The Constant Rabbit

I paused.

‘You’re not in there, are you?’

I opened the cupboard door to find I was correct. Connie wasn’t there, and neither was the Alexandre Dumas novel, the torch – nor, oddly, the Henry vacuum cleaner. I shut the door, sighed, made myself some tea and sat at the kitchen table, wondering whether Harvey had a hand in Toby’s condition, whether he had been at the movies too – and whether they had even been going to the pictures at all. I reminded myself that Pippa was her own person then walked towards the living room, meaning to watch something – anything on the telly. I didn’t get that far as something in the hall caught my eye. Connie’s shoes were still parked where she’d left them near the grandfather clock. It had rained briefly that evening, and I knew that rabbits had a peculiar dislike for getting their paws wet.

She was still in the house.

I looked in the living room, then the utility room, where I could see Connie’s floral-pattern dress going round and round through the viewing port of the washing machine. Now more flustered, I checked the conservatory, my study and the dining room, but she was nowhere to be seen. I returned to the hallway, then heard the sound of the shower running upstairs.

‘Mrs Rabbit?’ I called up the stairwell. ‘Are you up there?’

She didn’t answer, and instead I heard her singing in a rather lovely voice. I stood there for a moment, undecided as to what to do, but then told myself that this was my house, so I padded slowly up the stairs.

The shower in use was the en suite in my bedroom, and the door was open. I could see her reflection in the mirror. With wet fur and discounting her tail and powerful thigh and calf muscles, she had a body that was almost identical to a human’s. I looked away, paused for a moment, looked back and then looked away again. If you can see a rabbit, they can see you.

‘Connie?’

‘Oh, hello, Peter,’ she sang out, seemingly unconcerned by my presence. ‘I didn’t know how long you were going to be so I took the opportunity to wash some things and have a shower – we can’t seem to get the hot water to work over in Hemlock Towers. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Well, no,’ I said, which was kind of true.

‘I’ve used all your shampoo,’ she said, ‘all two litres of it. I have a lot of fur. But I couldn’t find any conditioner.’

‘I don’t use it.’

‘Maybe just as well,’ she said, ‘as I tend to go a little fluffy. Would you pass me a towel?’

So I did so as best I could without looking as though I shouldn’t be looking, but not wanting to appear prudish, I made sure I did look at her, but just her eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wrapping herself and stepping out of the shower. ‘You don’t have a hairdryer, do you? Fur takes an age to dry and can get a little spiky if not brushed immediately.’

‘I’ll get you Pippa’s,’ I said, and went downstairs to fetch it. When I got back Connie had dispensed with the towel and was staring at her naked self in the full-length mirror on the cupboard door.

‘Bunty teaches us that mirrors, endless selfies and self-aggrandisement on social media are the gateway to narcissistic self-absorption,’ she said, turning this way and that to get a better look at herself. ‘There are no mirrors in the colonies, we don’t have one in the house, and car mirrors are always reduced in size to avoid unseemly self-regard. What do you think?’

‘I think you are … very lovely, Connie.’

She smiled, took the hairdryer and started to blow-dry her fur, which, being quite fine, seemed to dry quite fast. She started on her hind paws and then worked upwards, all the time seemingly unconcerned by my presence.

‘They returned Toby,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Bobby knows a rabbit who knows a rabbit who knows a rabbit.’

‘Are you with the Underground?’

‘All rabbits are with the Underground,’ she replied after a pause. ‘It’s an understanding rather than a recruitment. You get a nod or a tap on the shoulder or a phone call and you have to do the right thing, no matter what the personal cost. Unity and focus. Here, dry my back, would you?’

She turned round and I directed the hairdryer at her furry back. She passed me a soft brush and I brushed the fur at the same time.

‘Do you remember all those terrible films we went to see?’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And we sat in the back row because of my ears and we didn’t hold hands or anything, but the seats were small so we were touching?’

‘I remember that very clearly.’

‘I liked that,’ she said after a pause. ‘A sort of understated intimacy. I always felt that we kinda just clicked, you and I. Never had that since. Not with a rabbit, not with a human, not really with any of my husbands.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I felt that too. OK, your back’s dry.’

She turned round, took the hairdryer from me and then started to dry the fur on her arms and torso.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

She turned the dryer on to her ears, which flapped in a comical manner.

‘About what?’