by Roald Dahl
‘Don’t be silly,’ the Doctor said.
‘You do as I say. Stitch it up.’ Klausner was gripping the axe handle and he spoke softly, in a curious, almost a threatening tone.
‘Don’t be silly,’ the Doctor said. ‘I can’t stitch through wood. Come on. Let’s get back.’
‘So you can’t stitch through wood?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Have you got any iodine in your bag?’
‘What if I have?’
‘Then paint the cut with iodine. It’ll sting, but that can’t be helped.’
‘Now look,’ the Doctor said, and again he turned as if to go. ‘Let’s not be ridiculous. Let’s get back to the house and then…’
‘Paint-the-cut-with-iodine.’
The Doctor hesitated. He saw Klausner’s hands tightening on the handle of the axe. He decided that his only alternative was to run away fast, and he certainly wasn’t going to do that.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll paint it with iodine.’
He got his black bag which was lying on the grass about ten yards away, opened it and took out a bottle of iodine and some cotton wool. He went up to the tree trunk, uncorked the bottle, tipped some of the iodine on to the cotton wool, bent down, and began to dab it into the cut. He kept one eye on Klausner who was standing motionless with the axe in his hands, watching him.
‘Make sure you get it right in.’
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said.
‘Now do the other one – the one just above it!’
The Doctor did as he was told.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘It’s done.’
He straightened up and surveyed his work in a very serious manner. ‘That should do nicely.’
Klausner came closer and gravely examined the two wounds.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding his huge head slowly up and down. ‘Yes, that will do nicely.’ He stepped back a pace. ‘You’ll come and look at them again tomorrow?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the Doctor said. ‘Of course.’
‘And put some more iodine on?’
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Klausner said, and he nodded his head again and he dropped the axe and all at once he smiled, a wild, excited smile, and quickly the Doctor went over to him and gently he took him by the arm and he said, ‘Come on, we must go now,’ and suddenly they were walking away, the two of them, walking silently, rather hurriedly across the park, over the road, back to the house.
Georgy Porgy
Without in any way wishing to blow my own trumpet, I think that I can claim to being in most respects a moderately well-matured and rounded individual. I have travelled a good deal. I am adequately read. I speak Greek and Latin. I dabble in science. I can tolerate a mildly liberal attitude in the politics of others. I have compiled a volume of notes upon the evolution of the madrigal in the fifteenth century. I have witnessed the death of a large number of persons in their beds; and in addition, I have influenced, at least I hope I have, the lives of quite a few others by the spoken word delivered from the pulpit.
Yet in spite of all this, I must confess that I have never in my life –well, how shall I put it? –1 have never really had anything much to do with women.
To be perfectly honest, up until three weeks ago I had never so much as laid a finger on one of them except perhaps to help her over a stile or something like that when the occasion demanded. And even then I always tried to ensure that I touched only the shoulder or the waist or some other place where the skin was covered, because the one thing I never could stand was actual contact between my skin and theirs. Skin touching skin, my skin, that is, touching the skin of a female, whether it were leg, neck, face, hand, or merely finger, was so repugnant to me that I invariably greeted a lady with my hands clasped firmly behind my back to avoid the inevitable handshake.
I could go further than that and say that any sort of physical contact with them, even when the skin wasn’t bare, would disturb me considerably. If a woman stood close to me in a queue so that our bodies touched, or if she squeezed in beside me on a bus seat, hip to hip and thigh to thigh, my cheeks would begin burning like mad and little prickles of sweat would start coming out all over the crown of my head.
This condition is all very well in a schoolboy who has just reached the age of puberty. With him it is simply Dame Nature’s way of putting on the brakes and holding the lad back until he is old enough to behave like a gentleman. I approve of that.
But there was no reason on God’s earth why I, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, should continue to suffer a similar embarrassment. I was well trained to resist temptation, and I was certainly not given to vulgar passions.
Had I been even the slightest bit ashamed of my own personal appearance, then that might possibly have explained the whole thing. But I was not. On the contrary, and though I say it myself, the fates had been rather kind to me in that regard. I stood exactly five and a half feet tall in my stockinged feet, and my shoulders, though they sloped downward a little from the neck, were nicely in balance with my small neat frame. (Personally, I’ve always thought that a little slope on the shoulder lends a subtle and faintly aesthetic air to a man who is not overly tall, don’t you agree?) My features were regular, my teeth were in excellent condition (protruding only a smallish amount from the upper jaw), and my hair, which was an unusually brilliant ginger-red, grew thickly all over my scalp. Good heavens above, I had seen men who were perfect shrimps in comparison with me displaying an astonishing aplomb in their dealings with the fairer sex. And oh, how I envied them! How I longed to do otherwise – to be able to share in a few of those pleasant little rituals of contact that I observed continually taking place between men and women – the touching of hands, the peck on the cheek, the linking of arms, the pressure of knee against knee or foot against foot under the dining-table, and most of all, the fullblown violent embrace that comes when two of them join together on the floor – for a dance.
