ripping with effort, he somehow lifted the immense metallic block and quickly staggered incredibly slowly towards the door.
‘Good. Now follow me and act just like any normal dead admiral, giant rabbit and grandfather clock.’
The servant led us out into the corridor – and immediately I saw heading towards us a group of four nuns, who were having a heated discussion in song regarding the solution to a problem with a young nun named Maria.
Was the servant right? Would our bizarre disguises work? Or was our escape over almost before it had begun?
Yet no alarm seemed to register on their nunny faces as they approached us. Indeed, they made conversation.
‘Ah, good morning, the late Admiral Nelson. How nice to see you alive again,’ remarked one to Harry.
‘Um, yes . . . Er, Trafalgar, bloody good battle, what?’ replied Harry.
To my amazement, the nuns giggled in response. ‘Oh, Admiral, you’re so witty.’
‘Am I?’ asked a bemused Biscuit.
Harry’s disguise worked! They were convinced he was Nelson and were actively flirting with him, as was the law with all military heroes back then. 4
Unfortunately, now their gaze turned to my own rabbity self. Surely I would be revealed as the fraudulent escapee I was.
‘And good morning to you, Mr Rabbit.’
I struggled for a response, then remembered the servant’s instructions and tried to respond as any normal rabbit would. ‘Er . . . ttt-ttt-ttt?’
The nuns stared at me silently. I had ruined everything. But then: ‘You’re absolutely right. What an astute observation.’
Whatever astute rabbity observation I had made eluded me, but it had satisfied the nuns; I clearly spoke fluent Rabbit. Now there was only Pippa to pass the test. Without waiting to be spoken to, she boldly stepped forward and spoke: ‘Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong,’ she clockily ad-libbed, and the response could not have been more unexpected or welcome.
‘Oh! Six o’clock already! We are late for our early morning guilt-grating! 5 We must hurry.’
And with a tip of the wimple, they scuttled nunnily away. We had got past them: perhaps the servant’s disguises were not as strange and wrong as I had suspected.
Or nuns are very, very stupid.
‘Back through here.’ Now the servant led us through the dormitory via which we had entered. We had to stop briefly for Harry to sign autographs as Nelson, but soon we were at the door that led back to St Bastard’s. ‘Once on the other side of this door, we are but a short walk from freedom, for I know a secret exit through the school salt-mines.’
Could it be true? Was freedom really so close at hand? Could that salty place of punishment provide our route to safety? As we passed through the door back into St Bastard’s, my heart soared with optimism and hope swelled inside me like a large benign cyst.
Alas, when we re-entered the school, that hope-cyst burst, spilling forth the pus of despair, as I beheld a sight that chilled me to my very marrow. I forget why I was carrying such a large vegetable. Perhaps it was part of the rabbit costume, though a carrot would have been more convincing and a lettuce leaf lighter.
There, in front of us, loomed the towering, terrifying figure of Headmaster Hardthrasher, a cane in his hand and a small, deadly-looking cannon by his side. I had a fleeting hope that we could bluff our way through in our disguises, but his words instantly destroyed that illusion.
‘Pip Bin. Harry Biscuit. I’ve been expecting you.’
At that moment I knew only two things: first, that I was
going to die, and second, that I had been right, and that nuns were very, very stupid.
1 The author was the single greatest user of the exclamation point in nineteenth-century literature. It was the most expensive item of punctuation to print and publishers often charged its costs to the author – Sir Philip here is indicating he is so rich and successful he simply doesn’t care how many he uses.
2 Flavour-baths
‘Good. Now follow me and act just like any normal dead admiral, giant rabbit and grandfather clock.’
The servant led us out into the corridor – and immediately I saw heading towards us a group of four nuns, who were having a heated discussion in song regarding the solution to a problem with a young nun named Maria.
Was the servant right? Would our bizarre disguises work? Or was our escape over almost before it had begun?
Yet no alarm seemed to register on their nunny faces as they approached us. Indeed, they made conversation.
‘Ah, good morning, the late Admiral Nelson. How nice to see you alive again,’ remarked one to Harry.
‘Um, yes . . . Er, Trafalgar, bloody good battle, what?’ replied Harry.
To my amazement, the nuns giggled in response. ‘Oh, Admiral, you’re so witty.’
‘Am I?’ asked a bemused Biscuit.
Harry’s disguise worked! They were convinced he was Nelson and were actively flirting with him, as was the law with all military heroes back then. 4
Unfortunately, now their gaze turned to my own rabbity self. Surely I would be revealed as the fraudulent escapee I was.
‘And good morning to you, Mr Rabbit.’
I struggled for a response, then remembered the servant’s instructions and tried to respond as any normal rabbit would. ‘Er . . . ttt-ttt-ttt?’
The nuns stared at me silently. I had ruined everything. But then: ‘You’re absolutely right. What an astute observation.’
Whatever astute rabbity observation I had made eluded me, but it had satisfied the nuns; I clearly spoke fluent Rabbit. Now there was only Pippa to pass the test. Without waiting to be spoken to, she boldly stepped forward and spoke: ‘Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong,’ she clockily ad-libbed, and the response could not have been more unexpected or welcome.
‘Oh! Six o’clock already! We are late for our early morning guilt-grating! 5 We must hurry.’
And with a tip of the wimple, they scuttled nunnily away. We had got past them: perhaps the servant’s disguises were not as strange and wrong as I had suspected.
Or nuns are very, very stupid.
‘Back through here.’ Now the servant led us through the dormitory via which we had entered. We had to stop briefly for Harry to sign autographs as Nelson, but soon we were at the door that led back to St Bastard’s. ‘Once on the other side of this door, we are but a short walk from freedom, for I know a secret exit through the school salt-mines.’
Could it be true? Was freedom really so close at hand? Could that salty place of punishment provide our route to safety? As we passed through the door back into St Bastard’s, my heart soared with optimism and hope swelled inside me like a large benign cyst.
Alas, when we re-entered the school, that hope-cyst burst, spilling forth the pus of despair, as I beheld a sight that chilled me to my very marrow. I forget why I was carrying such a large vegetable. Perhaps it was part of the rabbit costume, though a carrot would have been more convincing and a lettuce leaf lighter.
There, in front of us, loomed the towering, terrifying figure of Headmaster Hardthrasher, a cane in his hand and a small, deadly-looking cannon by his side. I had a fleeting hope that we could bluff our way through in our disguises, but his words instantly destroyed that illusion.
‘Pip Bin. Harry Biscuit. I’ve been expecting you.’
At that moment I knew only two things: first, that I was
going to die, and second, that I had been right, and that nuns were very, very stupid.
1 The author was the single greatest user of the exclamation point in nineteenth-century literature. It was the most expensive item of punctuation to print and publishers often charged its costs to the author – Sir Philip here is indicating he is so rich and successful he simply doesn’t care how many he uses.
2 Flavour-baths
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