‘I suppose you’re all wantin’ mice?’ she screeched at us. ‘So that’s the game, is it?’
‘Yes, please,’ we said, holding out our halfpennies. ‘A mouse for me … and a mouse for me and … a mouse for me.’
‘You’re tryin’ to make a mock of me!’ she cried. ‘You’ve never bought no mice before, not one of you! You’re tryin’ to pull my flamin’ leg!’ We kept our nerve. Not a smile nor a smirk touched our lips. ‘It’s a sort of mousey day for us today,’ I said to her. ‘So we thought we’d celebrate by having chocolate ones. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’
She pursed her lips up tight and said nothing. We had her beaten and she knew it. She took four more mice out of the box and threw them on the counter. We put down our money and picked up the mice.
‘Thank you,’ we said. ‘Thank you, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs Pratchett.’
‘Beat it!’ she screeched. ‘’Op it! Get out of ’ere, the lot of you!’
It was a famous victory. Outside on the road, we did a little jig of delight, and then we walked back to our separate homes, each munching his chocolate mouse.
* * *
Going to Norway
The summer holidays! Those magic words! The mere mention of them used to send shivers of joy rippling over my skin.
All my summer holidays, from when I was four years old to when I was seventeen (1920 to 1932), were totally idyllic. This, I am certain, was because we always went to the same idyllic place and that place was Norway.
Except for my ancient half-sister and my not-quite-so-ancient half-brother, the rest of us were all pure Norwegian by blood. We all spoke Norwegian and all our relations lived over there. So in a way, going to Norway every summer was like going home.
Even the journey was an event. Do not forget that there were no commercial aeroplanes in those times, so it took us four whole days to complete the trip out and another four days to get home again.
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The Harbour, Rossesund, Norway.
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This was the gateway to Roald’s summer holidays. The steamer left from here, its destination the beautiful island of Tjöme.
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We were always an enormous party. There were my three sisters and my ancient half-sister (that’s four), and my half-brother and me (that’s six), and my mother (that’s seven), and Nanny (that’s eight), and in addition to these, there were never less than two others who were some sort of anonymous ancient friends of the ancient half-sister (that’s ten altogether).
Looking back on it now, I don’t know how my mother did it. There were all those train bookings and boat bookings and hotel bookings to be made in advance by letter. She had to make sure that we had enough shorts and shirts and sweaters and gymshoes and bathing costumes (you couldn’t even buy a shoelace on the island we were going to), and the packing must have been a nightmare. Six huge trunks were carefully packed, as well as countless suitcases, and when the great departure day arrived, the ten of us, together with our mountains of luggage, would set out on the first and easiest step of the journey, the train to London.
When we arrived in London, we tumbled into three taxis and went clattering across the great city to King’s Cross, where we got on to the train for Newcastle, two hundred miles to the north. The trip to Newcastle took about five hours, and when we arrived there, we needed three more taxis to take us from the station to the docks, where our boat would be waiting. The next stop after that would be Oslo, the capital of Norway.
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Getting off the ferry.
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Roald Dahl made this scrapbook when he was about thirteen. It details all the journeys made by the family during one summer holiday to Norway.
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When I was young, the capital of Norway was not called Oslo. It was called Christiania. But somewhere along the line, the Norwegians decided to do away with that pretty name and call it Oslo instead. As children, we always knew it as Christiania, but if I call it that here we shall only get confused, so I had better stick to Oslo all the way through.
The sea journey from Newcastle to Oslo took two days and a night, and if it was rough, as it often was, all of us got seasick except our dauntless mother. We used to lie in deck-chairs on the promenade deck, within easy reach of the rails, embalmed in rugs, our faces slate-grey and our stomachs churning, refusing the hot soup and ship’s biscuits the kindly steward kept offering us. And as for poor Nanny, she began to feel sick the moment she set foot on deck. ‘I hate these things!’ she used to say. ‘I’m sure we’ll never get there! Which lifeboat do we go to when it starts to sink?’ Then she would retire to her cabin, where she stayed groaning and trembling until the ship was firmly tied up at the quayside in Oslo harbour the next day.