Roald Dahl: My Uncle Oswald

“Flatter him. Tell him he is not only the greatest playwright but also the greatest music critic that ever lived. You don’t have to worry. He’ll do the talking.”

Yasmin stepped out of the car and walked with a firm step through the gate into Shaw’s garden. I watched her until she had disappeared around the back of the house, then I drove up the road and booked a room in a pub called The Waggon and Horses. Up in the room, I laid out my equipment and got everything ready for the rapid conversion of Shaw’s semen into frozen straws. An hour later, I returned to Shaw’s Corner to wait for Yasmin. I didn’t wait long, but I am not going to tell you what happened next until you have heard what happened first. Such things are better in their right order.

“I walked down the garden,” Yasmin told me afterwards in the pub over an excellent steak and kidney pudding and a bottle of reasonable Beaune. “I walked down the garden and I saw the hut. I walked quickly towards it. I was expecting any moment to hear Mrs. Shaw’s voice behind me shouting ‘Halt!’ But no one saw me. I opened the door of the hut and looked in. It was empty. There was a cane armchair, a plain table covered with sheets of paper, and a Spartan atmosphere. But no Shaw. Well, that’s it, I thought. Better get out. Back to Oswald. Total failure. I banged the door shut.

“‘Who is there?’ shouted a voice from behind the hut. It was a male voice, but high-pitched and almost squeaky. Oh, my God, I thought, the man is a eunuch after all.

“‘Is that you, Charlotte?’ the squeaky voice demanded. “What effect, I wondered, would the Beetle have upon a one hundred per cent eunuch?

“‘Charlotte!’ he called. ‘What are you doing?’

“Then a tall bony creature with an enormous beard came round the corner of the hut holding a pair of garden clippers in one hand. ‘Who, may I enquire, are you? ’ he demanded. ‘This is private property.’

“‘I’m looking for the public lavatory,’ I said.

“‘What is your business, young lady?’ he demanded, pointing the clippers at me like a pistol. ‘You went into my hut. What have you stolen?’

‘I haven’t stolen a damn thing,’ I said. ‘I came, if you want to know, to bring you a present.’

“‘A present, eh?’ he said, softening a little.

“I lifted the fine bunch of grapes out of the bag and held it up by the stem.

“‘And what have I done to deserve such munificence?’ he said.

“‘You have given me a terrific amount of pleasure at the theatre,’ I said. ‘So I thought it would be nice if I gave you something in return. That’s all there is to it. I have no other motive. Here, try one.’ I picked off the bottom grape and offered it to him. ‘They’re really awfully good.’

“He stepped forward and took the grape and pushed it through all those whiskers into his mouth.

“‘Excellent,’ he said, chewing away. ‘A muscat.’ He glared at me under those beetley brows. ‘It is fortunate for you, young lady, that I wasn’t working or I’d have kicked you out, grapes or no grapes. As it happens, I was pruning my roses.’

“‘I apologize for barging in,’ I said. ‘Will you forgive me?’

“‘I will forgive you when I am convinced that your motives are pure,’ he said.

“‘As pure as the Virgin Mary,’ I said.

“‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘A woman never pays a visit to a man unless she is seeking some advantage. I have made that point many times in my plays. The female, madam, is a predatory animal. She preys upon men.’

“‘What a damn stupid thing to say,’ I told him. ‘ man is the hunter.’

“‘I have never hunted a woman in my life,’ he said. ‘Women hunt me. And I flee like a fox with a pack of hounds at his heels. Rapacious creatures,’ he added, spitting out a seed from the grape. ‘Rapacious, predatory, alldevouring animals.’

“‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘Everyone hunts a bit now and again. Women hunt men for marriage and what’s wrong with that? But men hunt women because they want to get into bed with them. Where shall I put these grapes?’

“‘We’ll put them in the hut,’ he said, taking them from me. He went into the hut and I followed. I was praying for the nine minutes to pass quickly. He sat down in his cane armchair and stared at me under great bushy eyebrows. I quickly sat myself on the only other chair in the place.

“‘You are a spirited young lady,’ he said. ‘I admire spirit.’

“‘And you talk a lot of bosh about women,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe you know the first thing about them. Have you ever fallen passionately in love?’

“‘A typical woman’s question,’ he said. ‘For me, there is only one kind of passion. Intelligence is passion. The activity of the intellect is the keenest passion I can experience.’

“‘What about physical passion?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that in the running?’

“‘No, madam, it is not. Descartes got far more passion and pleasure out of life than Casanova.’

“‘What about Romeo and Juliet?’

“‘Puppy love,’ he said. ‘Superficial tosh.’

“‘Are you saying that your Caesar and Cleopatra is a greater play than Romeo and Juliet ?’

“‘Without a doubt,’ he said.

“‘Boy, you’ve got a nerve, Mr. Shaw.’

“‘So have you, young lady.’ He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. ‘Listen to this,’ he said and he started to read aloud in that squeaky voice of his, ‘. . . the body always ends by being a bore. Nothing remains beautiful and interesting except thought, because thought is life. . . .’

“‘Of course it ends by being a bore,’ I said. ‘That’s a pretty obvious remark. But it isn’t a bore at my age. It’s a juicy fruit. What’s the play?’

“‘It’s about Methuselah,’ he said. ‘And now I must ask you to leave me in peace. You are pert and pretty but that does not entitle you to take up my time. I thank you for the grapes.’

“I glanced at my watch. Just over a minute to go. I had to keep talking. ‘I’ll be off then,’ I said. ‘But in exchange for my grapes I’d love it if you gave me your autograph on one of your famous postcards.’

“He reached for a postcard and signed it. ‘Now be off with you,’ he said. ‘You have wasted enough of my time.’

“‘I’m going,’ I said, fumbling about and trying to string out the seconds. The nine minutes were up now. Oh Beetle, lovely Beetle, kind Beetle, where are you? Why have you deserted me?”

“A bit dicey, that,” I said.

“I was desperate, Oswald. It had never happened before.

“‘Mr. Shaw,’ I said, pausing by the door, searching for a time killer, ‘I promised my dear old mother who thinks you are God the Father himself to be sure to ask you one question... .’

“‘You are a pest, madam!’ he barked.

“‘I know I am, I know, I know, but please answer it for her. Here’s the question. Is it really true that you disapprove of all artists who create works of art for purely aesthetic reasons?’

“‘I do, madam.’

“‘You mean pure beauty is not enough?’

“‘It is not,’ he said. ‘Art should always be didactic, serving a social purpose.’

“‘Did Beethoven serve a social purpose, or Van Gogh?’

“‘Get out of here!’ he roared. ‘I have no wish to bandy words—’ He stopped in mid-sentence. For at that moment, Oswald, heaven be praised, the Beetle struck.”

“Hooray. Did it hit him hard?”

“This was a triple dose, remember”

“I know. So what happened?”

“I don’t think it’s safe to give triples, Oswald. I’m not going to do it again.”

“Rocked him a bit, did it?”