Chapter Two
For a three year-old, Paul had an unusual quality. Much to her chagrin, it was one that instantly endeared him to Mrs. Tweedlebare. He was often seen but seldom heard.
The children's smiling faces suggested that there did not seem to be anything that could possibly mar this happy scene. Mary and Paul were enjoying a period of calm. Mrs. Tweedlebare and Mrs. Melancholy were in the process of becoming better acquainted. Getting to know Barbara was something that Althea had been looking forward to since the day that the Melancholy's had moved into the neighbourhood about six weeks ago.
"We’ll get back to your story when your mother and I’ve had a moment."
"Mary! What did I tell you?" Mrs. Melancholy said sharply.
Mrs. Tweedlebare was grateful to have the opportunity to learn about the family through a child's eyes. She had already scanned four pages while Mary had been helping with the tea. Mrs. Tweedlebare noticed possibilities. She was looking forward to mentoring Mary.
This family was not like the Janeiro family. In this very room, sitting on the spindly-legged settee and being so fascinated that she forgot her aching bones, Mrs. Tweedlebare had jotted down an anecdote of a Brazilian adventure that provided the kernel of a story. It was highly unlikely that this room would ever again be the scene of jungle jumping jaguars. From the yarn that Mrs. Janeiro had told one evening in front of a crackling fire, Mrs. Tweedlebare had created a story for a children's magazine. It would simply not be cricket to reveal which one.
Once Mrs. Tweedlebare had accepted the idea that nothing more than a pleasant time could be expected, she began to enjoy herself. She even looked forward to helping Mary with her story. Although, not even the smell of mystery was likely to surface, Mrs. Tweedlebare remained alert. Mrs. Tweedlebare remained optimistic, as a writer must. It was a lost cause, for not so much as a button was likely to go astray.
It wasn't that nothing ever happened in the Melancholy household; it was simply that everyone who lived within was too nice. Or were these just party manners? In any case, nasty creates story; nice kills it. Perhaps, Mary did have a nasty thought or two hidden away, which would surface after the family becomes used to me. Mrs. Tweedlebare doubted it.
Mrs. Tweedlebare picked up a gingersnap and almost dropped it.
"Mary baked them," Barbara Melancholy said. “I just took them out of the oven.”
Mrs. Tweedlebare took a nibble. As soon as her fifth snap had cooled, she munched it contentedly and began to daydream.
Mrs. Melancholy was momentarily occupied wiping up a spill that Paul had made. "Don't worry about it," she said soothingly. "A little milk can't hurt this old hardwood floor."
Mrs. Tweedlebare went over one of Mrs. Janeiro's jaguar yarns in her head trying to pinpoint what was wrong with it. Fat cats snoozing on sun-drenched sand simply would not excite anyone. How silly of me, she thought. Whenever there is sand along the main branch of the Amazon, it is the middle of the dry season and for the poor jaguar, prey is difficult to come by. These snoozers must have been hand-fed.
Mrs. Tweedlebare snapped her gingersnap and was echoed by Mary. In her stories, Mrs. Tweedlebare invariably provided an element of danger, a souchong of suspense with a measure of good advice mixed in. Her young readers, desiring merely to be entertained, read her stories with no intention of learning anything; they merely anticipated amusement. Some of her stories had been so entertaining that they had scared the pants off the unwary. As you delve into a Tweedlebare mystery, maintain awareness lest dangers creep up on you like a swarm of fire ants, unnoticed at first but overwhelming, once a point of no return has been reached.
The need to be aware is even more important than it is in school. When you have been gazing out the window, daydreaming about recess or the weekend or just about anything but the reason why Queen Isabella pawned the royal jewels to raise the money so Columbus could sail the ocean blue in 1492, there isn't much that the teacher can do to catch you out, as long as you keep both eyes open. When you are dealing with Mrs. Tweedlebare, the stakes are higher. If you don’t pay strict attention, you may find yourself up a creek without a paddle. War drums echo in the night. Raucous interruptions make sleep almost impossible. When sleep does come, dreams disturb.
Mrs. Tweedlebare, a mild mannered lady, was forever on the lookout for happenings scads scary. If her jaguars were fat and lazy she knew just what she had to do. She needed to starve them until they were ravenous. Readers of Tweedlebare mysteries must keep their guard up. You would not want a rat as big as a cat sneaking up on you and taking a gigantic nibble out of your Saturday morning toast. If one were snacking on your sneakers in Social Studies, you would be hard pressed not to scream. That could prove embarrassing.
At this late date there is only mild regret about Marie Antoinette losing her head over a piece of cake. A snacking rat, as big as a cat, has persistently poised teeth that demand immediate action.
It is a wonder that Mrs. Tweedlebare, with her shenanigans, had not killed off all of her loyal followers. It wasn't that Mrs. Tweedlebare had a tendency to write stuff that was totally disgusting, it was the ideas that she would have the reader believe. Even the more reverent of her readers, few in number it is true, sometimes found certain suggestions impossible to accept, The clay-dining blue and gold macaw being but one example.