by Roald Dahl
I tell you, my friends, those were the days.
A visit to the doctor
I have only one unpleasant memory of the summer holidays in Norway. We were in the grandparents’ house in Oslo and my mother said to me, ‘We are going to the doctor this afternoon. He wants to look at your nose and mouth.’
I think I was eight at the time. ‘What’s wrong with my nose and mouth?’ I asked.
‘Nothing much,’ my mother said. ‘But I think you’ve got adenoids.’
‘What are they?’ I asked her.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing.’
I held my mother’s hand as we walked to the doctor’s house. It took us about half an hour. There was a kind of dentist’s chair in the surgery and I was lifted into it. The doctor had a round mirror strapped to his forehead and he peered up my nose and into my mouth. He then took my mother aside and they held a whispered conversation. I saw my mother looking rather grim, but she nodded.
The doctor now put some water to boil in an aluminium mug over a gas flame, and into the boiling water he placed a long thin shiny steel instrument. I sat there watching the steam coming off the boiling water. I was not in the least apprehensive. I was too young to realize that something out of the ordinary was going to happen.
Then a nurse dressed in white came in. She was carrying a red rubber apron and a curved white enamel bowl. She put the apron over the front of my body and tied it around my neck. It was far too big. Then she held the enamel bowl under my chin. The curve of the bowl fitted perfectly against the curve of my chest.
The doctor was bending over me. In his hand he held that long shiny steel instrument. He held it right in front of my face, and to this day I can still describe it perfectly. It was about the thickness and length of a pencil, and like most pencils it had a lot of sides to it. Toward the end, the metal became much thinner, and at the very end of the thin bit of metal there was a tiny blade set at an angle. The blade wasn’t more than a centimetre long, very small, very sharp and very shiny.
‘Open your mouth,’ the doctor said, speaking Norwegian.
I refused. I thought he was going to do something to my teeth, and everything anyone had ever done to my teeth had been painful.
‘It won’t take two seconds,’ the doctor said. He spoke gently, and I was seduced by his voice. Like an ass, I opened my mouth.
The tiny blade flashed in the bright light and disappeared into my mouth. It went high up into the roof of my mouth, and the hand that held the blade gave four or five very quick little twists and the next moment, out of my mouth into the basin came tumbling a whole mass of flesh and blood.
I was too shocked and outraged to do anything but yelp. I was horrified by the huge red lumps that had fallen out of my mouth into the white basin and my first thought was that the doctor had cut out the whole of the middle of my head.
‘Those were your adenoids,’ I heard the doctor saying.
I sat there gasping. The roof of my mouth seemed to be on fire. I grabbed my mother’s hand and held on to it tight. I couldn’t believe that anyone would do this to me.
‘Stay where you are,’ the doctor said. ‘You’ll be all right in a minute.’
Blood was still coming out of my mouth and dripping into the basin the nurse was holding. ‘Spit it all out,’ she said, ‘there’s a good boy.’
‘You’ll be able to breathe much better through your nose after this,’ the doctor said.
The nurse wiped my lips and washed my face with a wet flannel. Then they lifted me out of the chair and stood me on my feet. I felt a bit groggy.
‘We’ll get you home,’ my mother said, taking my hand. Down the stairs we went and on to the street. We started walking. I said walking. No trolley-car or taxi. We walked the full half-hour journey back to my grandparents’ house, and when we arrived at last, I can remember as clearly as anything my grandmother saying, ‘Let him sit down in that chair and rest for a while. After all, he’s had an operation.’
Someone placed a chair for me beside my grandmother’s armchair, and I sat down. My grandmother reached over and covered one of my hands in both of hers. ‘That won’t be the last time you’ll go to a doctor in your life,’ she said. ‘And with a bit of luck, they won’t do you too much harm.’
That was in 1924, and taking out a child’s adenoids, and often the tonsils as well, without any anaesthetic was common practice in those days. I wonder, though, what you would think if some doctor did that to you today.
St Peter’s, 1925–9 (age 9–13)
First day
In September 1925, when I was just nine, I set out on the first great adventure of my life – boarding-school. My mother had chosen for me a Prep School in a part of England which was as near as it could possibly be to our home in South Wales, and it was called St Peter’s. The full postal address was St Peter’s School, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset.
Weston-super-Mare is a slightly seedy seaside resort with a vast sandy beach, a tremendous long pier, an esplanade running along the sea-front, a clutter of hotels and boarding-houses, and about ten thousand little shops selling buckets and spades and sticks of rock and ice-creams. It lies almost directly across the Bristol Channel from Cardiff, and on a clear day you can stand on the esplanade at Weston and look across the fifteen or so miles of water and see the coast of Wales lying pale and milky on the horizon.
In those days the easiest way to travel from Cardiff to Weston-super-Mare was by boat. Those boats were beautiful. They were paddle-steamers, with gigantic swishing paddle-wheels on their flanks, and the wheels made the most terrific noise as they sloshed and churned through the water.
