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A TRUE STORYDate: 2015-10-07; view: 1234. Writing Review Discussion Points Setting. Where does the story take place? Who is the story about? Describe Mrs.& Mr. Foster. How do we learn about their personalities? What conflicts occur? Does story have a happy ending or not? Why? How are the changes in Mrs. Foster's personality described? Theme. What is the story actually about? Do you sympathise or not with Mrs Foster? Do you think she should go to prison? Do you understand why she let her husband die?
Roald Dahl once said: When writing stories, I cannot seem to rid myself of the unfortunate habit of having one person do nasty things to another person. In this particular story, the nasty thing that one person does to the other is far, far nastier than would appear at first sight. I therefore invite you, when it is all over, to sit back and allow your imaginations to explore and to relish all the things that took place when you were not looking. Who does Dahl mean here as a nasty person – Mr. or Mrs. Foster?
Is the ending to the story predictable or unpredictable? Give reasons. Explain the title of the story. How is it relevant to the story? Write a short letter (100 words) from Mrs Foster to her daughter in Paris. Describe what happened when she returned home and describe her plans for the future.
When I was quite young, my family had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood (1). I remember well the polished oak (2) case fastened (3) to the wall on the lower stair landing (4). The shiny receiver (5) hung on the side of the box. I even remembered the number - 105. I was too little to reach (6) the telephone, but used to listen with fascination (7) when my mother talked into it. Once she lifted me up to speak to my father, who was away on business. Magic! Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device (8) lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing that she did not know. My mother could ask her for anybody's number and when our clock ran down (9), Information Please immediately supplied (10) the correct time.
My first personal experience with this genie (1) -in-the-receiver came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing (2) myself at the toolbench (3) in the basement (4), I whacked(5) my finger with a hammer (6). The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be of much use (7) crying because there was no one home to offer sympathy (8). I walked around the house sucking my throbbing (9) finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool (10) in the parlor (11) and dragged (12) it to the landing.
Climbing up, I unhooked (1) the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece (2) just above my head. A click (3) or two, and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information." "I hurt my fingerrr-" I wailed (4) into the phone. The tears came readily (5) enough now that I had an audience (6). "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's at home but me," I blubbered (7). "Are you bleeding?". "No", I replied. "I hit it with the hammer and it hurts". "Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off (8) a little piece of ice and hold it on your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be careful when you use the ice pick (9)," she admonished (10). "And don't cry. You'll be alright".
After that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help with my Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the Orinco--the romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. She helped me with my Arithmetic, and she told me that a pet chipmunk (1) --I had caught him in the park just that day before--would eat fruits and nuts. And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary, died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-up say to soothe (2) a child. But I was unconsoled (3). Why was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to whole families, only to end as a heap (4) of feathers (5) feet up, on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed (6) my deep concern (7), for she quietly said, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow, I felt better.
Another day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?". “F-I-X." At that instant (1) my sister, who took unholy (2) joy in scaring me, jumped off the stairs at me with a banshee (3) shriek (4) -"Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the stool, pulling the receiver out of the box by its roots (5). We were both terrified--Information Please was no longer there, and I was not at all sure that I hadn't hurt her when I pulled the receiver out. Minutes later, there was a man on the porch. "I'm a telephone repairman. I was working down the street and the operator said there might be some trouble at this number." He reached for the receiver in my hand. "What happened?" I told him. "Well, we can fix that in a minute or two." He opened the telephone box exposing (6) a maze (7) of wires (8) and coils (9), and fiddled (10) for a while with the end of the receiver cord (11), tightened (12) things with a small screwdriver (13). He jiggled (14) the hook up and down a few times, then spoke into the phone. "Hi, this is Pete. Everything's under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and he pulled the cord out of the box." He hung up, smiled, gave me a pat (15) on the head and walked out the door.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston-and I missed my mentor (1) acutely (2). Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back at home, and I somehow never thought if trying the tall, skinny new phone that sat on the small table in the hall. Yet, as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversation never really left me; often in moments of doubt (3) and perplexity (4) I would recall (5) the serene (6) sense of security I had when I know that I could call Information Please and get the right answer. I appreciated (7) now how very patient, understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way back to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour between plan connections, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily mellowed (1) by marriage and motherhood (2). Then, really without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously (3), I heard again the small, clear voice that I know so well:"Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me, please, how to spell the word 'fix'?" There was a long pause. Then came the softly spoken answer. "I guess," said Information Please, "that your finger must have healed (4) by now." I laughed. "So it's really still you. I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during all that time...." "I wonder," she replied, "if you know how much you meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls. Silly, wasn't it?" It didn't seem silly, but I didn't say so. Instead I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I come back to visit my sister when the semester was over. "Please do. Just ask for Sally." "Goodbye Sally." It sounded strange for Information Please to have a name. "If I run into (5) any chipmunks, I'll tell them to eat fruits and nuts." "Do that," she said. "And I expect one of these days you'll be off for the Orinoco. Well, good-bye."
Just three months later, I was back again at the Seattle airport. A different voice answered, "Information," and I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" "Yes," I said. "An old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally had only been working part-time in the last few years because she was ill. She died five weeks ago." But before I could hung up, she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Villard?" "Yes." "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down." "What was it?" I asked, almost knowing in advance what it would be. "Here it is, I'll read it-'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean'"
I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant.
Paul Villard
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