the seventies. It was a licensed RabCab in the usual orange and green livery, and the uniformed driver, I noted, was a male Labstock, features partly hidden behind dark glasses. He climbed out to assist Pippa into the car, and as I stood there feeling worried and silly and fathery, the low sunlight caught his long and elegant ears, and my heart missed a beat.

He had the pattern of capillaries in the shape of a squashed Tudor rose in his left ear.

He was John Flopsy 7770. There, in the fur, right in front of me. Living, breathing.

Shit.

While I was rooted to the spot wondering what to do, he returned to the driver’s door, then turned and, seeing me staring at him, lowered his dark glasses and winked at me with the click of his tongue. He then climbed into the car and a few seconds later they were off in a sedate manner down the lane.

I took a mental note of the number plate as they drove away, then waited until the car was out of sight before hurrying indoors. Always assume that if you can see a rabbit, they can see you. I ran into the kitchen, picked up my mobile and dialled the RabCoT Crisis Room, which was on Speed Dial One disguised as ‘Aunt Vera’. All I needed to do was to pass them the details of the car and the duty sergeant would be on to it. Given the importance of this particular Flopsy, there would doubtless be a hard stop before they even got as far as Hereford.

I gave the controller my name and employee number, and they asked me, as was standard practice, to answer ‘that’s right’ if I was being coerced or had in any way been compromised. I told them I wasn’t and hadn’t.

‘Pass your message.’

I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it again. Since Flopsy 7770 had been flagged by Lugless as ‘seditious’, ‘highly wanted’ and a ‘serious bounce risk’ there would quite likely be weapons involved in the hard stop – and Pippa was in the car.

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to think quickly, ‘wrong number. I actually need to speak to Human Resources. I’m not going to be in work tomorrow.’

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow.’

‘Monday, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll call them in the morning. Monday morning.’

The duty officer asked me again whether I was OK, then, satisfied I was either an idiot or drunk or quite possibly both, rang off.

I put the phone down and leaned on the edge of the kitchen table, trying to calm down. Pippa was just going to a rabbit party with Bobby and Sally. She’d been to dodgier parties with worse people. Pippa was sensible. She’d text me if she needed anything. And as for Flopsy 7770, he was a RabCab driver. All journeys were logged. I’d have his name first thing Monday.

I wandered into the living room and watched Mastercook on the telly, which featured, unusually, a bright-eyed Wetstock named Sue Patton Rabbit. She apparently ran a fashionable bakery in Brick Lane called Empire of the Bun, although I hadn’t heard of it until now.

‘Well, Sue,’ said Greg, ‘what will you be cooking for us tonight?’

‘I thought I’d start with carrot three-way,’ she said a little nervously, her ears covered by a tall chef’s hat, ‘with a carrot jus, carrot crumble and quintuple fried baby carrot.’

‘OK,’ said Greg, ‘and for the dessert?’

‘Carrot soufflé,’ said Sue, ‘with a caramelised carrot sauce and crumbed carrot sprinkles.’

‘Hmm,’ said Greg, ‘you don’t think that the taste of carrot might dominate the meal?’

‘I’m counting on it.’

‘OK – you’ve got sixty minutes to make your dream a reality.’

Sue carefully chose her ingredients from nineteen separate carrot varieties, and then started chopping.

‘You don’t wash off the earth?’ asked Greg, peering over her shoulder as she prepared the carrots.

‘It adds a little frisson to the three-way,’ said Sue. ‘My sister likes to throw in an earthworm or two for good measure but she was always a little bit crazy like that.’

Just then, the doorbell rang. Not on the telly, obviously, but for real.

It was Toby.

‘She’s out with Sally and Bobby,’ I told him when he asked whether Pippa was in.

‘Sally and who?’

‘Bobby Rabbit,’ I said, ‘who lives next door. They’ve gone to a party.’

‘She’s gone to a bunny bop with Sally and a buck rabbit?’

‘Bobby’s a girl,’ I said, ‘short for Roberta. Like in The Railway Children.’

‘Ah – Jenny Agutter.’

