The Witches by Roald Dahl, Dramatised by Lucy Catherine, Part One.
In fairy tales, witches always wear silly black hats and black cloaks, and they ride on broomsticks.
Run, Mama.
I can't sleep.
Come and sit by the fire, my darling.
I've something important to tell you.
But this story is not a fairy tale.
This story is real.
It's time you knew something about witches.
Witches aren't real.
They most certainly are.
But they dress in ordinary clothes and they live in ordinary houses.
There could be one living next door My grandmother was Norwegian.
She lived in an old house deep in the countryside.
The Norwegians have always known about witches, for Norway, with its black forests and icy mountains, is where the first witches came from.
Are you being truthful, Grandmama?
This is the gospel truth, my boy.
And I'm telling you for your own good.
You won't last long in this world if you can't spot a real witch.
Now, Pass me a cigar.
She was the only grandmother I ever met who smoked cigars.
That's better.
Where was I?
Real witches.
Ah, yes.
Real witches hate children.
Their only passion is to do away with them, one by one.
The real witch will carefully choose a child, then stalk it like a hunter.
She moves quietly.
She gets closer.
Then she swoops, sparks, flies, skin shrivels, and the child disappears.
But this story does not begin with my wonderful grandmother in Norway.
It begins with my mother and father.
It begins with something terrible.
Mom!
Dad!
Look!
Outside!
What's the matter?
It's snowing!
Of course it's snowing.
It wouldn't be Norway if it didn't snow.
I am seven years old and we are in Norway for Christmas.
You see, although both my parents are Norwegian, I was born in England and I go to school there, but we come back twice a year to see grandmother.
Mum and Dad are so happy to be home.
We're Christmas shopping in Oslo and the snow is falling.
There are crystals of ice on the windows.
Outside, everything is huge and white.
It feels like there is magic in the air.
But not all magic is good magic.
Did we get everything?
There's no more room in the car and we spent every last krona we have.
Is there anything for me? to wait and see what Santa brings you.
No.
Remember, only good boys get lots of presents.
Have you been a good boy?
Stop teasing him.
Oh, right.
And can we get going, please?
I'm frozen.
Yes, Your Majesty.
I'm cold.
Put the blanket around you, darling.
That's better be as snug as a bug.
In no time, driving back to grandmother's house, the headlamps light up a million snowflakes dancing their way to the ground.
You see anything.
I can see snow, lots of snow.
Maybe you should slow down a bit.
If i go any slower i might as well stop.
I'm hungry.
We don't want to be late for supper.
Are we nearly there, dad?
Oh, not far now.
Careful, I like it.
So do I. This is proper snow.
Norwegian snow.
Not like the pathetic little flurries you get in England.
Look out!
Hold on!
Oh, my God!
Darling!
Help!
Mom!
Dad!
I undo my seatbelt and climb into the front.
I can see straight away that my mother and father are both dead.
Grandmother is sitting in her armchair in front of the fire.
I'm sitting on her knee.
We both cry for a long time with our arms wrapped tightly around each other.
What are we going to do, Grandmama?
You will stay here with me and I will look after you.
And then she begins telling me a story.
There's nothing better than a story in times of trouble.
A story will help us both to forget our sadness.
And the best stories are about witches.
A real witch has magic in her fingers and devilry dancing in her blood.
Real witches.
Her mind is always churning and burning and whizzing and fizzing with murderous, bloodthirsty thoughts.
Which child, exactly which child shall I choose for my next squelching?
You said her, Grandmama.
There is no such thing as a male witch.
A ghoul is always male.
So is a barkest, but a witch is always a woman.
Not everyone knows how to spot a real witch.
But they're not real, are they?
Yes, they are.
Maybe a long time ago, but not anymore.
Quite the opposite.
They are all around us.
Now listen to me, remember everything I tell you, then cross your heart and hope for the best.
And put another log on the fire, will you?
There's a chill in the air.
My grandmother is tremendously old and wrinkled, with a massive, wide body, smothered in grey lace.
She sits majestic in her armchair, holding a fresh cigar in her right hand, a hand which has only fingers The thumb is missing.
I have known no less than five children who have simply vanished off the face of this earth, never to be seen again.
What happened to them?
The witches took them.
Five children.
Gone.
Tell me what happened.
Light me a match.
It's time for my cigar.
Now.
Come closer.
Yes, Grandmama.
