Mrs Slocombe places her egg collecting basket under the tree and gently approaches the hare, who is, once again, gazing into middle distance.
‘Ahem,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Hare but…’
The hare leaps several feet into the air in what can only be described as an act of overly energetic startlement. When she lands, all bug-eyed and panting, she turns on Mrs Slocombe, her clear hazel eyes glinting in panic.
‘Good heavens above!’ she says. ‘Do you make a habit of creeping up on folk and scaring them witless? Look at my paws - chock full of nerves, they are. It’s a good job I’ve finished knitting that tank top for my nephew’s birthday because I won’t be able to wrangle knitting needles for at least a week now…’
She holds out her paws which are, indeed, quivering.
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘The last thing I wanted was to scare you.’
‘Yes, well,’ says Mrs Hare, and she gives herself a shake and settles down. ‘Hang on, will you? There’s another on the way. Must have been the sudden shock.’
She gazes into middle distance again, squints her eyes and wriggles her bottom before jumping forward. There, in the grass, is another egg, this one bright, daffodil yellow adorned with zesty orange zigzags. Mrs Hare turns and scrutinises the latest arrival. ‘I bet that’ll be a double yolker,’ she says.
‘It’s an….er…unusual talent you have there,’ says Mrs Slocombe, nodding at the pile of brightly coloured eggs. ‘Not what one would usually expect from a hare.’
Mrs Hare nods. ‘Not an obvious career choice,’ she agrees. ‘But then I’m no ordinary hare.’ She looks at Mrs Slocombe and then beyond her to where Mrs Miggins, Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Poo have edged ever closer. ‘To tell the truth, once I used to be one of you.’
‘A hen?’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘A bird,’ says Mrs Hare.
Mrs Slocombe can’t help but look agog.
‘Oh yes, I know,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘It sounds far-fetched but it’s absolutely true, hand on my heart.’
Then, ‘What time is it?’ she says.
‘Almost eleven,’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Aha!’ says Mrs Hare. ‘Time for elevenses! Tell you what, if you’ll provide me a decent cup of tea and a bit of cake, I’ll provide you with a story of transmogrification.’
‘Transmogriwhat?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Transmogrification,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘It’s transformation of an unusual or magical manner.’
‘Oooh, I’m all for a spot of magical storytelling,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘And elevenses,’ says Mrs Poo.
Soon, the hens and their lady hare guest are settled around the kitchen table, the teapot full to the brim and the cake tin cracked open. And Mrs Hare begins her story…
‘It was this time last year, just before Easter,’ she says, ‘and I was flying across a field, minding my own business and going about my day as a duck, like you do…’
‘You were a duck??’ says Mrs Poo.
‘I was,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘Nothing special. Just an ordinary common-or-garden brown duck. I was looking for a bit of peace and quiet from the attention of all the drakes. You know what they’re like at this time of year, all chasing after one female and becoming so involved in fighting amongst themselves they don’t notice the lady duck has cleared off to do a bit of shopping or meet up with a friend for coffee and a croissant.’
‘Men, eh?’ says Mrs Miggins, rolling her eyes and helping herself to another jammy dodger.
‘Anyway,’ continues Mrs Hare, ‘I was flying across a field and my attention was distracted by a small ginger dog leaping up and down in someone’s garden and making a right arse of itself. And that’s when I flew - SMACK! - straight into an oak tree. Knocked myself out, I did.’
‘Ouch!’ says Mrs Poo.
‘Quite,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘And when I came to, feeling all dazed and my head throbbing like a bongo drum, Ostara, the Germanic goddess of Springtime, was leaning over me and asking if I was alright. What are the chances of THAT, eh?’
‘What indeed,’ says Mrs Miggins, raising an eyebrow.
‘Ssssshhhh…’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who willingly suspends her disbelief for any good story.
‘It so happened that I’d not only got a massive lump on my conk, I’d also broken a wing,’ says Mrs Hare, and she stretches out her left front leg and waggles it around.
‘Well,’ says Ostara, ‘being a lady duck with a broken wing at this time of year is most unfortunate. Do you have somewhere safe you can stay whilst your wing heals?’
Mrs Hare takes a sip of her tea. ‘I told Ostara that, unfortunately, I didn’t. So do you know what she did?’
‘Noooooo,’ chorus the lady hens in unison.
‘She turned me into a hare!’ says Mrs Hare. ‘Ta-dah!! She said that if I couldn’t fly, at least with these strong back legs I’d be able to run! And actually,’ continues Mrs Hare, ‘I rather like being a hare. There’s something very satisfying about being able to punch the lights out of an over-amorous gentleman hare.’
‘Wow!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, wondering if Ostara could work a bit of transmogrification for her because sometimes she’d like to punch the lights out of both Tango Pete and Ptolemy Pheasant.
‘And somehow,’ says Mrs Hare, ‘I retained the ability to lay eggs, only having been touched by the magic of Ostara, they are, well, Easter eggs.’
‘Double wow!’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘What will you do with the eggs?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘You seem quite prolific in your production.’
‘I hadn’t really thought about that,’ says Mrs Hare. (And neither has the Lady Author, which is what happens when you decide on a whim to write an Easter story with no planning involved whatsoever.)
‘Perhaps we could help?’ says Mrs Miggins, who is just about ready for a new adventure.
‘Thank you,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘That would be most kind.’
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