‘They must have come into some serious cash,’ said Mr Wainwright, ‘to afford the old Beeton place.’
‘If they have they’ll probably blow the lot on lettuce,’ said Mrs Ponsonby, adding: ‘but that would be their choice.’
‘I think Mrs Rabbit’s name was Constance,’ said Mrs Griswold.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Constance,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never heard of a rabbit called Constance.’
I had, and it stood to reason Connie and Constance were the same rabbit, and I suddenly felt a little odd inside. A sense of interest, obviously, that I might be seeing her more regularly after all these years – but also a sudden paralysing fear that she might find out what I did for a job. But if I was having a conflicting moment right now, it suddenly got a whole lot worse, and very quickly.
‘I heard she was the widow of that rabbit mistakenly jugged by TwoLegsGood,’ said Mrs Griswold, and it felt as though iced water had been suddenly pressed into my veins. I had never connected the two. Why should I? But the truth was that I was partially responsible for Dylan Rabbit’s death, even if the Compliance Taskforce was not the agency that killed him. He was released by RabCoT within twenty-four hours and dead in another five: TwoLegsGood activists dragged him from his house in the middle of the night and upended him in a forty-gallon drum of cheap gravy that had been seasoned with bay leaves, celery, thyme, juniper berries and red wine. The mistake was only discovered when the rabbit we were actually after died of myxomatosis three months later. Controversially, the BBC’s News & Views had suggested that the Rabbit Compliance Taskforce had tipped off TwoLegsGood and had him released him only to be killed ‘as a warning’. The Senior Group Leader vehemently denied the accusation as ‘just another manufactured lie from the biased pro-rabbit media’.
As it turned out, Dylan’s family – which I was now aware included Connie, obviously – were fully compensated and even given off-colony status. The Senior Group Leader remarked that: ‘The whole debacle was probably the best result his family could have hoped for: a cunicular plumber could never have earned enough to buy his way off-colony.’ But all that aside, Connie’s and my shared university attendance was a long time ago, so there was a very good chance she’d have forgotten all about me: after all, she didn’t appear to recognise me at the library. And even if she did remember me, she’d never know I was a Spotter, less so one who’d had a hand in the death of her second husband.
‘Will they be trying to get the kids into the local school?’ asked Mrs Ponsonby, adding: ‘Waste of time, if you ask me – but everyone needs an education.’
‘I think that’s what they’re here for,’ replied Mrs Griswold, ‘checking it out. Class sizes, vegan options, that sort of thing.’
‘Carrot-munching pests who should have been smothered when they spoke their first word,’ grumbled Mr Wainwright, whose social filters – if he’d ever had any – were now entirely absent. ‘It’s unnatural.’
He was right on that score: the Spontaneous Anthropomorphising Event was completely unnatural and totally unprecedented. On 12 August 1965 there had been an unexpected flurry of snow on the night of a full moon following the warmest of summer days, when the sunset glowed an eerie shade of green. Aluminium foil had inexplicably tarnished within ten miles of the Event, and glass had adopted a sheen like that of mineral oil on water. The eighteen rabbits of the Event morphed and grew into a semi-humanlike shape overnight, stretched, yawned – then asked for a glass of water and a carrot, adding: ‘But really, only if it’s no trouble.’
The fifty-fifth anniversary would be later on this summer, but it was unlikely anyone would celebrate, least of all the rabbits to whom the Event elicited mixed feelings. Some thought humanness a boon, others a lament. Most agreed on one thing, however: it was better to have a mind capable of philosophising over the question of their existence than not. And chocolate eclairs. They were definitely worth having.
‘Well,’ I said, taking a deep breath and making to leave, ‘I dare say Mr Mallett and his brother have already formed an action committee.’
‘Those Malletts,’ said Mrs Griswold fondly, looking down and touching her hair absently, ‘always so concerned about our welfare.’
Pippa & Pasta
‘Rabbit Underground’ was the broad term used to describe any clandestine rabbit direct action protest group. Many suggested it might not actually exist at all, and simply be an invention by the Minister for Rabbit Affairs to further demonise the rabbit – and to justify extra funding for the Taskforce.
‘Is it the self-same rabbit who was so disrespectful to dear wifey in the library?’ asked Victor Mallett when I found him handing out poorly photocopied leaflets in the public bar of the Unicorn.
‘It looks like it.’
‘I told you she looked like trouble – we should regard that library book she borrowed as stolen, and that clearly shows a pattern of criminal behaviour that we can only ignore at our peril. I thought you said she was just passing through?’
‘I thought she was. Major Rabbit served with the British Army,’ I added, in order to win Victor over, as I knew he was a supporter of the forces, but had not served himself. ‘They both strike me as decent people.’
‘Obviously we are grateful for his committed service in defence of our nation,’ said Mr Mallett, ‘and yes, they might be individually good neighbours and in time make a positive contribution to the community. There are always the good ones. But you’re missing the big picture. Once you let a single family in, then the downward spiral begins. Other rabbits of less scrupulous morals move in – and following them, the criminal element.’
‘Criminal element?’ I asked. ‘Like what?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘stealing library books, for one. But make no mistake,’ he added with renewed enthusiasm, ‘this is the thin end of the wedge. Let one family in and pretty soon they’ll all be here, filling up the schools, attempting to convert us all to their uniquely aggressive form of veganism, undermining our worthy and utterly logical religion with their depraved and nonsensical faith – and then placing an intolerable burden on our already weakened infrastructure. Also,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘it could negatively impact on our chance to win a Spick & Span award.’
‘And once they’ve established themselves,’ added Norman Mallett, who had been sitting at the bar and up until now had remained silent, ‘their friends and relatives start to swarm in. Pretty soon you won’t be able to move in Much Hemlock for rabbits. House prices will tumble, and we’ll be strangers in our own community. It will be like Ross-on-Wye all over again.’
‘Aye,’ said Victor, shaking his head, ‘a plague.’
‘Are you thinking of raising a petition?’ I asked, fully aware of Mr Mallett’s usual modus operandi.
‘Already started one,’ he replied cheerfully, waving one of the flyers at me, which screamed of a ‘potential disaster of massive proportions’ in the village.
‘As a member of the Rabbit Compliance Taskforce,’ I said, trying to de-escalate the situation, ‘I should point out that legal off-colony rabbits have a right to live anywhere, and we could be making a whole heap of trouble for ourselves if we break the law. Harassing the widow of someone who was jugged in error by TwoLegsGood isn’t going to play well if the newspapers get hold of it.’
‘I fully appreciate what you’re saying, Peter,’ he said, which was Mallett shorthand for ‘I would utterly reject what you’re saying if I were listening, which I’m not’, ‘and all I want to do is raise awareness,’ which was, again, Mr Mallett’s shorthand for ‘I think I’ll stir up a whole heap of trouble and hope that in the ensuing scrum I’ll get what I want but not be held accountable for it’. He went on: ‘We must remain utterly vigilant at all times, and I’ll be honest, Peter, I didn’t have you pegged as a friend to rabbits.’