The first child I knew who disappeared was called Ronquil Hansen.
She was the same age as you.
She was playing with her little sister on the lawn.
Their mother, who was baking bread in the kitchen, came outside for a breath of fresh air.
Where's Ronquil?
She's gone.
Where is she?
She went with a tall lady.
What lady? tall lady in the white gloves.
She took Runghill by the hand and led her away.
No one ever saw Runghill again.
They searched for miles around.
Everyone in the town helped, but they never found her.
What happened to the other four children?
Vanished, just like Runghill.
In every case, a strange lady was seen in the area.
Just before How did they vanish?
The second one was very peculiar.
Tell me.
There was a family called Christiansen and they had an old oil painting in the living room which they were very proud of.
The painting showed some ducks in the yard outside a farmhouse.
Well, one day their daughter Solveig came home from school eating an apple.
Where did you get that from, Solveig?
A nice lady gave it to me in the street.
Next morning, little Solvay was not in her bed.
She was vanished.
Not long after the disappearance, her father was passing the picture, and what do you think he saw?
Solvay.
She was inside the painting.
Standing in the farmyard, throwing bread to the ducks.
She had been turned into a picture, painted on the canvas.
Did you ever see it?
Many times.
And you know, the really peculiar thing was that little Solveig kept changing her position in the picture.
One day she would be inside the farmhouse.
You could see her face looking out of the window.
The next she had moved out into the yard and she had a duck in her arms.
Poor Solveig.
As the years went by, she grew older.
She grew up inside the picture.
In 10 years, she was a young woman.
In 30 years, she was middle-aged.
Then all at once, 54 years after it happened, she disappeared from the picture forever.
She died.
Who knows?
Some very mysterious things go on in the world of witches.
Take Birgit Svensson, for example.
Who's Birgit Svensson?
The third girl who vanished.
She used to live across the road from here.
One day, she started growing feathers all over her body.
Within a month, she had turned into a large white chicken.
You're joking.
I most certainly am not.
Her mother kept her in a pen in the garden.
She even laid eggs.
Here, Birgit, there's a good girl.
What car eggs?
Brown ones.
Darling, you lay the biggest eggs I've seen in my life.
I'm going to make a delicious omelette.
She turned into a chicken, but she didn't disappear.
She lived on for many years, and she laid many eggs.
You said they all vanished.
I made a mistake.
I'm getting old.
I can't remember everything.
Can you remember the fourth child?
Oh, yes.
Harald.
I remember, Harar.
One morning, his skin went all greyish yellow.
What's happening to me?
Then it became hard and crackly, like the shell of a nut.
Mother, help me.
By the evening, he had turned completely to stone.
Stone?
Granite.
Are you sure?
I'll take you to see him.
If you don't believe me, they still keep him in the house.
It's not that I don't believe you.
What is it then?
He really turned into stone.
He stands in the hall.
A little stone statue.
Visitors lean their umbrellas up against him.
For real?
Look into my eyes.
Do you think I'm making this up?
No.
No?
I'm telling you all this because it's important.
Would you like a puff of my cigar?
I'm only eight.
I don't care what age you are.
You'll never catch a cold if you smoke a cigar.
Go on.
Tell me what happened to the last one.
Number five was a very interesting case.
A nine-year-old boy called Leith was summer holidaying with his family on the fjord.
He decided to go swimming off some rocks on one of those little islands.
Dad, watch me.
I'm going to dive in.
Be careful, Leif.
His father waited for him to come up.
He waited and he waited.
Leif!
He was just about to dive in and look for Leif when suddenly he surfaced.
Leif.
It wasn't Leif anymore.
Who was he?
Not who was he.
What was he?
What was he?
He was a porpoise.
A porpoise?
A lovely young porpoise.
I knew his mother well.
She told me all about it.
How did they know it was Leif?
He talked to them.
By the end of the day he was giving them rides.
Then he waved a flipper and swam away, never to be seen again.
Weird.
Not really.
You must remember that here in Norway we are used to such things.
There are witches everywhere.
Now, it's time for bed.
Good night, Grandmama.
Wait.
What is the date?
The 1st.
The 1st.
We almost forgot.
Bath night.
I hate baths.
Luckily, Grandmother hates them almost as much as I do.
Once a month is quite enough for a sensible child to have a bath.
Come on, get those dirty clothes off.
I used to be made to have a bath every other night.
