by Roald Dahl
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Rumour had it that the constant twitching and jerking and snorting was caused by something called shell-shock, but we were not quite sure what that was. We took it to mean that an explosive object had gone off very close to him with such an enormous bang that it had made him jump high in the air and he hadn’t stopped jumping since.
For a reason that I could never properly understand, Captain Hardcastle had it in for me from my very first day at St Peter’s. Perhaps it was because he taught Latin and I was no good at it. Perhaps it was because already, at the age of nine, I was very nearly as tall as he was. Or even more likely, it was because I took an instant dislike to his giant orange moustache and he often caught me staring at it with what was probably a little sneer under the nose. I had only to pass within ten feet of him in the corridor and he would glare at me and shout, ‘Hold yourself straight, boy! Pull your shoulders back!’ or ‘Take those hands out of your pockets!’ or ‘What’s so funny, may I ask? What are you smirking at?’ or most insulting of all, ‘You, what’s-your-name, get on with your work!’ I knew, therefore, that it was only a matter of time before the gallant Captain nailed me good and proper.
The crunch came during my second term when I was exactly nine and a half, and it happened during evening Prep. Every weekday evening, the whole school would sit for one hour in the Main Hall, between six and seven o’clock, to do Prep. The master on duty for the week would be in charge of Prep, which meant that he sat high up on a dais at the top end of the Hall and kept order. Some masters read a book while taking Prep and some corrected exercises, but not Captain Hardcastle. He would sit up there on the dais twitching and grunting and never once would he look down at his desk. His small milky-blue eyes would rove the Hall for the full sixty minutes, searching for trouble, and heaven help the boy who caused it.
The rules of Prep were simple but strict. You were forbidden to look up from your work, and you were forbidden to talk. That was all there was to it, but it left you precious little leeway. In extreme circumstances, and I never knew what these were, you could put your hand up and wait until you were asked to speak but you had better be awfully sure that the circumstances were extreme. Only twice during my four years at St Peter’s did I see a boy putting up his hand during Prep. The first one went like this:
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If homework is done at home, then what is the name for homework that is done at school … ? The answer is prep!
* * *
MASTER. What is it?
BOY. Please sir, may I be excused to go to the lavatory?
MASTER. Certainly not. You should have gone before.
BOY. But sir … please sir …I didn’t want to before … I didn’t know …
MASTER. Whose fault was that? Get on with your work!
BOY. But sir …Oh sir … Please sir, let me go!
MASTER. One more word out of you and you’ll be in trouble.
Naturally, the wretched boy dirtied his pants, which caused a storm later on upstairs with the Matron.
On the second occasion, I remember clearly that it was a summer term and the boy who put his hand up was called Braithwaite. I also seem to recollect that the master taking Prep was our friend Captain Hardcastle, but I wouldn’t swear to it. The dialogue went something like this:
MASTER. Yes, what is it?
BRAITHWAITE. Please sir, a wasp came in through the window and it’s stung me on my lip and it’s swelling up.
MASTER. A what?
BRAITHWAITE. A wasp, sir.
MASTER. Speak up, boy, I can’t hear you! A what came in through the window?
BRAITHWAITE. It’s hard to speak up, sir, with my lip all swelling up.
MASTER. With your what all swelling up? Are you trying to be funny?
BRAITHWAITE. No sir, I promise I’m not, sir.
MASTER. Talk properly, boy! What’s the matter with you?
BRAITHWAITE. I’ve told you, sir. I’ve been stung, sir. My lip is swelling. It’s hurting terribly.
MASTER. Hurting terribly? What’s hurting terribly?
BRAITHWAITE. My lip, sir. It’s getting bigger and bigger.
MASTER. What Prep are you doing tonight?
BRAITHWAITE. French verbs, sir. We have to write them out.
MASTER. Do you write with your lip?
BRAITHWAITE. No sir, I don’t sir, but you see …
MASTER. All I see is that you are making an infernal noise and disturbing everybody in the room. Now get on with your work.
They were tough, those masters, make no mistake about it, and if you wanted to survive, you had to become pretty tough yourself.
My own turn came, as I said, during my second term and Captain Hardcastle was again taking Prep. You should know that during Prep every boy in the Hall sat at his own small individual wooden desk. These desks had the usual sloping wooden tops with a narrow flat strip at the far end where there was a groove to hold your pen and a small hole in the right-hand side in which the ink-well sat. The pens we used had detachable nibs and it was necessary to dip your nib into the ink-well every six or seven seconds when you were writing. Ball-point pens and felt pens had not then been invented, and fountain-pens were forbidden. The nibs we used were very fragile and most boys kept a supply of new ones in a small box in their trouser pockets.
* * *
Ball-point pens were first developed in 1888. But it wasn’t until 1938, when László Biró – a Hungarian newspaper editor – came up with a better model, which stopped ink going everywhere.
* * *
Prep was in progress. Captain Hardcastle was sitting up on the dais in front of us, stroking his orange moustache, twitching his head and grunting through his nose. His eyes roved the Hall endlessly, searching for mischief. The only noises to be heard were Captain Hardcastle’s little snorting grunts and the soft sound of pen-nibs moving over paper. Occasionally there was a ping as somebody dipped his nib too violently into his tiny white porcelain ink-well.
