Read by Paul Clarke
The rabbit was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt about that. Dead as a door-nail, dead as the dodo ... But Rowly had no desire to continue the Dickensian litany of what the rabbit was as dead as: it was dead, and it was Christmas Eve, and he was half-cut and wholly in despair.
Rowly had bought the rabbit last night, on a whim, as a gift for Betty, who'd done what nobody else of his wide and varied acquaintance had wanted to, and given him a bed over Christmas after he'd been thrown out of Mrs. Pandry's lodging-house for non-payment of rent. Admittedly, Betty was away was visiting her parents in Somerset over the festive season; but that, Rowly felt, argued even more strongly for her sweet-natured charity in trusting him.
Rowly knew he had a reputation among his friends; he was a hoot, a card, generous with money when he had it and rather wild when he'd tied a few on; a capital fellow to have a pint with, but emphatically, definitively not the sort of chap with whom anything valuable, breakable or indeed pawnable should be left.
But Betty had put her faith in him, and so he'd bought her a white rabbit off the bloke in the Golden Goose, and brought it back to her little Soho flat as a surprise thank-you present. He was fairly sure Betty liked rabbits; she had quite a lot of rabbit-fur things, anyway, stoles and mufflers and so forth. Besides, how could anyone resist an adorable bunny? She'd have to have a heart of stone to reject a rabbit, and Rowly knew that Betty's heart was as soft as Ministry of Food margarine.
Rising late, Rowly had breakfasted, then strummed a few tunes on his ukulele in order to amuse himself and, secondarily, ascertain whether rabbits, like snakes, were susceptible to music. The rabbit (Rowly had decided to call him Lewis, after Lewis Carroll) quivered his nose in perplexity at most of Rowly's repertoire, but he'd perked up his ears and stopped nibbling the rug when Rowly played “Five-Foot-Two, Eyes of Blue”, Betty's favourite song.
“Excellent taste, old chap!” Rowly had cried, leaning over to pat Lewis on the head. But the post-breakfast stiffener must have affected his hand-to-eye coordination, because the friendly pat turned out to be rather more of a hearty wallop, and Rowly heard a faint, sickening crack as his hand connected with Lewis's small skull. Lewis collapsed, his white head at a peculiar angle, red eyes staring, little pink nose ceasing instantly to twitch.
“Oh God,” Rowly moaned. “What have I done?”
Smelling-salts and mouth-to-mouth had proved useless, and after strenuous efforts to revive him, Rowly was forced to conclude that Lewis was, indeed, dead. He lay motionless, with the ponderous floppiness of the recently deceased, on Rowly's lap. Rowly sank his head in his hands, and whisky tears trickled through his trembling fingers.
What to do? His mind churned nauseously. He couldn't have Betty come home to find a dead rabbit and an empty drinks-cabinet (it wasn't empty yet, but Rowly knew it would be by the time she returned). He'd have to hide the evidence. Betty's back-garden was minuscule, but there was surely room to bury one small rabbit. He stepped onto Betty's tiny patio with large serving-spoon (the closest thing he could find to a trowel) in one hand, and Lewis in the other. The winter air was frosty and sharp, and his bad leg twinged. Rowly winced, rolled up his sleeves and set to.
Fifteen minutes later, Rowly was sweaty and dishevelled, and Lewis no closer to interment. The ground was frozen solid, and Rowly's gravedigging attempts had produced only a scraped-bare patch in the lawn, and a bent serving-spoon. Rowly pondered his options. He could stay here and mourn, or go out, get a drink, and formulate a plan. He still had five bob for emergencies, and besides, Rowly thought better in pubs. It was decided.
The streets of London were already whitening under the gentle assault of snow as Rowly rubbed his gloveless hands together briskly and limped off towards Dean Street. The York Minster would be open, even if everywhere else was closed.
At the York, Adelaide was indeed presiding over the few regulars who hadn't been able to cadge invitations to dinner or parties elsewhere. She greeted Rowly with a warning glare, which he knew meant “no credit tonight”.
Rowly smiled. “Half a bitter please,”
Her sharply-plucked eyebrows rose. “That all?”
Rowly considered. She was right: he'd need more than that under his belt to address himself properly to the dead rabbit problem.
