Mansfield with Monsters Read Online Free PDF

draped in white, sitting on a rock, looking out over the stormy sea.
    â€œNo, no!” says Mr Bullen, and he leans over the other girl, puts his arms over her shoulders and plays the passage for her. The stupid—she’s blushing! How ridiculous!
    Now the-girl-before-her has gone; the front door slams. Mr Bullen comes back and walks up and down, very softly, waiting for her. What an extraordinary thing. Her fingers tremble so that she can’t undo the knot in the music satchel. The webbing between her fingers is swollen, stretched. It’s the wind… It’s howling outside. And her heart beats so hard she feels it must lift her blouse up and down. Mr Bullen does not say a word. The shabby red piano seat is long enough for two people to sit side by side. Mr Bullen sits down by her.
    â€œShall I begin with scales?” she asks, squeezing her hands together, wincing at the word.
    But he does not answer. She doesn’t believe he even hears and then suddenly his fresh hand with the ring on it reaches over and opens Beethoven.
    â€œLet’s have a little of the old master,” he says.
    But why does he speak so kindly, so awfully kindly, and as though they had known each other for years and years and knew everything about each other.
    He turns the page slowly. She watches his hand—so human, so delicate. It is a very nice hand and always looks as though it had just been washed.
    â€œHere we are,” says Mr Bullen.
    Oh, that kind voice. Oh, that minor movement. Here come the little drums…
    â€œShall I take the repeat?”
    â€œYes, dear child.”
    His voice is far, far too kind. The crotchets and quavers are dancing up and down the stave like the prickling goosebumps along her arms. Why is he so…? She will not cry. Here she has nothing to cry about. Not now, not when she is safe in this room where the wind can’t touch her.
    â€œWhat is it, dear child?”
    Mr Bullen reaches for her hands, but she folds them in her lap. His shoulder is there, just by her head. She leans on it ever so little, her cheek against the springy tweed.
    â€œLife is so dreadful,” she murmurs, but she does not feel it’s dreadful here at all. He says something about ‘waiting’ and ‘marking time’ but she does not hear. It is so comfortable… forever… .
    Suddenly the door opens and in pops Marie Swainson, hours before her time.
    â€œTake the allegretto a little faster,” says Mr Bullen, and gets up and begins to walk up and down again.
    â€œSit in the sofa corner, little lady,” he says to Marie.
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    The wind, the wind. It chases her home, calls to her, stirs images of ancient, drowned cities and dark forms swimming through ruins. It touches violent memories and makes Matilda giddy, but she fights it back, runs into the house. It pounds on the window. It’s frightening to be here in her room by herself. The bed, the mirror, the white jug and basin gleam like the sky outside. It’s the bed that is frightening. There it lies, sound asleep, waiting for her. She cannot fight the transformation when she sleeps, cannot keep the wind and waves from her dreams… Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of serpents? She’s not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should… The wind—the wind!
    â€œIs that you, Bogey?”
    â€œCome, Matilda. I can’t stand this any longer.”
    â€œCan’t stand…” Matilda dares not finish the thought. Bogey is standing in her doorway, head down, blood soaking his right sleeve, dripping from his hand.
    â€œBogey, what have you…?”
    â€œCome and see, sister.” He holds out his bloody hand to her.
    Matilda steps around him and into the hallway. The wind is howling outside but inside the house is silent, still. A lock of dark hair sits twisted in a pool of blood seeping