Disaster struck when I foolishly stubbed the tip of my nib into the top of the desk. The nib broke. I knew I hadn’t got a spare one in my pocket, but a broken nib was never accepted as an excuse for not finishing Prep. We had been set an essay to write and the subject was ‘The Life Story of a Penny’ (I still have that essay in my files). I had made a decent start and I was rattling along fine when I broke that nib. There was still another half-hour of Prep to go and I couldn’t sit there doing nothing all that time. Nor could I put up my hand and tell Captain Hardcastle I had broken my nib. I simply did not dare. And as a matter of fact, I really wanted to finish that essay. I knew exactly what was going to happen to my penny through the next two pages and I couldn’t bear to leave it unsaid.
* * *
Here is ‘The Life Story of a Penny’ from Roald Dahl’s essay book. (He wrote it in 1926, aged nine and a half.)
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* * *
The Life Story of a Penny
One hot day in the month of July, when the men of our copper mine in South America were digging into the depths thereof, I felt something hard strike me underneath. I was shovelled up into a truck, being only a small lump of copper, and was conveyed to Rio de Janeiro where I was shipped to England amongst a heap of copper.
The ship having arrived at Liverpool, I was taken to ‘the mint’ in London, and in a merciful manner I was cast into a roaring furnace. I was left there till quite white hot, when finally I began to melt.
I was taken out and had a picture of King George V’s head stamped cruelly on one side of me and Britannia on the other.
I was then sent to be put in a drawer in the Midland Bank, looking very shiny, but soon got that brown colour that pennies get, when mixed up with a great many other coins. A large and fat lady came into the bank one afternoon, and handed the man a cheque for a penny.
I was handed to the lady who dropped me carefully into her purse. Having remained in the purse for a certain time, I was taken out, greatly to my astonishment I found myself i
n a fishmonger’s shop, the lady had used me to pay for some shrimps she had bought.
Next time I was taken out of the fishmonger’s drawer, I was handed to a little boy, probably for change. I was placed in his pocket with a rusty old knife, a piece of string and a shilling. This boy being stupid, was rolling me along the street when suddenly I disappeared from the boy’s sight, I had fallen down a drain into the gutter. Down, and down I went amidst the muddy water. The drain went into a river, which flowed rapidly on. Into this river I went and after having gone down with the current a considerable distance, I found myself washed high and dry on the bank. Then two boys came along, the smallest one saw me fir …
* * *
* * *
What happened next? We’ll never know what became of Roald Dahl’s penny because his nib broke …
* * *
I glanced to my right. The boy next to me was called Dobson. He was the same age as me, nine and a half, and a nice fellow. Even now, sixty years later, I can still remember that Dobson’s father was a doctor and that he lived, as I had learnt from the label on Dobson’s tuck-box, at The Red House, Uxbridge, Middlesex.
Dobson’s desk was almost touching mine. I thought I would risk it. I kept my head lowered but watched Captain Hardcastle very carefully. When I was fairly sure he was looking the other way, I put a hand in front of my mouth and whispered, ‘Dobson … Dobson … Could you lend me a nib?’
Suddenly there was an explosion up on the dais. Captain Hardcastle had leapt to his feet and was pointing at me and shouting, ‘You’re talking! I saw you talking! Don’t try to deny it! I distinctly saw you talking behind your hand!’
I sat there frozen with terror.
Every boy stopped working and looked up.
Captain Hardcastle’s face had gone from red to deep purple and he was twitching violently.
‘Do you deny you were talking?’ he shouted.
‘No, sir, no, b-but …’
‘And do you deny you were trying to cheat? Do you deny you were asking Dobson for help with your work?’
‘N-no, sir, I wasn’t. I wasn’t cheating.’
‘Of course you were cheating! Why else, may I ask, would you be speaking to Dobson? I take it you were not inquiring after his health?’
It is worth reminding the reader once again of my age. I was not a self-possessed lad of fourteen. Nor was I twelve or even ten years old. I was nine and a half, and at that age one is ill equipped to tackle a grown-up man with flaming orange hair and a violent temper. One can do little else but stutter.
‘I … I have broken my nib, sir,’ I whispered. ‘I … I was asking Dobson if he c-could lend me one, sir.’
‘You are lying!’ cried Captain Hardcastle, and there was triumph in his voice. ‘I always knew you were a liar! And a cheat as well!’
‘All I w-wanted was a nib, sir.’
‘I’d shut up if I were you!’ thundered the voice on the dais. ‘You’ll only get yourself into deeper trouble! I am giving you a Stripe!’
These were words of doom. A Stripe! I am giving you a Stripe! All around, I could feel a kind of sympathy reaching out to me from every boy in the school, but nobody moved or made a sound.
Here I must explain the system of Stars and Stripes that we had at St Peter’s. For exceptionally good work, you could be awarded a Quarter-Star, and a red dot was made with crayon beside your name on the notice-board. If you got four Quarter-Stars, a red line was drawn through the four dots indicating that you had completed your Star.
