The Tring Rabbit with a Secret Pocket

The first thing I saw on my round in Tring was a row of carrots hanging on a washing line. Not ordinary carrots, either. These were knitted, bright orange and pegged by their green tops, turning gently in the breeze like a very small, very healthy washing day.

“Please don’t judge the vegetables,” called a woman from the back door. “They’ve had a difficult morning.”

I put down my bucket and assured her that I’d seen much worse things happen to a carrot.

Mrs Fenella Pook was getting ready for a craft afternoon at the little community room near her house. On the garden table stood a miniature vegetable patch, complete with felt soil, woolly cabbages and a sign reading PLEASE MIND THE PEAS. The carrots had needed washing after an unfortunate meeting with a tipped mug of tea.

“It’s my first time taking anything along,” she said, straightening a cabbage leaf. “I usually just admire everyone else’s work.”

Her main attraction, apparently, was a knitted rabbit called Turnip. He wore dungarees, had one slightly thoughtful ear and was now missing.

“I sat him here while I fetched the pegs. I’ve looked everywhere.”

I said I’d keep an eye out while I cleaned. Little lost things often turn up when you stop looking directly for them. I’ve found earrings beside doorstep plants and a very important toy wheel resting on a window latch.

By the time I’d finished the back windows, though, Turnip had become a proper mystery.

He wasn’t beneath the table. He wasn’t among the cabbages. Fenella checked the kitchen twice, then opened the biscuit tin with the expression of someone prepared to consider absolutely anything.

Her grandson, Oswin, arrived through the side gate carrying a cardboard box for the display. He was about eight, with untied shoelaces and a serious interest in the washing line.

“Has he gone?” he asked.

“Entirely,” said Fenella.

Oswin’s face changed just enough for me to notice.

I rested my pole safely against the wall and crouched beside the box. “Were you helping him get ready?”

He nodded. “I made him something. But then Gran called me to fetch the box, and I forgot.”

He pointed towards a large blue cardigan hanging behind the carrots.

There, tucked deep inside one sleeve, was Turnip. Oswin had put him somewhere sheltered while a dab of fabric glue dried. With a little patient wriggling, we eased him out, thoughtful ear first.

Attached to his dungarees was a wonky felt pocket. Inside it sat a folded piece of paper.

Fenella opened it. Oswin had drawn a rabbit holding hands with a woman beside a vegetable patch. Underneath, in careful pencil, he’d written: YOU CAN BE SHY TOGETHER.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

Then Fenella kissed the top of his head. “Well,” she said, “I suppose neither of us has an excuse now.”

We settled Turnip into the box, gathered the dry carrots and tucked a clean tea towel around the whole allotment.

As I packed away, Fenella came back out wearing the blue cardigan. She had Turnip under one arm and Oswin beside her, carrying the vegetables with both hands.

“Do you think they’ll like him?” she asked.

I glanced at that little pocket. “I think they’ll want to know all about him.”

She smiled properly then, and set off down the path. I watched Oswin reach up for her free hand before I went back for my bucket.