But such things were not for me. Alas, I had to spend my time avoiding them instead. And this, my friends, was easier said than done, even for a humble curate in a small country region far from the fleshpots of the metropolis.
My flock, you understand, contained an inordinate number of ladies. There were scores of them in the parish, and the unfortunate thing about it was that at least sixty per cent of them were spinsters, completely untamed by the benevolent influence of holy matrimony.
I tell you I was jumpy as a squirrel.
One would have thought that with all the careful training my mother had given me as a child, I should have been capable of taking this sort of thing well in my stride, and no doubt I would have done if only she had lived long enough to complete my education. But alas, she was killed when I was still quite young.
She was a wonderful woman, my mother. She used to wear huge bracelets on her wrists, five or six of them at a time, with all sorts of things hanging from them and tinkling against each other as she moved. It didn’t matter where she was, you could always find her by listening for the noise of those bracelets. It was better than a cowbell. And in the evenings she used to sit on the sofa in her black trousers with her feet tucked up underneath her, smoking endless cigarettes from a long black holder. And I’d be crouching on the floor, watching her.
‘You want to taste my martini, George?’ she used to ask.
‘Now stop it, Clare,’ my father would say. ‘If you’re not careful you’ll stunt the boy’s growth.’
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Don’t be frightened of it. Drink it.’
I always did everything my mother told me.
‘That’s enough,’ my father said. ‘He only has to know what it tastes like.’
‘Please don’t interfere, Boris. This is very important.’
My mother had a theory that nothing in the world should be kept secret from a child. Show him everything. Make him experience it.
‘I’m not going to have any boy of mine going arou
nd whispering dirty secrets with other children and having to guess about this thing and that simply because no one will tell him.’
Tell him everything. Make him listen.
‘Come over here, George, and I’ll tell you what there is to know about God.’
She never read stories to me at night before I went to bed, she just ‘told’ me things instead. And every evening it was something different.
‘Come over here, George, because now I’m going to tell you about Mohammed.’
She would be sitting on the sofa in her black trousers with her legs crossed and her feet tucked up underneath her, and she’d beckon to me in a queer languorous manner with the hand that held the long black cigarette-holder, and the bangles would start jingling all the way up her arm.
‘If you must have a religion I suppose Mohammedanism is as good as any of them. It’s all based on keeping healthy. You have lots of wives, and you mustn’t ever smoke or drink.’
‘Why mustn’t you smoke or drink, Mummy?’
‘Because if you’ve got lots of wives you have to keep healthy and virile.’
‘What is virile?’
‘I’ll go into that tomorrow, my pet. Let’s deal with one subject at a time. Another thing about the Mohammedan is that he never never gets constipated.’
‘Now, Clare,’ my father would say, looking up from his book. ‘Stick to the facts.’
‘My dear Boris, you don’t know anything about it. Now if only you would try bending forward and touching the ground with your forehead morning, noon, and night every day, facing Mecca, you might have a bit less trouble in that direction yourself.’
I used to love listening to her, even though I could only understand about half of what she was saying. She really was telling me secrets, and there wasn’t anything more exciting than that.
‘Come over here, George, and I’ll tell you precisely how your father makes his money.’
‘Now, Clare, that’s quite enough.’
‘Nonsense, darling. Why make a secret out of it with the child? He’ll only imagine something much much worse.’
I was exactly ten years old when she started giving me detailed lectures on the subject of sex. This was the biggest secret of them all, and therefore the most enthralling.
‘Come over here, George, because now I’m going to tell you how you came into this world, right from the very beginning.’
I saw my father glance up quietly, and open his mouth wide the way he did when he was going to say something vital, but my mother was already fixing him with those brilliant shining eyes of hers, and he went slowly back to his book without uttering a sound.
‘Your poor father is embarrassed,’ she said, and she gave me her private smile, the one that she gave nobody else, only to me – the one-sided smile where just one corner of her mouth lifted slowly upward until it made a lovely long wrinkle that stretched right up to the eye itself, and became a sort of wink-smile instead.
‘Embarrassment, my pet, is the one thing that I want you never to feel. And don’t think for a moment that your father is embarrassed only because of you.’
My father started wriggling about in his chair.
‘My God, he’s even embarrassed about things like that when he’s alone with me, his own wife.’
‘About things like what?’ I asked.
At that point my father got up and quietly left the room.
I think it must have been about a week after this that my mother was killed. It may possibly have been a little later, ten days or a fortnight, I can’t be sure. All I know is that we were getting near the end of this particular series of ‘talks’ when it happened; and because I myself was personally involved in the brief chain of events that led up to her death, I can still remember every single detail of that curious night just as clearly as if it were yesterday. I can switch it on in my memory any time I like and run it through in front of my eyes exactly as though it were the reel of a cinema film; and it never varies. It always ends at precisely the same place, no more and no less, and it always begins in the same peculiarly sudden way, with the screen in darkness, and my mother’s voice somewhere above me, calling my name:
‘George! Wake up, George, wake up!’
