The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2353 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Of course the weather didn’t last and by Monday we were having showers and some thunder and lightning. Most of it was along the channel occasionally over the Isle of Wight. I felt quite glad we didn’t buy the Palmerston fort because that would have been in the middle of the storm. I’m not generally frightened by thunder storms but being stuck off shore in a concrete block, would not have made me a happy bunny.

The girls had been to school as usual and after collecting them I was asked by Trish and Livvie if they could go and visit their friend, Rowena who lived just outside Portsmouth, and who had some baby rabbits she wanted to show the girls.

As they’d behaved quite well in the car and done their homework soon after arriving home, I could hardly say no. I got them to phone her and then spoke to her mother to make sure it was alright for us to visit about seven o’clock. Her mum sounded quite nice and assured me they weren’t trying to sell the rabbits.

So, at about twenty to seven we set off to see the baby bunnies, following the directions Rowena’s mum had given me. Things were fine until we were on a country road and the van in front of us ran over a dead badger causing it to roll over and its tongue lolled out of its mouth. The girls saw it and shrieked in horror. I must admit even though I knew the poor thing was already dead, it was quite gruesome to witness. Then of course they started to cry and by the time we got to Rowena’s they were red eyed and hiccupping.

I gave them a moment to control themselves and wipe their eyes but it was obvious they’d been crying. Rowena must have been watching out for us because a minute or so later she came out of the house and looked at us over the gate.

She was a tallish girl, certainly at least two or three inches taller than my two, with long dark hair. Her eyebrows were like those of the supermodel Cara Delvigne and tended to draw the eye towards them. Then a moment later the three girls ran round the rear of the house leaving me standing by myself just inside the gate. I wasn’t alone for long, an older version of Rowena appeared at the door. “Cathy?” she enquired and I nodded. “Charity,” she said she was called, though most people shortened it to, Char. I nodded my understanding, and having given a diminutive of my own name, I could hardly do anything but agree to call her Char. “Do come in and have a drink. Tea, coffee or something stronger?”

It will come as no surprise that I opted for tea. Waiting for this I looked at the paintings on the hallway wall. They were quite attractive, mostly bits of buildings like a window, a chimney or doorway. Even I could guess they were of Venice even though I’ve never been there. Canaletto they were not but very pleasant all the same. I remarked upon them and she explained they were done by a local chap, ex navy who died the previous year. She’d met him several times including doing a couple of weekend courses he ran but she still couldn’t paint for toffee. I told her my own painting skills were better suited to emulsion than watercolours and she chuckled.

As we drank our tea, I related the episode with the dead badger, and although I’d swerved around it, the girls had become upset seeing it move. She sipped her tea and nodded. “I think I’d have been a bit squeamish as well,” she admitted and I agreed with her.

She suggested that there seemed to be so many of them killed on the roads these days. I told her that research had suggested most of them were male animals but we didn’t know why they wandered on to roads in such numbers.

“I’ve just realised where I’ve seen you before.”

“The school?”

“Have I?” she asked suggesting she hadn’t.

“A supermarket?”

“No—it was on television—you did a film on dormice. It was you, wasn’t it?”

I could hardly lie, could I?

“Depends upon which film you mean,” I tried to muddy the waters somewhat.

“Has there been more than one?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you did one, didn’t you?”

“I was involved with one, yes.”

Just then Trish dashed in, “Come and see these bunnies, Mummy.”

“Trish, where are your manners?” I pulled her up.

“Sorry, Mrs Chapman.”

“That’s all right, Trish. Say, did your mum do a film about dormice?”

“Yeah, she wrote and directed it and presented it, she’s an expert on dormice even the school had her talk about them.”

“I saw that advertised, but you used a different name didn’t you?”

“I teach using my maiden name.” I said blushing furiously.

“Yeah, she’s Dr Watts or Lady Cameron,” threw in Trish embarrassing me even more.

“Lady Cameron? Goodness I am in esteemed company.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a castle up in Scotland...” prattled on Trish while I began to think if she didn’t shut up she was going to end up deader than that unfortunate brock.

“Bunnies,” I said trying to regain some control.

“Down here, Mummy,” she scampered off down the garden.

“My, you are special aren’t you, Lady Cameron?”

I pretended not to hear her and followed my offspring down the garden to a large shed inside which was a hutch with a glass panel in the nest box through which I could see a lop eared bunny with four little ones, all with their eyes closed, so they were very young.

We watched the devoted lagomorph caring for her babies for several minutes accompanied by sighs and gasps of various children.

On the return journey Trish announced she might like to try breeding rabbits and I just licked my lips. “What, Mummy?” she said spotting my obvious gesture.

“Just thinking, I haven’t had rabbit stew for ages.”

“Rabbit stew?” she gasped. “You can’t eat my bunnies, they’ll be pets.”

“Yeah, well if we let you have rabbits, the day you fail to look after them we have them for dinner.”

“But that’s not fair—you can’t eat my bunny.”

“You haven’t got one yet, and by the look of it, one of those big lop ears would probably feed all of us at least one meal—I’d have to ask David...”

“Noooo,” they both squealed from the back of the car.

“Perhaps, having rabbits isn’t such a good idea,” I suggested and they were beginning to agree. I didn’t tell them I’d had guinea pigs before so knew how to look after these things. It also reminded me of the story about a woman who lived next door to a family who had a white rabbit and one day while they were away her cat dragged in a dirty, dead, white rabbit. She was horrified and got her husband to hop over the fence to see if the rabbit was missing from next door. It was. The little corpse they had was filthy dirty so she washed it and dried it with her hairdryer and got her husband to place it back in the hutch before their neighbours came home, which he did.

A few days later her neighbour spoke to her over the fence. “We had a really strange thing happen last week. The rabbit died and the kids were naturally upset, but we buried it and put a cross on the grave and then took them off to the beach to help them deal with their grief, came home and somehow the rabbit was back in the hutch. Bizarre don’t you think?”

“Oh, is that my phone,” replied the cat’s owner and dashed indoors.