The Constant Rabbit

The rabbits were also out in the garden. Major Rabbit had his jacket off and was digging the lawn into neat furrows. Every now and then he would stop and mop his brow with a red-spotted handkerchief, which was pretty pointless as rabbits, being fur-bearing, don’t sweat. Connie, by contrast, was sitting on a sun lounger in the tiniest bikini imaginable while reading a copy of Ludlow Vogue. Her figure, like those of nearly all female anthropomorphised rabbits, was very humanlike, with bulges and curves in all the right places. By the way in which the post-church-service pedestrians slowed down as they walked past, I wasn’t the only one who thought this. It wasn’t long before the Malletts turned up.

We nodded greetings, then Norman lowered his voice and began:

‘I’m not sure this is the sort of village where rabbit females should disport themselves almost naked,’ he said, his eyes not leaving her form for one second. ‘Flaunting herself in that manner is unhealthy for our young men – might give them ideas.’

‘Semi-nudity encourages unsound moral behaviour,’ agreed Victor, also staring, possibly to make absolutely sure he disapproved. ‘Women should be chaste and demure, lest they lead men into temptation and precipitate their fall.’

The brothers nodded their heads vigorously, unaware they were talking crap, while still staring, eyes like organ stops.

‘Hell’s teeth,’ said Norman, suddenly noticing Doc, ‘is Major Rabbit digging up the lawn? Mr Beeton spent thirty years cultivating that piece of turf into the finest slab of green this side of Mansell Gamage, and what’s more, it was going to be one of our major selling points to the Spick & Span judges: “so smooth we could play snooker on it – and have”.’

‘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.