Chapter Two
"Althea, show your sister your cheque."
"Fifty five dollars! I am humbled."
Never again did Althea have to ask anyone to read her stories; they were all too willing. She rarely bothered. She was content to seek professional readers. Recalling the shameless begging leading up to her early success, Mrs. Tweedlebare blushed.
The buttery black leather was so comfortable that Mrs. Tweedlebare lost all track of time and place. Mary brought her up short.
"Can we talk about my story for a moment?"
"A good beginning to be sure," Mrs. Tweedlebare said. "However, you need to decide if you want to tell the reader why Freddie Fudge loves Paul more. If you can't decide, perhaps you should leave the love interest for the ending. It would be more satisfying for the reader to learn, in the end, that Freddie loves both of you equally."
"That would suit me," Mary answered with a melancholy smile.
For some reason that Mrs. Tweedlebare could not at first put a finger on, she began to feel that jungle creatures might still lurk in what was, after all, the old Janeiro place. Of course, Mrs. Tweedlebare had not actually been able to see the strange creatures lurking within but she had certainly felt their presence. That presence seemed to linger. Mrs. Tweedlebare had the weirdest notion that in the hurly-burly of the move one of Mrs. Janeiro's pets may have been left behind.
A glance at a Janeiro scene gave the impression that a bright-eyed howler monkey could, at an impossible moment, leap out. A casual inspection would give rise to the constant jabbering of monkeys, not to mention the horrendous squawks of parrots. It was a good thing that Mrs. Tweedlebare had not delved too deeply. The squawk from a flock of parrots puts the roar of the lion to shame. Mrs. Tweedlebare came to with a start and realized that she had drifted off into the Amazon again. Old memories had been dredged up by Freddie Fudge’s raucous shrieks abetted by Mary’s not as yet too compelling a tale.
Like all successful writers, Mrs. Tweedlebare was often under the spell of an overactive imagination. At times, the spell was so strong she had difficulty separating fact from fiction. From this well, she drew her stories. Mrs. Tweedlebare sometime felt a bit bonkers but was certain that she was not really crazy. She was just a bit addled. In the final analysis she could separate fact from fiction. Sometimes she merely chose not to. She somehow could not shake off the feeling that strange creatures abided. Nevertheless, she was relieved that she managed to keep her over-active imagination in check.
"Children," Mrs. Melancholy said. "Why don’t you play on the sun porch and entertain Freddie."
"Aw Mom!" Mary exclaimed with more than the dregs of despondency in her tone, one octave down from wheedling. "Mrs. Tweedlebare is a famous writer. I want to listen to her."
While busting to ask Mary if she would like some cheese with her whine, Mrs. Tweedlebare heard herself say, "Let the children stay."
Some writers consider children absolute treasures. Others conceive children as merely being a means to an end. For writers such as Mrs. Tweedlebare, the child is a study that leads to cheques from editors and nothing more. Children are not the sort one would have to tea, good heavens no. They are far too uncivilized for that. Too late, Mrs. Tweedlebare realized that she had been conned. Mary's use of famous was the hook that had caused her to insist that the children be invited into what was usually, for Mrs. Tweedlebare, a circle of petty discomfort. In the next instant, Mrs. Tweedlebare brightened with the realization that Mary had the makings of a writer.
"Alright then," Mrs. Melancholy conceded giving Paul's head a loving pat. "Mind that you mind your manners."