Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

‘I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you take it up with the Rabbits?’

They looked quite taken aback.

‘What’s the point? So long as you do your job and persuade them that Rabxit benefits us all, the problem will be over. Have you mentioned the leaving fund?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, don’t dally. Wait a moment: what’s that indentation on your lawn?’

I’d noticed it earlier: there was a mild dent in my garden only ten feet from where it shared a common boundary with Hemlock Towers.

‘It’s been there for a while,’ I lied, ‘the remains of a garden pond.’

‘Ah,’ said Victor, ‘love a garden pond, me. Restful. Takes one’s mind off the pressures of life.’

I wondered what possible pressures Victor Mallett could have to contend with. Cosy retirement, enviable social position, a compliant wife who cooked and cleaned, and, as wagging tongues had it, an extramarital love interest over in Bobblestock.

‘Yes indeed,’ he continued, ‘life can be tough, but thank God I have the strength of character and humility to endure. Have you seen Toby, by the way? He wasn’t at church and Granny Mallett had to give the lesson on forgiveness and tolerance on her own.’

I told them I hadn’t, and they stared at Connie in her tiny bikini one last time – then made disapproving noises and moved off.

Once they’d gone, Doc sauntered over.

‘Trouble?’ he asked.

I decided not to mention their comments about Connie, so instead repeated their remarks about digging up the lawn.

‘I think you’ll find,’ said Doc, ‘that fresh veg in neat lines, bean poles tied with natty green twine, cloches sweating with early-morning dew, seed packets on lolly-sticks in crumb-crisp soil, and all weeded to perfection, has a simple elegance that the judges will find hugely attractive. Veg is the thing, Pete. Exquisiteness merged with edibility, form merged with function. Consider,’ he said, eyes half closed, ‘the taut skin of a ripe courgette, the rough hardiness of an unearthed spud, the reassuring yet somehow saddening snick one hears when snapping the tap root on a carrot when pulled.’ I nodded, but he wasn’t done. ‘The thud of a windfall apple against mossy ground, the colour of peas as the pods ripen to burst. The furry lining of a broad bean pod, the way raindrops settle on a ripening lettuce head.’

He sighed deeply, then turned to me with a smile.

‘OK, I’m done.’

‘I agree with you veg-wise,’ I said. ‘It’s just that the village take the awards very seriously; in thirty-six years the closest to a Spick & Span we’ve ever got was a “Merit” due to Mrs Ponsonby’s wisteria in 1997 – and even then, I think they only gave us the award to annoy the village of Mansel Lacy. And look, what’s this?’

I pointed at the indentation in the grass on my side of the hedge, and he bounced clean over the hedge to have a closer look.

‘Subsidence,’ he said after thumping a rear paw on the offending dip. ‘Probably a sinkhole or something.’

‘We’re on gravel,’ I said, ‘I don’t think that’s very likely. That fence post looks a bit squiffy too.’

I pointed at a fence panel that had fallen out of skew. It was on a direct line between the dent and the Rabbits’ house.

‘I’m not sure what you’re driving at,’ said Doc, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘Do you think we’re involved? Tell me what you’re thinking. We like to be straight about things.’

‘I’m thinking … perhaps … burrowing?’

Doc showed me his paws. His nails were in pretty good shape.

‘Do I look like a burrower?’

‘I’m only trying to help you,’ I said. ‘The villagers are looking for any excuse to complain.’

‘Let them,’ he said, ‘and just so we’re clear: we’re here to stay, Peter. Only a fox or a gun will get us out of here.’

‘A fox?’ I asked.

‘Where?’ said Doc, suddenly looking around nervously.

‘No, I mean have you seen a fox around the village?’ I asked, suddenly worried that the Senior Group Leader might escalate his interest in Doc and Connie.

‘Not seen or heard or smelled,’ said Doc, ‘they switched from Hai Karate aftershave to Old Spice when we figured out that’s what they were using to mask their scent. Cunning, you see, always ahead of the game.’

And we were both silent for a few moments.

‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘you’ve every right to live where you want. Just don’t tell anyone I said that. And for goodness’ sake, be careful.’

‘Rabbits are born careful,’ said Doc, patting me on the back, ‘it’s our edge. That and large litters, early sexual maturity, a short gestation period and an easily exploited niche in the ecosystem.’

He took out his pocket watch and stared at it for a moment.

‘How about that,’ he said. ‘The cricket’s just started. Nothing like the crack of leather on willow to round out a Sunday. Rabbit 1st XI versus the MCC: should be a corker.’

‘I thought you didn’t like gladiatorial contests?’ I said.

‘Nothing even remotely gladiatorial about cricket,’ he said with a snort. ‘It’s a craft, not a sport. See you later.’

And with a single hop he bounded across the hedge into his garden, and then into the house by way of an open window. There was a crash as he landed on some furniture, followed by some choice words and an admonishment along the lines of ‘what damn fool left that bloody table there?’ to which I heard Constance reply: ‘You did.’

I went inside once the lawn was mowed, meaning to tell Pippa the latest on the Malletts, but she had something unusual of her own to contend with.

‘What do you make of this?’ she asked, handing me the phone. ‘I lost my mobile and this is all I get when I ring my own number.’

I listened intently down the line to a series of softly spoken squeaks and sniffing noises, interspersed with short gasps.

‘It sounds like Rabbity,’ I said. ‘You could ask Bobby to translate.’

‘I know,’ said Pippa. ‘I asked her over, that’s probably her now.’

There was, indeed, the sound of thumps growing closer from outside, and true to rabbit form – they regarded doors as less of an aid to privacy, and more as something that simply stopped draughts – Bobby bounded into the kitchen.

‘Good morning, Mr Knox,’ she said with a grin, clearly unaffected by the previous night’s revelry. ‘Hello, Pip. What’s the problem?’

Pippa handed the phone to Bobby, who listened intently for a few moments, then broke into peals of squeaky laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

‘It’s Madame Bovary being read out loud in real time,’ said Bobby. ‘Rabbits are very into French literature at the moment, and phones are often hijacked to help rabbits on the production lines deal with boredom through the injection of a little Flaubertian virtuosity. There’ll be an announcement by the reader at the end asking if you’d like to pledge a few pounds if you liked it. They’ll do anything to make money in the colonies. Madame Bovary is a firm favourite – kind of racy, you see – Emma would have made a fine rabbit. Best of all, it pisses off UKARP – they’re not fans of any literature that isn’t British.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘but what do we do about Pippa’s phone?’

‘Just tell your provider. They’ll soon shut them down. Hang on a second.’

Something on the telephone had just caught her attention. Her ears twitched and she grimaced.

‘Oh-oh,’ she said, ‘Rodolphe’s left a note in a basket of apricots. Will he? Won’t he? Will they? Won’t they? Oh … dang . Never saw that coming.’