Now I only have one on the first of the month.
Can you always be sure there is a wood?
No, you can't.
But you can make a pretty good guess.
How?
In the first place.
A real witch is certain to be wearing gloves when you meet her.
Not in the summer.
It would be too hot.
Even in summer.
She has to.
Why?
She doesn't have fingernails.
Instead, she has thin, curvy claws like a cat.
And she wears the gloves to hide them.
Mum used to wear gloves.
Not in the house.
Witches wear gloves even in the house.
They only take them off when they go to bed.
How do you actually know all this, Grandma?
Don't interrupt.
Concentrate.
The second thing to remember is that a real witch is always bald.
Bald?
Bald as a boiled egg.
Take it from me, not a single hair grows on a witch's head.
Oh, that's horrible.
Disgusting.
Still, it must make them easy to spot.
Not at all.
She wears a first-class wig and it's almost impossible to tell a really first-class wig from ordinary hair.
So that doesn't help much either.
Not really.
Mind you, these wigs do cause serious problems for witches.
What's that?
The underneath of a wig is always very rough and scratchy.
It sets up a frightful itch on the bald skin.
Wig rash, they call it.
Is there anything else to look out for?
Nose holes.
Nose holes?
Witches have larger nose holes than ordinary people.
Why?
To smell you with.
A real witch has the most amazing scent or smell.
She can actually sniff out a child who is standing on the other side of the street on a pitch black night.
Now, out you get.
I'll hold out the towel for you.
A witch couldn't smell me.
I've just had a bath.
Oh, yes, you could.
The cleaner you happen to be, the more smelly you are to a witch.
What?
You see, it isn't the dirt the witch is smelling.
It's you oozing out of your skin in waves.
And these waves stink waves, the witches call them go floating through the air and hit the witch right, smack in her lighter-than-average nostrils.
They sent her reeling.
Get your pyjamas on and come and sit by the fire.
What was that noise?
Just an owl.
Nothing to be frightened of.
Sit on my lap.
Ah, you smell nice and clean.
Are there any witches around?
Who can say?
Giving out stink waves.
Not to me you aren't.
To me you are smelling like raspberries and cream.
But to a witch you would be smelling absolutely disgusting.
What would I be smelling of?
Dog's droppings.
Dog's droppings?
Fresh dog's droppings.
I never want to have a bath again.
Just don't have one too often.
I love you, Grandmama.
And I love you.
Grandmama?
Yes, my darling.
Can a witch smell the difference between a child and a grown-up?
Grown-ups don't give out stink waves.
It's getting late.
I'm not tired.
It's past your bedtime.
Tell me how else to recognise a witch.
The eyes.
The eyes?
Look in the middle of each eye, where there is normally a little black dot.
If she is a witch, the black dot will keep changing colour.
And you will see the fire and ice dancing right in the centre.
It will send shivers running all over your skin.
Are there other things?
The feet.
Witches never have toes.
They have feet with square ends.
It must be difficult for them to walk.
Just as a witch hides her baldness with a wig, she must also hide her ugly witch's feet by squeezing them into small pointed shoes.
That must hurt.
She has to put up with it.
If she's wearing ordinary shoes, how can I recognise her?
You might possibly see her limping very slightly if you are watching closely.
There is one more difference.
What is it?
Their spit is blue.
Blue?
Blue as a bilberry.
Like ink?
Exactly.
They even use it to write with.
They use those old-fashioned pens that have nibs, and they simply lick the nib.
If a witch was talking to me, would I be able to notice the spit?
You might see a slight bluish tinge on her teeth, but it doesn't show much.
It would if she spat.
Witches never spit.
They don't.
I am watching my grandmother's face carefully.
There is no hint of a smile, no twinkle in the eye.
She is deadly serious.
When you were a little girl, did you ever meet a witch?
Once.
Only once.
What happened?
I'm not going to tell you.
It would frighten you out of your skin and give you bad dreams.
Does it have something to do with your missing thumb?
Grandmama?
Time for bed.
Hello?
Anyone at home?
Who is it, Grandmama?
A man dressed in black and carrying a briefcase walks into the room.
This is Mr. Olofsson.
He's a solicitor.
He opens his briefcase on the kitchen table.
I have brought your father's will.
What is a will?
It is something you write before you die to say who is going to have your money and property.
And who is going to look after your children?
It is you, isn't it, Grandma?