* * *
After Roald Dahl’s essay on ‘A person who has lived in 1827 suddenly entering life now’, Mr Corrado wrote, ‘It seems to me that the spelling of 1827, old gentleman, has also changed, very much.’
* * *
* * *
Roald Dahl won a prize in 1927 for earning fourteen Quarter-Stars in one term.
* * *
For exceptionally poor work or bad behaviour, you were given a Stripe, and that automatically meant a thrashing from the Headmaster.
Every master had a book of Quarter-Stars and a book of Stripes, and these had to be filled in and signed and torn out exactly like cheques from a cheque book. The Quarter-Stars were pink, the Stripes were a fiendish, blue-green colour. The boy who received a Star or a Stripe would pocket it until the following morning after prayers, when the Headmaster would call upon anyone who had been given one or the other to come forward in front of the whole school and hand it in. Stripes were considered so dreadful that they were not given very often. In any one week it was unusual for more than two or three boys to receive Stripes.
And now Captain Hardcastle was giving one to me.
‘Come here,’ he ordered.
* * *
The records show that Roald Dahl was awarded a Stripe by Captain Lancaster in June 1926 for ‘3 warnings in a week’.
* * *
I got up from my desk and walked to the dais. He already had his book of Stripes on the desk and was filling one out. He was using red ink, and along the line where it said Reason, he wrote, Talking in Prep, trying to cheat and lying. He signed it and tore it out of the book. Then, taking plenty of time, he filled in the counterfoil. He picked up the terrible piece of green-blue paper and waved it in my direction but he didn’t look up. I took it out of his hand and walked back to my desk. The eyes of the whole school followed my progress.
For the remainder of Prep I sat at my desk and did nothing. Having no nib, I was unable to write another word about ‘The Life Story of a Penny’, but I was made to finish it the next afternoon instead of playing games.
The following morning, as soon as prayers were over, the Headmaster called for Quarter-Stars and Stripes. I was the only boy to go up. The assistant masters were sitting on very upright chairs on either side of the Headmaster, and I caught a glimpse of Captain Hardcastle, arms folded across his chest, head twitching, the milky-blue eyes watching me intently, the look of triumph still glimmering on his face. I handed in my Stripe. The Headmaster took it and read the writing. ‘Come and see me in my study,’ he said, ‘as soon as this is over.’
Five minutes later, walking on my toes and trembling terribly, I passed through the green baize door and entered the sacred precincts where the Headmaster lived. I knocked on his study door.
‘Enter!’
I turned the knob and went into this large square room with bookshelves and easy chairs and the gigantic desk topped in red leather straddling the far corner. The Headmaster was sitting behind the desk holding my Stripe in his fingers. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’ he asked me, and the white shark’s teeth flashed dangerously between his lips.
‘I didn’t lie, sir,’ I said. ‘I promise I didn’t. And I wasn’t trying to cheat.’
‘Captain Hardcastle says you were doing both,’ the Headmaster said. ‘Are you calling Captain Hardcastle a liar?’
‘No, sir. Oh no, sir.’
* * *
The cane wasn’t the only instrument of torture in schools. Other options were the slipper, the strap (a wide, heavy strip of leather) and the birch (a bundle of leafless twigs). The tawse was a truly wicked device – a strip of leather with one end sliced into many smaller strips. They are all now banned.
* * *
* * *
The slipper worked best if there was no foot in it at the time of thwacking.
* * *
‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’
‘I had broken my nib, sir, and I was asking Dobson if he could lend me another.’
‘That is not what Captain Hardcastle says. He says you were asking for help with your essay.’
‘Oh no, sir, I wasn’t. I was a long way away from Captain Hardcastle and I was only whispering. I don’t think he could have heard what I said, sir.’
‘So you are calling him a liar.’
‘Oh no, sir! No, sir! I would never do that!’
It was impossible for me to win against the Headmaster. What I would like to have said was, �
��Yes, sir, if you really want to know, sir, I am calling Captain Hardcastle a liar because that’s what he is!’, but it was out of the question. I did, however, have one trump card left to play, or I thought I did.
‘You could ask Dobson, sir,’ I whispered.
‘Ask Dobson?’ he cried. ‘Why should I ask Dobson?’
‘He would tell you what I said, sir.’
‘Captain Hardcastle is an officer and a gentleman,’ the Headmaster said. ‘He has told me what happened. I hardly think I want to go round asking some silly little boy if Captain Hardcastle is speaking the truth.’
I kept silent.
‘For talking in Prep,’ the Headmaster went on, ‘for trying to cheat and for lying, I am going to give you six strokes of the cane.’
* * *
‘Six of the best’ was one of the worst punishments ever. After such a serious caning, the recipient would have great difficulty sitting down.
* * *
He rose from his desk and crossed over to the corner-cupboard on the opposite side of the study. He reached up and took from the top of it three very thin yellow canes, each with the bent-over handle at one end. For a few seconds, he held them in his hands, examining them with some care, then he selected one and replaced the other two on top of the cupboard.