The Constant Rabbit

‘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 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.

‘Are you still in the army, Doc?’ I asked.

‘Semi-retired. I picked up some shrapnel, lost two fingers, a nut and partial sight in one eye during an overhead mortar burst during that Kandahar number I was telling you about. I’m a freelance security consultant these days, so now I sell deniability.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I said.

‘Modern warfare is quite different from the old days,’ he said, ‘and the ugly spectre of accountability can seriously hamper flexibility in a swiftly changing conflict.’

‘Can we move on?’ said Connie. ‘I’m sure Peter doesn’t want to talk military politics.’