‘That’s the one. And look, even if away from work, we should actually say rabbits these days. “Bunnies” isn’t—’

‘Yeah, I know. Political correctness gone completely bonkers. They are bunnies in the same way that we are humans. Besides, they call us “Fudds”, which is equally offensive and basically just reverse specism.’

‘I’m not sure that it is.’

‘What isn’t? The offensiveness or the reverse specism?’

‘Both. I think it’s a false equivalency.’

He shrugged.

‘Whatever. I never knew Pippa was friendly with rabbits.’

There was a perjorative lilt to the ‘friendly with rabbits’ comment. It was one of those British phrases, along with ‘May I help you?’, that can be either exceedingly polite or hugely aggressive.

‘Pippa is friendly with anyone who wants to be friendly with her,’ I said.

‘She might have told me she was going out,’ he said. ‘I’d turned down several parties to be with her.’

There was a sense of Pippa ownership about him that I suddenly didn’t much like. His politics had always been suspect, and he wasn’t much fun as a co-worker. Actually, he was a pain in the arse. Rarely got the teas, endlessly cozied up to Whizelle and Flemming and never did a Danish-and-decent-coffee takeout run to Ascari’s. In an instant, I decided that I no longer wished to give him the benefit of the doubt in the likeability stakes.

‘I’ll pass on your comments,’ I said, now wondering when Pippa was going to dump him, and whether I could devise any strategies to assist in that direction. He paused for a moment, jangling his keys in his pocket with indecision.

‘Is there anything else?’ I asked.

‘May Hill, right?’

He didn’t really need to ask. The next-closest colony would be Bodmin. So after bidding me good evening, he departed.

When I’d made some coffee and got back to Mastercook, Greg was trying out Sue Rabbit’s meal.

‘I’ll be truthful,’ he said, ‘I’m not a big fan of carrots, but there are a host of warm subtleties that play off one another in an unexpectedly exciting way.’

All the guest chefs had similar comments, which were delivered in a state of shocked bewilderment. I got the impression that Sue Rabbit had been brought in to tick some boxes somewhere, and wasn’t expected to go anywhere in the contest.

‘That is quite, quite brilliant,’ said Greg, tasting the carrot soufflé, which collapsed beneath his spoon with a contented sigh, ‘although perhaps a little more sugar.’

Sue Rabbit easily made it through to the next round, and I then fell asleep while watching the director’s cut of While You Were Sleeping, and was woken by a car door banging and the unmistakable burble of a large V8 engine. I looked at the clock. It was two in the morning. The front door creaked open; we never locked it.

‘Still up?’ asked Pippa once I’d walked to the hall.

‘I fell asleep in front of the TV.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, realising I’d stayed up for her. ‘I would have texted but my phone got stolen.’

I leaned down to give her a hug. She smelled of soil, brandy and dandelion tobacco.

‘Not a problem,’ I said. ‘Hello, Sally.’

‘Hello, Mishter Knoxsh,’ slurred Sally, who was leaning against the door frame, much the worse for wear and with her skirt on backwards.

‘So,’ I said, ‘anyone want tea?’

‘No thanks,’ said Pippa, and made for her room, pushing Sally in front of her with a foot. ‘Sal needs a shower and then we’re going to bed. We’ll tell you all about it during breakfast.’

‘I’d like to pre-order a bucket of coffee,’ mumbled Sally, ‘and a paracetamol the size of a dustbin lid.’

I waited until I heard the shower turn on, then called Mrs Lomax to tell her Sally was OK and she could pick her up tomorrow. We’d actually spoken three times that evening already. She’d suggested coming over with a Lancashire hotpot that was ‘way too much for one’. This wasn’t the first time she’d proposed a cosy late-night tête-à-tête since Mr Lomax passed away, and it wasn’t the first time I’d quietly refused, even though Pippa and Sally had both suggested on numerous occasions I invite her around. ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ Sally had told me in a comment not really awash with ambiguity.

‘Colony One?’ Mrs Lomax had said when I’d told her where they were going. Traditionally, she had little to no idea of what her daughter got up to. Sally was the same age as Pippa, and Mrs Lomax, like me, often had difficulty coming to terms with the fact that the little girls we remembered so fondly were now fully grown-up women who did fully grown-up woman things.