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Ms. Honey could write with both hands. Matilda hadn’t noticed it straight away, and even when she did she’d thought little of it. After all, not everyone was either right or left-handed. She herself had unique skills, so why shouldn’t her teacher? Matilda had noticed, almost at once, how perfect Ms. Honey’s handwriting always appeared when she wrote on the board. White chalk lines, straight as an arrow, flawless. Only in the little notes that passed between the two of them did Ms. Honey’s writing change. Edges became jagged, letters leaned to one side or the other. Matilda learned to tell when Ms. Honey was writing to her, for the teacher would glance quickly to either side before slipping the pen into her left hand and scrawling out a message. The words always seemed to tingle with excitement or adrenaline as they plotted out extra, forbidden lessons. “At the cottage, three o’clock, Literature”, or “Behind school at lunchtime, Geometry”. Their sessions had all the clandestine aura of spies meeting to exchange state secrets. Still, through all their work, Matilda thought nothing of the strangely different handwritings, nor the reason behind them.
So many things went through Matilda’s mind the day Ms. Trunchbull finally left school forever, driven out by the students themselves. Rage at past injustices, cool concentration as she manipulated the world around her, analysis of possible escape routes should something, anything go wrong. Matilda’s mind whirred like a hummingbird’s wings, too fast to track. Even so, a single sentence, a single look in Ms. Honey’s eye, made her heart and mind stand still.
"I broke your arm once before, I can do it again, Jenny."
A soft clicking noise sounded in Matilda’s ears, the indication her mind gave when pieces of a puzzle came together at last. Trunchbull’s grip on Ms. Honey’s left arm and the stiffness in the young woman’s body. The fear of cats, of ghosts, of anything unlucky or unnatural. The artificial perfection when Ms. Honey wrote with her right hand, and the quick, frightened looks to either side as she switched to her left. It seemed obvious now, with all Matilda knew about Ms. Trunchbull, that the Headmistress would harbor the ancient, misguided prejudice against left-handedness. What those in the Dark Ages considered a sign of the devil had translated into a need for punishment and reform in the twisted and superstitious mind of Agatha Trunchbull. Matilda felt an all-too-familiar pang of sorrow for the hapless young Ms. Honey, coupled with ice-cold fury at the way she’d been treated. Too many adults felt like they could force ignorance upon children, that their way was the only right way to be. It was time for that to change. She had learned, from her mother’s vanity and complacency, from the way she’d been ignored and mocked by her father, how thoughtless grown ups could be. And at school she’d learned, perhaps too well, how quickly ridicule could turn to hatred and abuse. But it was not until she viewed the end result of such practices that her rage came to its peak. That Ms. Honey, the sweetest, gentlest person who’d ever lived, was forced to endure day after day at the mercy of her tyrannical aunt, was the final straw. From now on, no one – not Matilda’s family, not Ms. Trunchbull, no one – could make her believe in the superiority of grown-ups. It was her turn to make the rules and dole out punishments. And she had a long list to get through before she was through.
As Matilda felt all the frenzied energy within her flow out into the room, she found that the memory of Ms. Honey’s frightened eyes simply would not fade. It made her want to hold the young woman in her arms and assure her that everything was going to be alright, that nothing would ever harm her again. But there was still work to be done before that promise could be kept. While the screaming students followed Ms. Trunchbull down the gloomy hallways and out into the schoolyard, Matilda held back, sticking close to Ms. Honey’s side. Reaching out, she took Ms. Honey’s hand – her left – and squeezed it tightly. Toppling Ms. Trunchbull’s regime was the work of a moment. Repairing all the damage that Trunchbull had done would take far longer, and require more than a few mind tricks. But as Ms. Honey knelt to embrace her, long limbs trembling with emotion, Matilda knew that every minute would be worth the effort.