I had read Roald Dahl's Boy some time ago, and one of my MMSA Stories correspondents had suggested that I post a portion of Boy on MMSA Stories. Well, today wandering down Maple Street, I dropped into the famous Maple Street Children's Bookstore and picked up Dahl's Boy which I reread over a tall margarita. (There is something faintly treasonous about a resident of Houston consuming a margarita in New Orleans.)
Here is an excerpt from Dahl: between 7 and 9 (1923-35), he was at a school called Llandaf Cathedral School. Dahl and four of his friends were fascinated by the local sweet shop: "the same four boys and I would set out together across the village green and through the village itself, heading for home. On the way to school and on the way back we always passed the sweet-shop. No, we didn't, we never passed it. We always stopped. We lingered outside its rather small window gazing in at the big glass jars full of Bull's-eyes and old fashioned Humbugs and Strawberry Bonbons and Glacier Mints and Acid Drops and Pear Drops and Lemon Drops and all the rest of them. Each of us received sixpence a week for pocket-money, and whenever there was any money in our pockets, we would all troop in together to buy a pennyworth of this or that. My own favorites were Sherbet Suckers and Liquorice Bootlaces" (29).
"But it had one terrible drawback this sweetshop. The woman who owned it was a horror. We hated her, and we had a good reason for doing so. Her name was Mrs. Pratchett. She was a small skinny old hag with a moustache on her upper lip and a mouth as sour as a green gooseberry. She never smiled. She never welcomed us when we went in, and the only times she spoke were when she said things like, 'I'm watching you so keep yer thievin fingers off them chocolates!' Or, 'I don't want you in here just to look around! Either you forks out or you gets out'" (33) [That's a line I must tell my dinge dick dancer friends. They can use it on those evil queens and cunts who leer at them but don't tip them, "Either you forks out, or you gets out."]
Dahl finds a dead mouse and in a fit of bravado, he puts the mouse in among the gobstoppers. A furious Mrs. Pratchett comes complaining to the Headmaster, Mr. Coombes.
"The headmaster of the school is the only teacher at Llandaf Cathedral School that I can remember, and for a reason that you will soon discover, I can remember him very clearly indeed. His name was Mr. Coombes and I have a picture in my mind of a giant of a man with a face like a ham and a mass of rusty-coloured hair that sprouted in a tangle all over the top of his head. All grown-ups appear as giants to small children. But Headmasters (and policemen) are the biggest giants of all and acquire a marvellously exaggerated stature" (41). [I find this claim comic. For two academic years, I was a principal of an elementary and middle school in the U. S. A. (what the English would call a Headmaster). Tiny, little balding Indian, that I am, I cannot imagine that I seemed a giant to my hulking cutie dingie students, many of whom towered over me in the eighth grade.]
Coombes lines up all the boys in the school, and Mrs. Pratchett stalks up and down the rows, identifying the four miscreats. "'They nick things when I 'aint looking. They put their grubby hands over everything and they've got no manners. I don't mind girls. I never 'ave no trouble with girls [them cunts stick together; oh dear, what a hideously literal image comes to mind!] but boys is ideous and orrible. I don't 'ave to tell you that 'eadmaster, do I?'"(44)
The four boys are summoned to Coombes's office. "The room smelled of leather and tobacco. Mr. Coombes was standing in the middle of it, dominating everything, a giant of a man if ever there was one, and he held in his hands a long yellow cane which curved around the top like a walking stick. [For those of you who have access to the actual book, Dahl includes a schoolboy's drawing of the cane.]
'I don't want any lies,' he said. 'I know very well you did it, and you were all in it together. Line up over there against the bookcase.'
We lined up. Thwaites in front and I, for some reason, at the very back. I was last in line.
'You,' Mr. Coombes said, pointing his cane at Thwaites, 'Come over here.'
Thwaites went forward very slowly.
'Bend over,' Mr. Coombes said.
Thwaites bent over slowly. Our eyes were riveted on him. We were hypnotized by it all. We knew of course that the boys got the cane now and again, but we had never heard of anyone being made to watch.
'Tighter boy, tighter,' Mr. Coombes snapped out, 'Touch the ground.'
Thwaites touched the carpet with the tips of his fingers.
Mr. Coombes stood back and took a firm stance with his legs well apart. I thought how small Thwaite's bottom looked and how tight it was. Mr. Coombes had his eyes fixed squarely upon it. He raised the cane high above his shoulder, and as he brought it down, it made a loud swishing sound, and then there was a crack like a pistol shot as it struck Thwaite's bottom.
Little Thwaites seemed to lift about a foot into the air, and he yelled, 'Ow-w-w-w-w!' and straightened up like elastic.
'Arder!' shrieked the voice over from the corner.
Now it was our turn to jump. We looked around, and there sitting in one of Mr. Coombes's big leather armchairs was the tiny figure of Mrs. Pratchett! She was bounding up and down with excitement. 'Lay it into 'im!' she was shrieking. 'Let 'im 'ave it!' Teach 'im a lesson!'
'Get down boy,' Mr. Coombes ordered. 'And stay down! You get an extra one every time you straighten up.'
'That's telling 'im,' shrieked Mrs. Pratchett. 'That's telling the little blighter.'
I could hardly believe what I was seeing. It was like some awful pantomime. The violence was bad enough, and being made to watch it was even worse, but with Mrs. Pratchett in the audience the whole thing became a nightmare.
Swish-crack went the cane.
'Ow-w-w-w' yelled Thwaites.
'Arder,' shrieked Mrs. Pratchett. 'Stitch 'im up. Make it sting! Tickle 'im up good and proper! Warm 'is backside for 'im! Go on, warm it up 'eadmaster!' [I need to rob some Pratchettisms. When I return to Houston, I will tickle up Jacko good and proper.]
Thwaites received four strokes, and by gum, they were four real whoppers.
'Next,' snapped Mr. Coombes.
Thwaites came hopping past us on his toes, clutching his bottom with both hands and yelling, 'Ow. Ouch! Ouch! Owww!'" (46-48).
The Puffin edition I am reading has illustrations by Quentin Blake. Blake's illustration of Thwaite's leaping up into the air as the cane makes contact is anything but erotic. Thin little legs, no real ass. The deliberate deeroticiziation meshes with Dahl's own genteel homophobia. But I think it is clear that he is very interested in Thwaite's tight little bottom: obviously fear is one part of it. He will be facing the punishment that T is facing, but I would suggest that desire is mingled with that fear in the description, a desire that Blake's illustration willfully represses.
Stay tuned for more pervie excerpts from Dahl.