And then there is a bright electric light dazzling in my eyes, and right from the very centre of it, but far away, the voice is still calling me:
‘George, wake up and get out of bed and put your dressing-gown on! Quickly! You’re coming downstairs. There’s something I want you to see. Come on, child, come on! Hurry up! And put your slippers on. We’re going outside.’
‘Outside?’
‘Don’t argue with me, George. Just do as you’re told.’ I am so sleepy I can hardly see to walk, but my mother takes me firmly by the hand and leads me downstairs and out through the front door into the night where the cold air is like a sponge of water in my face, and I open my eyes wide and see the lawn all sparkling with frost and the cedar tree with its tremendous arms standing black against a thin small moon. And overhead a great mass of stars is wheeling up into the sky.
We hurry across the lawn, my mother and I, her bracelets all jingling like mad and me having to trot to keep up with her. Each step I take I can feel the crisp frosty grass crunching softly underfoot.
‘Josephine has just started having her babies,’ my mother says. ‘It’s a perfect opportunity. You shall watch the whole process.’
There is a light burning in the garage when we get there, and we go inside. My father isn’t there, nor is the car, and the place seems huge and bare, and the concrete floor is freezing cold through the soles of my bedroom slippers. Josephine is reclining on a heap of straw inside the low wire cage in one corner of the room – a large blue rabbit with small pink eyes that watch us suspiciously as we go towards her. The husband, whose name is Napoleon, is now in a separate cage in the opposite corner, and I notice that he is standing on his hind legs scratching impatiently at the netting.
‘Look!’ my mother cries. ‘She’s just having the first one! It’s almost out!’
We both creep closer to Josephine, and I squat down beside the cage with my face right up against the wire. I am fascinated. Here is one rabbit coming out of another. It is magical and rather splendid. It is also very quick.
‘Look how it comes out all neatly wrapped up in its own little cellophane bag!’ my mother is saying.
‘And just look how she’s taking care of it now! The poor darling doesn’t have a face-flannel, and even if she did she couldn’t hold it in her paws, so she’s washing it with her tongue instead.’
The mother rabbit rolls her small pink eyes anxiously in our direction, and then I see her shifting position in the straw so that her body is between us and the young one.
‘Come round the other side,’ my mother says. ‘The silly thing has moved. I do believe she’s trying to hide her baby from us.’
We go round the other side of the cage. The rabbit follows us with her eyes. A couple of yards away the buck is prancing madly up and down, clawing at the wire.
‘Why is Napoleon so excited?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, dear. Don’t you bother about him. Watch Josephine. I expect she’ll be having another one soon. Look how carefully she’s washing that little baby! She’s treating it just like a human mother treats hers! Isn’t it funny to think that I did almost exactly the same sort of thing to you once?’ The big blue doe is still watching us, and now, again, she pushes the baby away with her nose and rolls slowly over to face the other way. Then she goes on with her licking and cleaning.
‘Isn’t it wonderful how a mother knows instinctively just what she has to do?’ my mother says. ‘Now you just imagine, my pet, that the baby is you, and Josephine is me – wait a minute, come back over here again so you can get a better look.’
We creep back around the cage to keep the baby in view.
‘See how she’s fondling it and kissing it all over! There! She’s really kissing it now, isn’t she! Exactly like
me and you!’
I peer closer. It seems a queer way of kissing to me.
‘Look!’ I scream. ‘She’s eating it!’
And sure enough, the head of the baby rabbit is now disappearing swiftly into the mother’s mouth.
‘Mummy! Quick!’
But almost before the sound of my scream has died away, the whole of that tiny pink body has vanished down the mother’s throat.
I swing quickly around., and the next thing I know I’m looking straight into my mother’s face, not six inches above me, and no doubt she is trying to say something or it may be that she is too astonished to say anything, but all I see is the mouth, the huge red mouth opening wider and wider until it is just a great big round gaping hole with a black centre, and I scream again, and this time I can’t stop. Then suddenly out come her hands, and I can feel her skin touching mine, the long cold fingers closing tightly over my fists, and I jump back and jerk myself free and rush blindly out into the night. I run down the drive and through the front gates, screaming all the way, and then, above the noise of my own voice I can hear the jingle of bracelets coming up behind me in the dark, getting louder and louder as she keeps gaining on me all the way down the long hill to the bottom of the lane and over the bridge on to the main road where the cars are streaming by at sixty miles an hour with headlights blazing.
Then somewhere behind me I hear a screech of tyres skidding on the road surface, and then there is silence, and I notice suddenly that the bracelets aren’t jingling behind me any more.
Poor Mother.
If only she could have lived a little longer.
I admit that she gave me a nasty fright with those rabbits, but it wasn’t her fault, and anyway queer things like that were always happening between her and me. I had come to regard them as a sort of toughening process that did me more good than harm. But if only she could have lived long enough to complete my education, I’m sure I should never have had all that trouble I was telling you about a few minutes ago.