Disclaimer- I do nicht own any of this, apart from the plot I have wrote in here. That is very much my idea. But the characters and books and stuff mentioned here? Not mine.
Alright, for those who know me as part of a duo called AbsoluteNutters- well, I've just updated so that's something. Besides, I've started writing the next chapter as the Muse has blessed me quite recently (touchwood). In a fit of want of nostalgia, I dug up Matilda by Roald Dahl and found myself fascinated by little "four years and three months" old Matilda in the library.
I thought to myself that there just wasn't quite enough Mrs Phelps in the story, so what better way to satisfy my wishes than to write a little something for myself on
Anyways, here it is- "Little Matilda"
Mrs Phelps considered herself a rather unshakable woman. After all, there wasn't much in her life that would happen out of the ordinary in her little library in her little town. Of course, it all changed when that strange young child had crept as quiet as a mouse to her desk, innocent and wide brown eyes barely able to peer over the mahogany desk that Mrs Phelps dearly loved.
Her voice had been the lightest little thing she had ever heard- soft and childish with a surprisingly serious tone to it for such a tiny creature.
Matilda. 'Strength in Battle- might, strength and battle.' Mrs Phelps could find herself believing that the name fitted the petite girl extremely well, especially since she requested that she be allowed to look for a book herself. Over the weeks and months, Mrs Phelps continued to watch over the little angel whose face lit up with every page she turned.
Mrs Phelps considered herself a great lover of books, regaling in her world of literature and the crisp crackle of a turned page. She found herself more and more drawn to the girl who shared the same passion for books as much as she did- despite the most definite age gap between them. Sometimes… she almost felt like they were kindred spirits. Especially since Matilda had finished reading the children's books, and turned her interest onto more complicated works of written art.
Mrs Phelps had been, indeed, a very surprised woman when she found that she could discuss the finer points of novels with the mite of a child.
For instance, arguing whether the voice of Mr Rochester that Jane Eyre had heard was merely all in her mind and in the strong connection she held with the man, or whether it was truly a supernatural force that had carried his voice to her that night.
Idly putting a few well worn books back into their proper shelves one day, Mrs Phelps heard the quiet swish of the library door open. Without turning round, Mrs Phelps knew immediately who had arrived. After the books had been put back (though heaven knew that she'd find them misplaced again within the week) she returned to her desk and smiled kindly at the young Matilda.
"Good afternoon, Matilda dear. What is it you'll be wanting this time then?" The little child had brought a bright red cart, tugging on the cheery yellow cord that was attached to it. In the plastic carrier that was designed for the transportation of plastic, child friendly toys, there lay all four books of Louisa M. Alcott that was based on Little Women and the sequels… and even Twelfth Night by Shakespeare (and the book that looked into the meanings and theorised upon the lines in old Will's play).
"I wanted to return these books, and perhaps take out a few more for this week if that's alright." Such a polite child, she marvelled to herself. And so after stamping the return date in each of the offered books, Mrs Phelps pulled out three rather battered books from her bag. Gently, she set them out in front of Matilda, allowing her to study the front and blurb of the books.
"The Lord of the Rings. Are these not library books, Mrs Phelps?" questioned the sharp minded child. Opening the cover, Matilda could see that indeed, there was not any sheet for dates of return or check out.
"No. These books are very old- given to me by my mother who was also an avid reader herself. They are very good," she added as she watched Matilda peruse the Foreword of the first book that she held in her hand, "A great favourite story of mine. Tolkien was a wonderful writer."
She could see that Matilda was immensely interested, indeed it looked as if the little one would be happy to sit down in one of the chairs, feet dangling over the edge liked she used to do and forget about returning home for a while. So Mrs Phelps was once again pleasantly surprised when Matilda handed them back to her.
"They really do look very good," she said with a touch of wistfulness in her voice. "I don't suppose you have any library copy of it, do you?" Bless that child! She was too polite, still too young to know what Mrs Phelps meant. Picking the Fellowship of the Ring up, Mrs Phelps wrote a short note in the front cover and set all three books down into the fire red cart (she did not fail to see the irony of how odd the advanced books looked in the childish tug-along).
"Mrs Phelps?"
"These are for you, Matilda. I've seen how much you love reading… and it really warms this old lady's heart to see someone as young as you to have such a passion for the written word. My mother gave them to me, and now in turn I shall give them to you."
"Oh no, I couldn't possibly take them, Mrs Phelps!" cried Matilda, the treasured rule of 'Silence is Golden' forgotten in her moment of excitement. "Your mother gave you them, they are too precious to give to me!"
How could Mrs Phelps explain what she felt to Matilda? Having no children of her own (a great sorrow to both Mr and Mrs Phelps), Matilda was the closest she had felt to a young child, and the joy both found in reading had unearthed the motherly instinct in Mrs Phelps dear old soul.
Kneeling down to place both hands on Matilda's shoulders; she gave her a very kind smile and gently tucked the hair behind her ears.
"Consider it a birthday present."
"But… my birthday isn't for another three months." Mrs Phelps chuckled.
"Then consider it an early birthday present, I insist." Matilda only wavered for a moment, before leaping forward to hug the old lady fiercely.
"Thank you so much Mrs Phelps! I promise to come by next week to borrow more books and talk with you!" Ah, if only Matilda knew how much she enjoyed their little talks. If Matilda hadn't had any parents… but of course, she had.
"I look forward to it. Goodbye dear."
"Bye!"
…
At home and in her little room with a mug of hot chocolate warming her hands, Matilda opened the first book and almost missed the little note the dear librarian had written in it. As she read it, Matilda smiled a quiet little smile that spoke ever so much more than she knew.
'To my Little Matilda,
For the one who brought a little ray of sunshine
into the library, I bequeath my most dearly beloved
books. Take good care of them,
Mrs Phelps.'