“All right, a whisky chaser too. Just the house,” he added hastily, mindful of his five-bob budget.
Adelaide snorted and poured. Then she lit a Woodbine and started leafing through the racing results in the Daily Sketch. Rowly watched her, pensively sipping his bitter.
He and Adelaide had had an informal understanding a few years back, when she'd slip him free drinks and sometimes a meal when Gaston the owner wasn't looking, in exchange for any nylons and ration-coupons Rowley happened across. They'd talked, then, of what they'd do when the war was over; she was going to train as an actress, and he was going to make it big with his ukulele. Rowly sighed. He'd never imagined they'd be here five years later, five years older, with everything, even rationing, still the same. Adelaide glanced at him and her narrow face softened.
“What you down in the dumps about, ducks?”
Rowly shook his head. “Nothing, Addy. Bit of hard luck, that's all.”
She smirked. “Yeah, I know. I was there when you come in with your suitcase asking us all if we had a spare bed.”
Rowly waved his hand dismissively. “Oh no, it's not that. Betty put me up in the end. She's a brick.”
Adelaide gave a cracked laugh. “A loony, more like. You'll burn the place down, knowing you.”
“No I shan't,” retorted Rowly, with some asperity. “In fact, I got her a thank-you present.”
“Replaced what you drank, you mean?”
Rowly blushed and rubbed his bad leg. “No, not yet, although of course I'm going to. No, I bought her a rabbit.”
Adelaide coughed blue smoke. “A what?”
“A rabbit. For a pet. They're awfully tame. Cheap to feed too.”
“You don't say.”
“Yes, well, that's what the fellow in the Golden Goose said. Only thing is, I accidentally, er ...”
“Accidentally what?”
Rowly, by way of answer, opened his coat to display the soft drooping ears and lifeless, lolling head of Lewis. Adelaide cooed and leaned closer.
“Here, is he all right? He don't look too perky to me.”
“That's the problem,” said Rowly glumly. “He's dead.”
Adelaide rolled her eyes. “Oh no, Rowly, why'd you have to go and kill the poor little mite?”
“It wasn't on purpose,” insisted Rowly, chagrined.
She sniffed. “Yes, well, I don't expect that makes much difference to him. Oh, you always was a clumsy bugger, Rowly! Honestly, what you thinking of, carrying a dead rabbit around? ”
“I tried to bury him,” Rowly explained, “but the ground's too hard. I thought I might come up with a plan over a quiet drink. Don't suppose you've any ideas?”
An hour and three halves later, Rowly was no closer to solving his rabbit-disposal problem. Adelaide suggested stuffing Lewis into the ashcan on the corner, but Rowly had grown rather fond of Lewis in their short time together, and considered this a far too unceremonious end for a ukulele-loving rabbit. He wanted to show Lewis a measure of respect and dignity in death. Adelaide arched an eyebrow and lit another cigarette. Then she tapped Rowly excitedly on the wrist.
“I've got it!” she said. “We'll cremate him!”
“Cremate him?” repeated Rowly, bewildered.
“Yeah! Gaston's got an old brick-oven out the back where he burns the rubbish. We can give Lewis a lovely send-off, raise a glass, say a prayer and Bob's your uncle! If it's good enough for the Hindoos, it's good enough for a rabbit.”
Rowly was not persuaded. “But there'll be nothing left to bury. He needs some sort of memorial, or it'll be like he never existed.” He felt the chlorine sting of tears. “Poor little fellow! I can't just throw him on the fire!”
Adelaide grinned. “Cheer up, you sentimental bugger. I'll give you his ashes after, just like at Golders Green. I've got an old evaporated-milk tin somewhere.”
Rowly stared mistily at Adelaide's full red lips and the wrinkles fanning around her eyes. They hadn't been there five years ago. But she was still almost beautiful. He reached across the bar and clasped her thin hand.
“Ow! Watch it! No wonder you done for Mr. Bunny, grip like that. Here, pass him over. I'll go and start the burner.”
“Thanks, Addy,” said Rowly, dragging the late Lewis out of his poacher's-pocket like an inept conjurer. “Thank you.”
Adelaide came back twenty minutes later brushing soot off her hands. “Blazing away merrily,” she said briskly. “Now, what can I get you? Last orders, mind.”