Your father asked me to take care of you for as long as I live.
The will does however, stipulate that your father wishes you to be taken back to England to finish your schooling there.
No.
He was very specific.
But, Grandmama, you would hate to leave Norway.
You always say, heaven may take my soul, but... Norway shall keep my bones.
I know.
But it is very important to respect the wishes of the dead.
The new term begins in England in a few days' time.
You're expected back at your old school.
Come on.
Cheer up.
We've got packing to do.
We have to look on the bright side.
There are not as many witches in England as there are in Norway.
There are probably no more than 200.
This is the first time Grandmother has mentioned the witches since I asked about her thumb.
I'm sure I won't meet one.
I sincerely hope not.
Those English witches are the most vicious in the world.
Their favourite ruse is to mix up a powder that turns the child into a creature that all grown-ups hate.
I'm only half listening.
I keep looking at the hand with the missing thumb, wondering what awful thing happened to her when she met a witch.
Orphan?
It's a slug.
That's one of their favourites.
They love to see someone step on the slug and squish it without realising it's a child.
Had the thumb been twisted off?
Or forced down the spout of a boiling kettle till it steamed away?
And I've known English witches who have turned children into pheasants and then sneak the pheasants up into the woods the very day before the pheasant shooting season opened.
Or did someone pull it out of her hand like a tooth?
Then they were shot.
Those poor children were shot, plucked, roasted and eaten for dinner.
I can't help trying to guess.
I don't want to go back to England.
I'm afraid we've got to go.
I don't want to go back to school.
What?
If or not?
I don't learn anything useful.
Such as?
How to spot a witch.
Fold your clothes properly.
This suitcase is full now.
Start filling up the next one.
We won't be back for a long time.
You see, once a year the witches of each separate country get together to receive a lecture from the Grand High Witch of all the world.
Who?
She is the most powerful ruler.
Every other witch is petrified of her.
Where does the Grand High Witch live?
Nobody knows.
Witchophiles all over the world have spent their lives trying to discover the secret headquarters of the Grand High Witch.
What is a witchophile?
A person who studies witches and knows a lot about them.
Are you a witchophile?
I'm a retired witchophile.
I am too old to be active any longer, but when I was younger I travelled all over the world trying to track down the Grand High Witch.
I never found her.
If nobody has ever seen the Grand High Witch, how can you be sure she exists?
Nobody has ever seen the devil, have they?
But we know he is real.
Come on, we have a boat to catch.
We are in England, living in Kent, in the old family house.
I'm back at school every weekday.
Everything seems normal again.
In the enormous conker tree at the end of the lawn, I'm starting to build a magnificent tree house.
Be careful up there, won't you?
Of course.
If you fall, you break a leg.
I love it, high up here in the tree.
It's like being in a big green cave.
Every time I look down, I get a tingle in my spine.
Little boy!
Who is it?
Little boy, I have a present for you.
Standing at the bottom of the tree, a woman I've never seen before.
It's probably the most exciting present you have ever had.
She's smiling up at me.
I can see her gums.
They look like raw meat.
Come down and I shall give it to you.
She's wearing gloves.
Go away!
Look!
She takes a small green snake out of her purse.
It's tame.
Would you like it?
The snake coils itself around her arm.
Grandmama!
She can't hear you.
Leave me alone!
I panic.
I climb the tree as high as I can go.
I have been here, clinging to a branch for hours.
It's starting to get dark.
Darling!
Where are you?
Up here.
Come down and watch.
Your supper's getting cold.
Has that woman gone?
What woman?
The woman in the black gloves.
Has she gone?
Yes, my darling.
I'm here.
You're quite safe.
You can come down now.
Cocoa with lots of sugar.
Thank you.
That's the thing for shock.
I've seen a witch, haven't I, Grandmama?
I'm afraid so.
She glances down at that hand of hers that doesn't have a thumb.
You know what this means?
What?
It means that there is one of them in our district.
From now on, I'm not letting you walk to school alone.
The Easter holidays have come and gone.
My grandmother and I are planning to take our summer holiday in Norway.
We talk about almost nothing else every evening.
I've booked a cabin for us on the boat from Newcastle.
Yes!
I'm going to take you to Andal.
Where's that?
On the coast.
I used to go there every summer when I was your age.
We can spend all day diving off the smooth granite rocks into the sea.
I can't wait.
I really can't wait.
