The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [191]
“Mrs. Nakajima.”
“And how did she manage it?”
“She just read herself in, I suppose.”
“Have you tried it?”
I shook my head.
“Perhaps you should,” she replied with deadly seriousness. “The first time you went into Jane Eyre—wasn’t that a bookjump?”
“I guess.”
“Perhaps,” she said as she picked a book at random off the shelf above her bed and tossed it across to me, “you had better try.”
I picked the book up.
“The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies?”
“Well, you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?” replied Gran with a chuckle. I helped her take off her blue gingham shoes and made her more comfortable.
“One hundred and eight!” she muttered. “I feel like the bunny in that Fusioncell ad, you know, the one that has to run on brand X?”
“You’re Fusioncell all the way to me, Gran.”
She gave a faint smile and leaned back on the pillows.
“Read the book to me, my dear.”
I sat down and opened the small Beatrix Potter volume. I glanced up at Gran, who had closed her eyes.
“Read!”
So I did, right from the front to the back.
“Anything?”
“No,” I replied sadly, “nothing.”
“Not even the whiff of garden refuse or the distant buzz of a lawn mower?”
“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 replied. “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 self-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 where’s the wisdom in watching from the window while Mr. and Mrs. McGregor discovered they had been duped with the rotten vegetables?”
She had a point.
“A narrative necessity,” I declared. “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 wriggling 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 labored 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 asked, “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 muttered, “a large range with a kettle singing merrily above a coal fire. There is a dresser against one wall with floral-patterned