Winman, Sarah - When God Was a Rabbit

‘Why don’t you go to school?’ Arthur asked as he attempted to light his pipe.

‘I do,’ I said.

‘Oh, come on,’ he said, ‘not often.’

‘No need,’ I said. ‘I can learn all I need to know here; by the sea, in the forest; building things. I can make jam and I can find edible fungi in the forest. I can do everything that would ensure my survival, should disaster unexpectedly strike.’

‘And are you expecting disaster to unexpectedly strike?’

‘I’m just saying I’m ready , Arthur.’

Arthur thought for a while and sucked deeply on his pipe. The sweet nutty plumes wafted towards me on the breeze and I opened my mouth, timed it well and swallowed mouthfuls of the thick edible smoke.

‘Nature is a great educator; but not the sole educator. You do yourself a great disservice by not attending,’ he said as he leant down and placed the fishing line securely under his foot. ‘Don’t leave it too late, Elly. Don’t let the window of education pass you by. Even youth can have regret.’

‘But I like learning,’ I said. ‘I just don’t like school . I used to. But it’s different here. I still want to play, Arthur. But everyone in my class wants to be grown up. I’m different. They tell me I’m different and I know I am, but only with them does it feel wrong.’

‘I’m different,’ said Arthur.

‘I know, but you feel right,’ and I leant over the side and let my hand trail in the coolness of the water. ‘I’m unpopular and that hurts,’ I said.

‘Popularity, my dear, is as overrated as a large member,’ he said, looking into the distance, lost in one of his other clandestine worlds.

‘What member?’ I asked, momentarily confused.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Nearly twelve.’

‘Don’t ever stop playing, Elly,’ he said, as he wiped his hands on a starched, white handkerchief that he’d ironed the night before. ‘Never stop playing.’

I changed direction and took us further away from the pull of the island. Our drift had been deceptively strong, and the soft drone of the engine sounded strained against the tide.

‘Arthur?’ I said, shielding my brow with my free hand. ‘No one needs to worry about me. I’ll turn out all right in the end. You know I will.’

He slapped his knee and said, ‘I said exactly the same thing at your age, Elly. And look at me now!’

‘Well, there you go,’ I said, beaming.

‘There you go,’ he said, falling back into the depths of thought. ‘Actually, your mother wanted me to ask you something.’

‘Oh?’ I said, securing the tiller in a locked position and unravelling another fishing line.

‘How would you like to be schooled at home?’ he said.

‘By who?’ I asked suspiciously, as I tied the final knot.

‘By me, of course!’ he said, and a waft of smoke flew into my face and I coughed.

‘I will take you to O level. English – Literature and Language, Mathematics, Geography, History – my favourite, of course; French and German. Your mother has a friend in the village who’s prepared to cover the Art. So what do you think? Apparently it’s non-negotiable and you’ll have to work your bloody socks off. Take it or leave it?’

‘Take it,’ I said quickly, ignoring the darting line hanging over the edge; the line disappearing into the spumey wake with five mackerel thrashing to the depths with all their might.

The sun was low, and our quota of fish caught. I cut the engine and we drifted with the current – a moment of quiet – the slap of waves against the side, an overhead gull, the faint sound of a radio coming from a cove. I nervously placed the anchor over the edge. The rope uncoiled hastily and I was careful to keep my limbs away from its hunger, so present in my mind were the stories of children dragged to their deaths by a wayward foot or hand. The rope suddenly went slack and I relaxed.

We rose and fell gently on the wake of a passing motor boat, and as the sound of its engine settled beyond the cliffs, Arthur unwrapped the tin foil and handed me a piece of Victoria sponge, my favourite. Jam oozed from its sides and I licked my hand, a curious taste now of strawberry, butter-cream and fish. I looked over at the foil and wondered if we might share the last piece of cake, and as I was about to suggest the plan, the distant sound of a bell rang out across the waves.

‘Don’t tell me there’s a church nearby?’ said Arthur, pouring a cup of tea from his Thermos and looking about at the watery, empty surround.

‘No, no. It’s actually a bell on the water. Way out there,’ I said, pointing to the faint line that was actually a lighthouse. ‘Not many people know about it, but I do, Arthur. I’ve seen it.’

‘Have you indeed? Well, I like the sound. It’s rather eerie,’ he said. ‘Mournful. Grieving all those lost at sea, I suppose.’

‘I suppose it is,’ I said, never having thought of it that way.

It had been an adventure to me, that was all. An adventure most people said was make-believe, but I had seen it and so had my brother. A year before, it had loomed towards us out of the mist, a large brass bell floating on the waves as if it had been carelessly dropped from some heavenly steeple. It was a bell that called no one to prayer, and yet there we were, moored right next to it.

‘This is creepy,’ said my brother.

‘More than creepy. We shouldn’t be out here,’ I said as I ran my hand across the rough cold metal, and as my brother started the engine, the bell suddenly struck its note and I fell to the floor in tears. I told my brother I had slipped, caught my foot on some rope. But what I never told him was that as the bell chimed, the metal suddenly felt warm; as if it had secretly craved the scanty touch of human contact and the sound it had so suddenly made was actually the sound of its pain.

‘Do you believe in God, Arthur?’ I said, eating the last piece of sponge.

‘Do I believe in an old man in the clouds with a white beard judging us mortals with a moral code from one to ten? Good Lord no, my sweet Elly, I do not! I would have been cast out from this life years ago with my tatty history. Do I believe in a mystery; the unexplained phenomenon that is life itself? The greater something that illuminates inconsequence in our lives; that gives us something to strive for as well as the humility to brush ourselves down and start all over again? Then yes, I do. It is the source of art, of beauty, of love, and proffers the ultimate goodness to mankind. That to me is God. That to me is life. That is what I believe in.’

I listened to the bell again, whispering across the waves, calling, calling. I licked my fingers and scrunched the tin foil up into a ball.

‘Do you think a rabbit could be God?’ I asked casually.

‘There is absolutely no reason at all why a rabbit should not be God.’

It is December again. My birthday. It is also the day when John Lennon was shot. A man went up to him and shot him outside his home in New York, wife next to him. Simply shot him. I can’t understand it; wouldn’t for days.

‘The good die young,’ says Jenny Penny during our phone conversation.

‘Why?’ I ask.

But she pretends not to hear me, pretends that the line is bad. She always does that when she doesn’t have an answer.

I go to bed early that night, inconsolable. I don’t even blow out the candles on my cake.

‘One candle’s already gone out in the world,’ I say. I leave my presents for another day. There is simply nothing to celebrate.