Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

‘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 34. Niffniff was the Rabbity word for human; the term ‘Fudd’ is colloquial. 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.