On the first day of my first term I set out by taxi in the afternoon with my mother to catch the paddle-steamer from Cardiff Docks to Weston-super-Mare. Every piece of clothing I wore was brand new and had my name on it. I wore black shoes, grey woollen stockings with blue turnovers, grey flannel shorts, a grey shirt, a red tie, a grey flannel blazer with the blue school crest on the breast pocket and a grey school cap with the same crest just above the peak. Into the taxi that was taking us to the docks went my brand new trunk and my brand new tuck-box, and both had R. DAHL painted on them in black.
A tuck-box is a small pinewood trunk which is very strongly made, and no boy has ever gone as a boarder to an English Prep School without one. It is his own secret store-house, as secret as a lady’s handbag, and there is an unwritten law that no other boy, no teacher, not even the Headmaster himself has the right to pry into the contents of your tuck-box. The owner has the key in his pocket and that is where it stays. At St Peter’s, the tuck-boxes were ranged shoulder to shoulder all around the four walls of the changing-room and your own tuck-box stood directly below the peg on which you hung your games clothes. A tuck-box, as the name implies, is a box in which you store your tuck. At Prep School in those days, a parcel of tuck was sent once a week by anxious mothers to their ravenous little sons, and an average tuck-box would probably contain, at almost any time, half a home-made currant cake, a packet of squashed-fly biscuits, a couple of oranges, an apple, a banana, a pot of strawberry jam or Marmite, a bar of chocolate, a bag of Liquorice Allsorts and a tin of Bassett’s lemonade powder. An English school in those days was purely a money-making business owned and operated by the Headmaster. It suited him, therefore, to give the boys as little food as possible himself and to encourage the parents in various cunning ways to feed their offspring by parcel-post from home.
‘By all means, my dear Mrs Dahl, do send your boy some little treats now and again,’ he would say. ‘Perhaps a few oranges and apples once a week’ – fruit was very expensive – ‘and a nice currant cake, a large currant cake perhaps because small boys have large appetites do they not, ha-ha-ha… Yes, yes, as often as you like. More than once a week if you wish… Of course he’ll be getting plenty of good food here, the best there is, but it never tastes quite the same as home cooking, does it? I’m sure you wouldn’t want him to be the o
nly one who doesn’t get a lovely parcel from home every week.’
As well as tuck, a tuck-box would also contain all manner of treasures such as a magnet, a pocket-knife, a compass, a ball of string, a clockwork racing-car, half a dozen lead soldiers, a box of conjuring-tricks, some tiddly-winks, a Mexican jumping bean, a catapult, some foreign stamps, a couple of stink-bombs, and I remember one boy called Arkle who drilled an airhole in the lid of his tuck-box and kept a pet frog in there which he fed on slugs.
So off we set, my mother and I and my trunk and my tuck-box, and we boarded the paddle-steamer and went swooshing across the Bristol Channel in a shower of spray. I liked that part of it, but I began to grow apprehensive as I disembarked on to the pier at Weston-super-Mare and watched my trunk and tuck-box being loaded into an English taxi which would drive us to St Peter’s. I had absolutely no idea what was in store for me. I had never spent a single night away from our large family before.
St Peter’s was on a hill above the town. It was a long three-storeyed stone building that looked rather like a private lunatic asylum, and in front of it lay the playing-fields with their three football pitches. One-third of the building was reserved for the Headmaster and his family. The rest of it housed the boys, about one hundred and fifty of them altogether, if I remember rightly.
As we got out of the taxi, I saw the whole driveway abustle with small boys and their parents and their trunks and their tuck-boxes, and a man I took to be the Headmaster was swimming around among them shaking everybody by the hand.
I have already told you that all Headmasters are giants, and this one was no exception. He advanced upon my mother and shook her by the hand, then he shook me by the hand and as he did so he gave me the kind of flashing
The Loony Bin!
grin a shark might give to a small fish just before he gobbles it up. One of his front teeth, I noticed, was edged all the way round with gold, and his hair was slicked down with so much hair-cream that it glistened like butter.
‘Right,’ he said to me. ‘Off you go and report to the Matron.’ And to my mother he said briskly, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Dahl. I shouldn’t linger if I were you. We’ll look after him.’
My mother got the message. She kissed me on the cheek and said goodbye and climbed right back into the taxi.
The Headmaster moved away to another group and I was left standing there beside my brand new trunk and my brand new tuck-box. I began to cry.
Writing home
At St Peter’s, Sunday morning was letter-writing time. At nine o’clock the whole school had to go to their desks and spend one hour writing a letter home to their parents. At ten-fifteen we put on our caps and coats and formed up outside the school in a long crocodile and marched a couple of miles down into Weston-super-Mare for church, and we didn’t get back until lunchtime. Church-going never became a habit with me. Letter-writing did.
Here is the very first letter I wrote home from St Peter’s.
From that very first Sunday at St Peter’s until the day my mother died thirty-two years later, I wrote to her once a week, sometimes more often, whenever I was away from home. I wrote to her every week from St Peter’s (I had to), and every week from my next school, Repton, and every week from Dar es Salaam in East Africa, where I went on my first job after leaving school, and then every week during the war from Kenya and Iraq and Egypt when I was flying with the RAF.