Are you all right, Grandmama?
Of course I am.
But I'll be much better when I'm breathing the Norwegian air.
Breathe in.
And out.
How is she, Doctor?
I'm afraid your grandmother has pneumonia.
What's pneumonia?
It's a very dangerous illness for someone of her age.
She's becoming very weak.
She must have complete rest.
She must be left alone in peace.
Grandmother is very ill.
I'm terrified she will die.
I'm not allowed to see her for ten days.
We have someone here to see you.
Come in, my darling.
I've missed you.
Oh, give me a big hug.
Will you be all right now?
I'll soon be up again.
Will she, Doctor?
Oh, yes.
He won't let me have her cigar, but you wait till he's gone.
You don't need a cigar.
You need some Norwegian air.
Norwegian air?
We're going home for the summer.
I'm afraid not.
Rubbish.
I promised the boy we'll go.
You're too weak to travel such a distance.
He's been so looking forward to it.
So is she.
You can take your grandson to a nice hotel on the south coast of England instead.
The sea air is just what you need.
Oh, no.
Do you want your grandmother to die?
Never.
Then don't let her go on a long journey this summer.
And stop her smoking those vile black cigars.
I will buy you a present to make up for it.
You tell me what you would like.
Can you manage the suitcases, dear?
Yes.
And the cage?
Yeah.
Have you given the mice names yet?
I've called them William and Mary.
Very good.
They're the best present I ever had.
I'm so sorry about our holiday.
It's okay.
It's not much like Norway here.
Bournemouth seems to be full of old people.
They come because they think the bracing sea air will keep them alive a few extra years.
Does it?
Of course not.
Where will we be staying?
The Hotel Magnificent.
That sounds posh.
Let's get in a taxi and find out.
Wow, this place is amazing.
Look.
Open this door and you have your own separate bedroom that connects to mine.
I'm going to sit on my bed and start teaching William and Mary some tricks.
Good luck.
Right, you two.
Out you come.
It's time to start work.
Two little white mice are sitting expectantly on the palm of my hand.
First of all, I want you to crawl inside my sleeve, climb up my arm, and come out at my neck.
If you make it, you'll find there's a little treat on top of my head.
I've sprinkled cake crumbs in my hair.
Ready?
Up you go.
That's right.
Up.
Up.
Go on.
Up.
Well done, William.
Go on, Mary.
Oh, Mary, that's brilliant.
They're fast learners, Grandmama.
Don't let them run away, will you?
They won't run away.
They love their training too much.
Oh, come on, Mary.
The next morning the chambermaid is making my bed when, all of a sudden, William decides to poke his head out from under the sheets.
What's all the commotion?
Mice!
Mice!
My office, now!
They didn't hurt anyone.
I cannot permit mice in my hotel.
Mr Stringer is the manager.
He is wearing a black tailcoat.
Health and hygiene considerations.
Health and hygiene?
Don't make me laugh.
Madam, this is a high-quality establishment.
How dare you lecture me about hygiene when your rotten hotel is full of rats anyway?
Rats?
There are no rats in this hotel.
I saw one this morning.
It was running down the corridor into the kitchen.
That is not true.
You had better get a rat catcher in at once before I report you to the public health authorities.
I expect they're scuttling all over the kitchen floor, stealing the food off the shelves and jumping in and out of the soup.
Never.
If the health people get wind of this, the entire hotel will be closed before everyone gets typhoid fever.
You are not being serious, madam.
I was never more serious in my life.
So, Mr Stringer, are you or are you not going to allow my grandson to keep his white mice in his room?
May I suggest a compromise, madam?
I will permit him to keep them in his room as long as they are never allowed out of their cage.
How does that suit?
That will suit us very well.
Come along, darling.
Let's go.
But, Grandma, I can't train William and Mary if they're stuck in a cage.
You'll just have to, my dear.
If that awful chambermaid catches them again, she'll have them drowned in a bucket of water.
Stay in there, you two.
There must be somewhere out of the way where we can...
I'm wandering through the hotel with one mouse in each pocket, searching for an empty room or a quiet spot of some kind.
Let's see.
Lounge.
Smoking room.
Card room.
They've all got people in.
Ah, the ballroom.
This looks good.
There is a large notice board on a stand by the entrance.
RSPCC meeting.
Strictly private.
This room is reserved for the annual meeting of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.
Empty.
