‘Where’s Mrs Slocombe?’ shrieks Mrs Pumphrey, hurtling with as much speed as her voluminous pantaloons will allow into the salon de commedia dell’arte.
(The salon de commedia dell’arte is a new addition to Much Malarkey Manor, commissioned by the hens during the rebuild after the devastating fire. They felt it was important for them to have a dedicated space to go when they were in need of cheering up, which is quite often these days, what with the state of humanity and all that shizzle. The salon is decorated after the Italianate style, as one would expect.)
Mrs Poo glances up from the enormous squishy sofa where she is watching a boxed set of Keeping Up Appearances with a bag of cheese and onion crisps. ‘She’s in the kitchen, crocheting some potatoes,’ she says, frowning. ‘Or is it croqueting some potatoes?’
‘I think,’ says Mrs Miggins, looking up from her jigsaw puzzle which pictured numerous unicorns performing yoga moves, ‘you mean croquette potatoes.’
Mrs Poo sighs. ‘I’ve never been very good with homophones,’ she says. ‘They confuse me with all their/they’re/there here/hear and everywhere/ware/wear.’
‘Such is the varied joy and diversity of the English language,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘It’s/its all in the context, of course/coarse.’
Mrs Pumphrey is tapping her foot on the wood/would flooring. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, ‘but I happen to be in a bit of a panic.’
Mrs Miggins looks at Mrs Poo and together they roll/role their eyes.
‘I’ve just told you Mrs Slocombe is in the kitchen,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘It’s her you wanted after all. I have a very important and highly hilarious episode to watch,’ and she waves a wing at the enormous television screen where Hyacinth Bucket is about to fall from a boat into a river.
Mrs Pumphrey looks peeved. ‘Well, yes, she would be most useful to me in this predicament,’ she sniffs, ‘but I think you two/too/to could show a bit of interest, too/two/also.’
Knowing they will get no peace until Mrs Pumphrey has shared her predicament, Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo dutifully follow her into the kitchen.
It is the week before Easter. As usual at this time of year, Mrs Slocombe is knobbly-knee deep in hot cross bun dough, pretend nests made from rice crispies, mini chocolate eggs, simnel cake and marzipan. She is also attempting to fashion an Easter wreath from some unco-operative willow and is beginning to think she is way out of her arts and crafts depth.
Mrs Miggins eyes the marzipan with disdain and disgust. ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of putting that on the simnel cake,’ she says. In her very wise opinion, a good cake is ruined by the addition of marzipan. You might as well just chuck the whole thing in the bin, along with the rice pudding, aniseed, pomegranates and gin.
‘It’s traditional,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘A layer of marzipan and eleven marzipan balls. You can’t have Easter without marzipan balls.’
‘You bloomin’ well can,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d leave a section of simnel unmarzipanned, please.’
Mrs Slocombe shrugs. ‘I can but don’t come running to me if bad luck ensues on account of the lacking balls,’ she says.
‘Pah!’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Oh PLEASE!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is beginning to rue the idea of Malarkey Manor Easter Story already. ‘There is a hare in the garden and she is laying eggs!’
A brief silence ensues.
‘Pppppft!’ snorts Mrs Poo. ‘Even I know that hares are mammals and don’t lay eggs.’
‘And I’ll have you know that there are five species of mammals that DO lay eggs!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘They are called monotremes and consist of the duck-billed platypus, the western long-beaked echidna, the eastern long-beaked echidna, the short beaked echidna and the Sir David’s long-beaked echidna. So there!’
‘But still not hares,’ says Mrs Poo.
‘I believe the monotreme babies are called puggles,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Isn’t that a nice word? Puggle. Puggle, puggle, puggle, puggle …’
‘Yes, all RIGHT!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is reaching shrieking point again. ‘But just for today, please believe me that there is a hare in the garden and she is laying eggs!’
With Mrs Pumphrey leading the way, and Mrs Slocombe bringing up the rear with her egg collecting basket, the lady hens troop into the garden and there, beneath a hazel tree amongst the hellebores, celandines, violets and primroses, sits a large hare. And she is, indeed, surrounded by eggs.
And not just ordinary run-of-the-mill plain white and various shades of brown eggs, either. Oh no! These eggs are brightly coloured and patterned, and some even have a sheen of glitter about them.
‘Well, smack with a kipper and call me Bertie Wooster!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see every day.’
‘How do you know the hare is actually laying the eggs?’ says the ever-cynical Mrs Poo. ‘She might have just bought a job lot from Aldi. She might just be having a laugh at the expense of a gullible hen.’ And she glares pointedly at Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Watch,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ignoring the pointed glaring.
And the four hens watch in growing amazement as the hare, who is staring into the middle distance in a thoughtful manner, suddenly narrows her eyes a smidgeon, gives her bottom a wriggle, makes a little jump forwards and there, in the space where she was sitting, is a shiny, new egg - cerulean blue and dotted with tiny pink flowers.
‘See,’ whispers Mrs Pumphrey. ‘She’s been doing that for the past hour or so.’
‘She’s very productive,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Do you suppose they are real eggy eggs. Or are they chocolate eggs? Will they hatch into baby hares, perhaps?’
‘I have no idea,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who rather likes the chocolate egg theory. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’
And she gives Mrs Slocombe an enormous shove towards the hare…
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