Chapter Three On the Spoor of the Story
"And did you know? "Mary asked taking a second gulp of milk, leaving Mrs. Tweedlebare hanging like Mary's right knee sock that was about to shinny down her leg for the tenth time. "An African Gray, named Prudle, is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records. He has a vocabulary of approximately 1,000 words."
"African Grays are not nearly as clever as Amazon parrots though." Mrs. Tweedlebare continued to rehearse Freddie in her head until she could manage to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "Freddie Fudge, the Amazing Parrot," she said in measured tones. "Tell me more about Freddie Fudge."
Mrs. Tweedlebare was sure there was a story inside Freddie, a story for Mary to write the reader should understand. It would be Mary’s story. Mrs. Tweedlebare kept reminding herself. At the moment, Mrs. Tweedlebare was not interested in either Prudle or Queen Isabella. She wished that Mary would get back to Freddie and stay there. When Mrs. Tweedlebare had all but given up hope, Mrs. Melancholy came to the rescue, not a moment too soon.
Barbara gave Mrs. Tweedlebare an account of how Freddie Fudge came to be in the Melancholy home. As soon as Mary’s mother took up Freddie, the children quietly excused themselves.
By the time that Mrs. Melancholy finished telling the tale, Mrs. Tweedlebare had made ten pages of notes. She was pleased. A seventeen-gingersnap interview would surely contain useful material that could be used to help Mary with her story, the reader should understand. Along she’d somehow lost count. Good listeners have more time to eat, Mrs. Tweedlebare reflected as she wrote twenty-three under her own name. No use in being too greedy, she reminded herself. I’d better make it twenty-three.