The Constant Rabbit

‘All the time – but it would be unethical to use that information for material gain. Now: to bouncing. Since you’re a human and thus hobbled with the puniest of leg muscles, you could not possibly hope to keep up – so I suggest you drive alongside me. I’ve drawn a route that’s almost exactly eight miles. If I can do a lap in under twenty minutes, then I’m in with a chance of beating Penelope Rabbit, who’s way too full of herself and really needs to be taken down a hop or two.’

‘Is Doc OK with this?’

‘If he knew I’m sure he’d be totally fine about it.’

‘Really?’

‘Sort of.’

‘OK, then.’

I opted to take the Austin-Healey as it was a convertible, and once I’d reversed out, Connie laid a map on the bonnet to brief me. There was a long straight road between Much Hemlock and Squiffton Coachbolt that she suggested taking, then a left by the church of St Julius of the Swollen Glands, then following the disused railway along a three-mile stretch of road before arriving in Syon Kapok, where a left past the old tithe barn would return us to Much Hemlock via Slipton Flipflop.

‘I’ll give you a head start,’ she said. ‘Keep to a steady twenty-four if you can.’

I had an accurate speedo on the car, so set off in the direction she had indicated, holding as steady a speed as I could. She soon caught up with me and managed to hold station with the car using a series of powerful leaps in the field next to me, expertly negotiating walls, fences, a small spinney, a sheep and the occasional cow. When she was mid-leap it looked as though she were hanging in the air next to me, then she would land and in a burst of energy and a sharp cry that put me in mind of tennis players during a rally, she would launch herself into the air and was once again momentarily airborne, at which point she had a second or two to speak.

‘I’m really sorry for what happened,’ she said, sailing over a dry-stone wall. ‘I didn’t plan for you to get hauled up in front of the Taskforce. You told them nothing happened, right?’

‘Nothing did happen,’ I said, having to shout to be heard in the breeze. ‘What did you tell Doc?’

‘The same,’ she said, taking another leap. ‘He’s insanely suspicious, gets very stressed in the pre-mating season and has a temper, so I just said that you and I were out of the question because you were, well—’

‘Uncharismatic?’

‘My word was boring, actually.’

‘Thanks. He wants me to spy on you.’

She landed just before a row of trees, jumped, then expertly tucked herself into a ball and passed through the foliage with a crack of broken twigs and a burst of leaves.

‘He’s frightened of losing you to another buck in a duel,’ I said. ‘He told me he doesn’t want the only memento of you to be a hole in his ear.’

This, I think, was news to Connie.

‘He said that?’

‘More or less.’

She landed, gave out a cry and leapt clear across a small herd of Friesians, who looked as though they’d suddenly realised that it was a Tuesday and would have to reconfigure their plans. We took a left by the church in Squiffton Coachbolt, which Connie undertook by a series of bounds around the graveyard, then she disappeared behind the tea rooms and caught up with me, bouncing along the relative flatness of the disused railway. I told her how Flemming and Whizelle had initially tried to make me testify against her but that the Senior Group Leader had intervened.

‘It was Mr Ffoxe who made the charges go away.’

She looked at me, grimaced, then landed, gave another sharp cry and cleared a carelessly abandoned combine harvester with inches to spare. She then slowed her pace and eventually came to stop beside a small clump of trees that bounded a field of ripening wheat.

‘How did I do?’ she said, wrapping her ears with a cold towel from a cooler she’d placed in my car.

‘Twenty-two minutes and eighteen seconds,’ I said, studying my stopwatch.

‘It’s a work in progress,’ she said with a shrug as I switched off the engine. She then turned to walk along the edge of a field bounded with silver birches. It was an invitation to join her, and after looking around and seeing no one, I climbed out of the car and followed. She brushed her paw against the wheat that was dry-rustling in the breeze as we walked along, following the footpath that took us towards the distant spire of Clagdangle-on-Arrow by way of Kintley barn, a dilapidated brick-built affair that in days gone by was a favourite hangout for teenagers: just far enough to be away from adults, but not so far away that it couldn’t be easily reached on bicycles. I had my first kiss there – with Isadora Fairfax, now the second Mrs Mallett – and it was also the place where Norman, in a furious rage, hit James Bryant with a length of scaffolding, something that we always believed was behind Jim’s onset of seizures and early death at twenty-two.

‘So,’ said Connie, ‘why did Mr Ffoxe make the charges go away?’

‘He wanted you and I to carry on exactly as we are. He said you were a …’

‘A what?’