Roald’s Mother Quotes in Boy
[Mama’s] husband had always stated most emphatically that he wished all his children to be educated in English schools. They were the best in the world, he used to say. Better by far than the Norwegian ones. Better even than the Welsh ones, despite the fact that he lived in Wales and had his business there. He maintained that there was some kind of magic about English schooling and that the education it provided had caused the inhabitants of a small island to become a great nation and a great Empire and to produce the world’s greatest literature.
About an hour later, my mother returned and came upstairs to kiss us all goodnight.
‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ I said to her. ‘It makes me look silly.’
‘They don’t beat small children like that where I come from,’ she said. ‘I won’t allow it.’
‘What did Mr. Coombes say to you, Mama?’
‘He told me that I was a foreigner and I didn’t understand how British schools were run,’ she said.
‘Did he get ratty with you?’
‘Very ratty,’ she said. ‘He told me that if I didn’t like his methods I could take you away.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I would, as soon as the school year is finished. I shall find you an English school this time,’ she said. ‘Your father was right. English schools are the best in the world.’
All my summer holidays, from when I was four years old to when I was seventeen (1920-1932), were totally idyllic. This, I am certain, is 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.
Roald’s Mother Quotes in Boy
[Mama’s] husband had always stated most emphatically that he wished all his children to be educated in English schools. They were the best in the world, he used to say. Better by far than the Norwegian ones. Better even than the Welsh ones, despite the fact that he lived in Wales and had his business there. He maintained that there was some kind of magic about English schooling and that the education it provided had caused the inhabitants of a small island to become a great nation and a great Empire and to produce the world’s greatest literature.
About an hour later, my mother returned and came upstairs to kiss us all goodnight.
‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ I said to her. ‘It makes me look silly.’
‘They don’t beat small children like that where I come from,’ she said. ‘I won’t allow it.’
‘What did Mr. Coombes say to you, Mama?’
‘He told me that I was a foreigner and I didn’t understand how British schools were run,’ she said.
‘Did he get ratty with you?’
‘Very ratty,’ she said. ‘He told me that if I didn’t like his methods I could take you away.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I would, as soon as the school year is finished. I shall find you an English school this time,’ she said. ‘Your father was right. English schools are the best in the world.’
All my summer holidays, from when I was four years old to when I was seventeen (1920-1932), were totally idyllic. This, I am certain, is 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.