“Come to see Mother?”
“Your mother has kindly invited me to tea.”
“You must be Mrs. Tweedlebare, the writer then,” Mary said opening the door wide. “Come in. Please do!”
"You do have your mother's hair."
"Strawberry blondes do become writers though, don’t they? I'm going to be one when I grow up."
"My goodness, Child, start now!" Don't wait until you're grown.”
"I have. I’m only eight and I’m already precocious wouldn’t you know.”
"You are already a writer,” Mrs. Tweedlebare said ignoring Mary’s precocious remark. “The secret lies in being one before you become one. Besides, the best time to be precocious is when you are young."
"Cool!"
"Delightful pictures," Mrs. Tweedlebare said upon entering the house that she had visited on many occasions when Mrs. Janeiro lived there.
"Have a gander," Mary replied. “Mother will be with you in a moment. I've got to feed Freddie. He gets cranky if he doesn’t get his afternoon raw potato.”
More likely a case of immaturity rather than one of prematurity, Mrs. Tweedlebare decided as she allowed her gaze to wander away from the feature wall. She wondered what sort of creature cherished raw potato. Except for the squat black-leather couch that had replaced Mrs. Janeiro’s butterfly-print, spindly-legged settee the setting was much as she remembered it.
Mrs. Tweedlebare’s attention was captured by a captivating five-year-old posing with a posy. Was that Mary holding the bouquet? Had she been a flower girl?
“Almost forgot,” Mary said offhandedly. “I would really appreciate it if you would give my latest story the once over.”
“Always willing to help out a fellow writer,” Mrs. Tweedlebare said. She sank into the buttery black leather and opened Mary’s scribbler.
Happiness came to our house, the day Freddie Fudge arrived. He was dozy from his long trip. He had come all the way from the Amazon River in South America. That’s a long distance for any creature to travel.
Freddie Fudge loves both of us but sometimes I think he loves Paul more. Why is that?
A strange thought went through Mrs.Tweedlebare’s head. Former flower girl publishes Freddie Fudge the Friendly Frog. Surely he couldn’t have hopped all the way from the Amazon. That would be absolutely amazing. Since when do frogs crave raw potato? Mrs. Tweedlebare asked herself as she continued to read. The story was mercifully short, but then again, Mrs. Tweedlebare noticed concise passages of rather good writing and was of a mind that Mary might make a writer yet.
Oh dear me, she thought, as she pushed herself up out of deep black leather. She gave the picture wall, just off the dining area, a thorough examination. The gala attendants were gaily garbed. Be that as it may, the scene was dismally drab when compared with Mrs. Janeiro’s jungle festoon, which formerly adorned these walls. The feature wall no longer contained scenes of the Amazon, Mrs. Janeiro's favourite subject. Instead, a bevy of beauties decked out in summery hats and spring colors provided a nice change Mrs. Tweedlebare decided. After all one can become tired of snarling jaguars, dozing crocodiles and the ear splitting screeches of howler monkeys, not to mention the raucous squawks of the blue and gold macaw.