Rowly ransacked the pockets of his shooting-jacket, hoping to find a stray shilling, without result. Adelaide watched him with exasperated pity. Eventually she crossed her arms and sighed.
“All right, all right, any more of this and my heart'll start bleeding. What do you want? On the house. It's Christmas after all.”
Rowly nearly wept with relief. “A double of Bell's would see me right, Addy. I'll pay you back, honestly.”
She held up a hand. “Save your breath, it's my treat. Just don't tell Gaston, eh?”
Rowly shook his head avidly. Adelaide poured his whisky, then crossed to bar the doors. The rest of the regulars had trickled away as they talked, and now they were alone.
“Dinner-time at last,” said Adelaide. “Won't be a tick. Lord, I'm starving.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a steaming roast dinner.
“Never eat before my shift. Can't work on a full stomach.” She stripped off her apron and sat down with a sigh. “Ooh, my feet. These heels don't help, but you got to keep up appearances.”
Rowly stared at her plate. It looked and smelt delicious; there were boiled carrots and French beans, roasted potatoes and parsnips, and even, it looked like, a bit of turkey. His saliva leapt like a salmon at the aroma. When was the last time he'd had a square meal? He couldn't remember. He hadn't really eaten since Mrs. P evicted him, now he came to think of it. His stomach gargled. Adelaide's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
“I thought so,” she said grimly. “How many times have I told you not to go spending all your money on drink and cigarettes? You'll bleeding starve one day. Stay there.”
She vanished into the back, reappearing with another plate heaped high with fresh meat and vegetables. Rowly looked at her uncertainly. “Are you sure?”
“Plenty to go around. Besides, I've still got them nylons you gave me three years ago. They've lasted like a dream. I owe you for that.”
The meat was sweet, lean and tender, the roast veg crisp with fat, and the dregs of his Bell's warming; Rowly's eyes reddened again with unshed tears. How lucky he was to know the two best women in London, Betty and Adelaide! How blessed, in this season of goodwill, to have friends!
As he hobbled home through the new-laid snow, cheeks aglow, joy swelled in Rowly like an ecstatic balloon. He'd eaten and drunk well, and had a warm bed to sleep in tonight. Moreover, he'd done the decent thing by Lewis, a tea-caddy of whose ashes rattled in his pocket, awaiting burial with proper ceremony tomorrow morning.
“God bless us, every one,” he slurred, grinning up blissfully at the wheeling stars as he struggled with Betty's key.
“God help us,” said Adelaide as she picked slender rabbit-bones out of the baking-tray and wrapped them in newspaper. Out in the back-yard, she threw them into the cold brick oven with the rest of the unburned rubbish. She wondered how long Rowly would have gone without eating if she hadn't fed him dinner tonight. Days, probably.
She remembered him during the war: always cheerful in the shelter as the bombs fell, plucking away on his ridiculous ukulele. Always last down the stairs when the sirens wailed, making sure everyone else was safe first. She'd always secretly thought that if it hadn't been for his leg, Rowly would've been a real war-hero. Flying in the RAF or something brave like that. Even now he wore the rags of that heroic air about him.
Ah well. She shuddered against the chill Christmas wind and stepped back inside.
Outside, the streets were hushed and empty, gleaming pale like picked-over bones. And as Big Ben began to strike midnight, the thistledown snow continued to fall, settling gently on the pavements and streets and roofs and gardens, white and soft and thick as a rabbit's fur.
Rowly's Rabbit by Graeme MacFarlane was read by Paul Clarke at the Liars' League Fire & Ice event at The Wheatsheaf in London on Tuesday 8 December 2009.
Graeme MacFarlane studied at Leeds and then Glasgow University, where he took the Creative Writing MA, before making the inevitable move into English teaching. His fiction has appeared in several Scottish literary print and web publications. He lives in Edinburgh, where his first novel, a murder mystery taking place in the Old Town in the 1700s, is set.
Paul Clarke trained at the Central School of Speech and Drama, after sacrificing his degree on the altar of Theatre. He has a fondness for grotesques, villains and all-round bad guys – theatre credits include Berkoff’s Decadence (with Sally Phillips), Moon in The Real Inspector Hound, and title roles in Vlad the Impaler, Macbeth, and Pericles – a rare outing as a good guy.
Comments