The room is empty, apart from rows and rows of chairs all facing a platform.
At the back of the room is a large folding screen with Chinese dragons painted on it.
Mr. Stringer will never find us behind here.
This is the perfect place for mouse training.
How do you come, you two?
William and Mary crawl out of my trouser pockets and sit beside me on the carpet.
Very quiet and very well behaved.
Now, the trick I'm going to teach you today is tightrope walking.
I have it all planned.
I take out my string and the current cake that I know Mary and William love, and I start the lesson.
I imagine that one day I will become the owner of a world-famous white mouse circus, performing before all the crowned heads of Europe.
I'm just getting carried away with this thought when... This way, ladies, please.
A great flock of ladies is following Mr Stringer into the room.
I am sure you will be quite comfortable in here.
If there is anything we can do for you, then please let us know.
Tea will be served for you all on the Sunshine Terrace after you have concluded your meeting.
I'm watching them through the crack in the screen, waiting for them to settle down.
There must be about two hundred of them.
I notice a lady in the middle of the back row.
She keeps scratching the nape of her neck.
Maybe she has nits.
Hang on.
They're all doing it.
All of the ladies are scratching away like mad at the back of their heads.
They've all got nits.
Then something astonishing happens.
What's that lady doing?
She's pushing her fingers right up underneath her hair.
It's lifting up.
She's wearing a wig.
And she's wearing gloves.
They're all wearing gloves.
There is no way out of the room.
Stay calm.
Keep very still.
I start to shake.
My blood turns to ice.
I'm trapped in a room with 200 witches.
The doors!
Are they chained and bolted?
The doors are chained and bolted, Your Grandness.
I feel very dizzy.
I feel faint.
Then we shall begin.
I come round in a few seconds.
No one seems to have noticed me.
I sit up shakily and peer once more through the crack in the screen.
A tiny woman with long black gloves is standing on the platform at the front of the hall.
She's unhooking something behind her ears, pulling at her cheeks.
She's Peely her face off.
She turns round to the front.
I nearly scream out loud.
It's a mask.
Her real face is crumpled and wizened and it seems quite literally to be rotting away at the edges.
It is the most frightening face I have ever seen and I know at once she must be The Grand High Witch.
You may remove your gloves.
Grandma, you are right.
They've got claws.
You may remove your shoes.
And square toes.
You may remove your wigs.
Remove your wigs and get some air into your sporty scalps.
They're all bald.
I'm trapped in a room full of child killers.
Then I remember something my grandmother told me.
The dirtier you are, the harder it is for a witch to smell you out.
How long since I had a bath?
I glanced down at my hands.
They're filthy.
The stink waves can't possibly get out through that.
Witches of England!
Miserable witches, useless, lazy witches, feeble, fribbling witches.
You are a heap of idle, good-for-nothing worms.
The Grand High Witch is clearly in an ugly mood.
The audience shudders.
I am having breakfast this morning, and I am looking out of the window at the beach.
And what am I seeing?
I am asking questions.
What am I seeing?
I am seeing a revolting sight.
I am seeing hundreds.
I am seeing thousands of rotten, repulsive little children playing on the sand.
Why have you not rubbed them out?
I am asking you.
Children smell.
They stink out the world.
We do not want these children here.
Yes, Your Grandness.
What is the motto of all witches?
One child a week is 52 years.
Squish them and squiggle them and watch them disappear.
One child a week is no good to me.
Is this the best you can do?
We would do better.
We would do much better.
Better is no good either.
I demand maximum results.
So here are my orders.
My orders are that every single child in this country shall be rubbed out.
Squashed, squirted, squitted and frittered before I come here again in one year's time.
Do I make myself clear?
All of them?
We can't possibly wipe out all of them.
Who dares to argue with me?
The Grand High Witch points a gloved finger as sharp as a needle at the witch that has spoken.
It was you, was it not?
I didn't mean it, Your Grandness.
I didn't mean to argue.
I was just talking to myself.
You dared to argue with me.
I was just talking to myself.
I swear it.
Your grandmother... A stupid witch who answers back must burn until her bones are black.
No!
No!
A foolish witch without a brain must sizzle in the fiery flame.
Save me!
An idiotic witch like you must most upon the barbecue.
Ah!
Ah!
A stream of white-hot sparks come shooting out of the Grand High Witch's eyes.
They strike the other witch.
A puff of smoke rises up around her.
