Her fingers tremble so that she can’t undo the knot in the music satchel. It’s the wind…. 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.

“Shall I begin with scales,” she asks, squeezing her hands together. “I had some arpeggios, too.”

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.

“Let’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 — it is a very nice hand and always looks as though it had just been washed.

“Here we are,” says Mr Bullen.

Oh, that kind voice — Oh, that minor movement. Here come the little drums….

“Shall I take the repeat?”

“Yes, dear child.”

His voice is far, far too kind. The crotchets and quavers are dancing up and down the stave like little black boys on a fence. Why is he so … She will not cry — she has nothing to cry about….

“What is it, dear child?”

Mr Bullen takes her hands. His shoulder is there — just by her head. She leans on it ever so little, her cheek against the springy tweed.

“Life is so dreadful,” she murmurs, but she does not feel it’s dreadful at all. He says something about “waiting” and “marking time” and “that rare thing, a woman,” but she does not hear. It is so comfortable … for ever….

Suddenly the door opens and in pops Marie Swainson, hours before her time.

“Take the allegretto a little faster,” says Mr Bullen, and gets up and begins to walk up and down again.

“Sit in the sofa corner, little lady,” he says to Marie.

The wind, the wind. 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…. Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of snakes? She’s not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should…. The wind — the wind! There’s a funny smell of soot blowing down the chimney. Hasn’t anyone written poems to the wind? … “I bring fresh flowers to the leaves and showers.” … What nonsense.

“Is that you, Bogey?”

“Come for a walk round the esplanade, Matilda. I can’t stand this any longer.”

“Right-o. I’ll put on my ulster. Isn’t it an awful day!” Bogey’s ulster is just like hers. Hooking the collar she looks at herself in the glass. Her face is white, they have the same excited eyes and hot lips.