Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'Anything?'

'No,' I replied sadly, 'nothing.'

'Not even the whiff of garden refuse or the distant buzz of a lawnmower?'

'Not a thing.'

'Hah!' said Gran. 'Read it to me again.'

So I read it again, and again after that.

'Still nothing?'

'No, Gran,' I replied, beginning to get bored.

'How do you see the character of Mrs Tittlemouse?'

'Resourceful and intelligent,' I mused. 'Probably a gossip and likes to name-drop. Leagues ahead of Benjamin in the brain department.'

'How do you figure that'' queried Gran.

'Well, by allowing his children to sleep so vulnerably in the open air Benjamin clearly shows minimal parenting skills, yet he has enough preservation to cover his own face. It was Flopsy who had to come and look for him as this sort of thing has obviously happened before – it is clear that Benjamin can't be trusted with the children. Once again the mother has to show restraint and wisdom.'

'Maybe so,' replied Gran, 'but there wasn't a great deal of wisdom in creeping into the garden and watching from the window while Mr and Mrs McGregor discovered they had been duped with the rotten vegetables, now, was there?'

She had a point.

'A narrative necessity,' I replied. 'I think there is more high drama if you follow the outcome of the rabbit's subterfuge, don't you? I think Flopsy, had she been making all the decisions, would have just returned to the burrow but was, on this occasion, overruled by Beatrix Potter.'

'It's an interesting theory,' commented Gran, stretching her toes out on the counterpane and wiggling them to keep the circulation going. 'Mr McGregor's a nasty piece of work, isn't he? Quite the Darth Vader of children's literature.'

'Misunderstood,' I told her 'I see Mrs McGregor as the villain of the piece. A sort of Lady Macbeth. His laboured counting and inane chuckling might indicate a certain degree of dementia that allows him to be easily dominated by Mrs McGregor's more aggressive personality. I think their marriage is in trouble, too. She describes him as a "silly old man" and "a doddering old fool" and claims the rotten vegetables in the sack are just a pointless prank to annoy her.'

'Anything else?'

'Not really. I think that's about it Good stuff, isn't it?'

But Gran didn't answer; she just chuckled softly to herself.

'So you're still here, then,' she commented. 'You didn't jump into Mr and Mrs McGregor's cottage?'

'No.'

'In that case,' began Gran with a mischievous air, 'how did you know she called him a "doddering old fool"?'

'It's in the text.'

'Better check, young Thursday.'

I flicked to the correct page and found, indeed, that Mrs McGregor had said no such thing.

'How odd!' I said. 'I must have made it up.'

'Maybe,' replied Gran, 'or perhaps you overheard it. Close your eyes and describe the kitchen in Mr McGregor's cottage.'

'Lilac-washed walls,' I mused, 'a large range with a kettle singing merrily above a coal fire. There is a dresser against one wall with floral-patterned crocks upon it and atop the scrubbed kitchen table there is a jug with flowers—'

I lapsed into silence.