My mother, for her part, kept every one of these letters, binding them carefully in neat bundles with green tape, but this was her own secret. She never told me she was doing it. In 1967, when she knew she was dying, I was in hospital in Oxford having a serious operation on my spine and I was unable to write to her. So she had a telephone specially installed beside her bed in order that she might have one last conversation with me. She didn’t tell me she was dying nor did anyone else for that matter because I was in a fairly serious condition myself at the time. She simply asked me how I was and hoped I would get better soon and sent me her love. I had no idea that she would die the next day, but she knew all right and she wanted to reach out and speak to me for the last time.
When I recovered and went home, I was given this vast collection of my letters, all so neatly bound with green tape, more than six hundred of them altogether, dating from 1925 to 1945, each one in its original envelope with the old stamps still on them. I am awfully lucky to have something like this to refer to in my old age.
Letter-writing was a serious business at St Peter’s. It was as much a lesson in spelling and punctuation as anything else because the Headmaster would patrol the classrooms all through the sessions, peering over our shoulders to read
what we were writing and to point out our mistakes. But that, I am quite sure, was not the main reason for his interest. He was there to make sure that we said nothing horrid about his school.
There was no way, therefore, that we could ever complain to our parents about anything during term-time. If we thought the food was lousy or if we hated a certain master or if we had been thrashed for something we did not do, we never dared to say so in our letters. In fact, we often went the other way. In order to please that dangerous Headmaster who was leaning over our shoulders and reading what we had written, we would say splendid things about the school and go on about how lovely the masters were.
Mind you, the Headmaster was a clever fellow. He did not want our parents to think that those letters of ours were censored in this way, and therefore he never allowed us to correct a spelling mistake in the letter itself. If, for example, I had written… last Tuesday knight we had a lecture…, he would say:
‘Don’t you know how to spell night?’
‘Y-yes, sir, k-n-i-g-h-t.’
‘That’s the other kind of knight, you idiot!’
‘Which kind, sir? I… I don’t understand.’
‘The one in shining armour! The man on horseback! How do you spell Tuesday night?’
‘I… I… I’m not quite sure, sir.’
‘It’s n-i-g-h-t, boy, n-i-g-h-t. Stay in and write it out for me fifty times this afternoon. No, no! Don’t change it in the letter! You don’t want to make it any messier than it is! It must go as you wrote it!’
Thus, the unsuspecting parents received in this subtle way the impression that your letter had never been seen or censored or corrected by anyone.
The Matron
At St Peter’s the ground floor was all classrooms. The first floor was all dormitories. On the dormitory floor the Matron ruled supreme. This was her territory. Hers was the only voice of authority up here, and even the eleven-and twelve-year-old boys were terrified of this female ogre, for she ruled with a rod of steel.
The Matron was a large fair-haired woman with a bosom. Her age was probably no more than twenty-eight but it made no difference whether she was twenty-eight or sixty-eight because to us a grown-up was a grown-up and all grown-ups were dangerous creatures at this school.
Once you had climbed to the top of the stairs and set foot on the dormitory floor, you were in the Matron’s power, and the source of this power was the unseen but frightening figure of the Headmaster lurking down in the depths of his study below. At any time she liked, the Matron could send you down in your pyjamas and dressing-gown to report to this merciless giant, and whenever this happened you got caned on the spot. The Matron knew this and she relished the whole business.
She could move along that corridor like lightning, and when you least expected it, her head and her bosom would come popping through the dormitory doorway. ‘Who threw that sponge?’ the dreaded voice would call out. ‘It was you, Perkins, was it not? Don’t lie to me, Perkins! Don’t argue with me! I know perfectly well it was you! Now you can put your dressing-gown on and go downstairs and report to the Headmaster this instant!’
In slow motion and with immense reluctance, little Perkins, aged eight and a half, would get into his dressing-gown and slippers and disappear down the long corridor that led to the back stairs and the Headmaster’s private quarters
. And the Matron, as we all knew, would follow after him and stand at the top of the stairs listening with a funny look on her face for the crack… crack… crack of the cane that would soon be coming up from below. To me that noise always sounded as though the Headmaster was firing a pistol at the ceiling of his study.
Looking back on it now, there seems little doubt that the Matron disliked small boys very much indeed. She never smiled at us or said anything nice, and when for example the lint stuck to the cut on your kneecap, you were not allowed to take it off yourself bit by bit so that it didn’t hurt. She would always whip it off with a flourish, muttering, ‘Don’t be such a ridiculous little baby!’
On one occasion during my first term, I went down to the Matron’s room to have some iodine put on a grazed knee and I didn’t know you had to knock before you entered. I opened the door and walked right in, and there she was in the centre of the Sick Room floor locked in some kind of an embrace with the Latin master, Mr Victor Corrado. They flew apart as I entered and both their faces went suddenly crimson.
‘How dare you come in without knocking!’ the Matron shouted. ‘Here I am trying to get something out of Mr Corrado’s eye and in you burst and disturb the whole delicate operation!’
‘I’m very sorry, Matron.’
‘Go away and come back in five minutes!’ she cried, and I shot out of the room like a bullet.