The smell of burning meat fills the room.
When the smoke has cleared away, the chair is empty.
She's gone.
Good.
Now we can get down to business.
Children are revolting.
We will scrub them off the face of the earth!
We will flush them down the drain.
Children are foul and filthy.
Children are dirty and stinky.
Children are smelling of dog's droppings.
They are worse than dog's droppings.
Dog's droppings is smelling like violets and primroses compared with children.
So now, So now I am having a plan.
I am having a giganticus plan for getting rid of every single child in the whole of England in one stroke.
Shut up and listen!
Each and every one of you is to go back to your hometowns immediately and resign from your jobs.
Resign!
Give notice!
Retire!
And then each and every one of you will be buying...
You will be buying the very best and most respectable sweet shops in England.
We will, we will, we will.
You will be having no trouble in getting what you want, because you will be offering four times as much as a shop is worth.
Now I have brought with me six trunks stuffed full of English banknotes, all of them new and crisp and olive.
Homemade.
And children will come talking to my shop and I will feed them poison sweets and poison chucks and wipe them all out like weasels.
Who spoke?
It was you.
Sorry, Your Grandness.
You brainless bog-vumper!
Are you not realising that if you are going around poisoning little children, you'll be caught in five minutes flat?
Don't hurt me, Your Grandness.
Do you not know that we witches are working with magic?
Yes, we know, Your Grandness.
So, you will all be owning sweet shops...
Next, you will be having a great gala opening with free sweets and chalks to every child.
You will be preparing for the great gala opening by filling every sweet and chalk in the shop with my very latest and greatest magic formula.
One hour of your wondrous magic, child killer!
This is known as Formula 86 Delayed Action Mouse Maker.
How do we make it, oh brilliant one?
Formula 86 Delayed Action Mouse Maker is a green liquid.
One droplet in each chock will be quite enough.
So, child comes to great gala opening of sweet shop.
Child eats chalk.
Child goes home feeling fine.
Then goes to bed, still feeling fine.
Child wakes up in the morning and goes to school, still okay.
Formula, you understand, is delayed action and is not working yet.
When does it start working?
It is starting to work at exactly nine o'clock when the child is arriving at school.
Child starts to shrink.
Child is starting to grow fur.
Child is starting to grow tail.
All is happening in precisely 26 seconds.
26 seconds later, child is not a child anymore.
It is a mouse.
Hello!
And what is happening next in every school?
Give us a brave one!
Mouse traps!
The Grand High Witch begins dancing on the platform at the front of the room, stamping her feet and clapping her hands.
Soon, the whole room is joining in.
Down with children, do them in.
Boil their bones and fry their skin.
Bish them, squish them, bash them, mash them.
Break them, shake them, slash them, smash them.
Off with Chox's magic powder.
Say it up and say it louder.
A boy who was extremely tall Cried out, put it on and growing small For tiny legs began to sprout From everybody round about And all at once, all in a trice.
There are no children, Only mice.
Attention!
I will now give you the recipe for concocting formula 86 delayed action mouse maker.
Get out pencils and paper.
She's done it to show us.
The brainy one has turned two children into mice.
William.
On the platform, near the Grand High Witch's skirts, my two white mice scurry.
Our leader has made mice appear out of nowhere!
Quiet!
These mice are nothing to do with me.
They are obviously belonging to some repellent boy in this hotel.
A filthy, smelly boy!
We'll swindle him!
We'll have his tribes for breakfast!
Silence!
Silence!
You know perfectly well we must do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.
We are all respectable ladies of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.
How shall we dispose of him?
Leave him to me.
I shall smell him out and turn him into mackerel.
They're talking about me.
William and Mary are still on the platform.
Suddenly, the Grand High Witch aims a swift running kick at William and sends him flying.
She does the same to Mary.
Her aim is extraordinary.
The mice crash against a wall.
They stun for a moment and then scamper away.
Now, the recipe!
First, I need something that would cause the child to become small very quickly.
For this, we must be looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope.
Take one wrong end of telescope and boil it until it gets soft.
21 hours of boiling.
And then what next, O'Brien, you want?
Take exactly 45 brown mice and chop off their tails.
Fry the tails in hair oil on a low heat until they are crisp.
What about the mice with no tails?
Simmer them in frog juice for one hour.
They are delicious.
So far, I have only told you the easy part of the recipe.
The real problem is to find an ingredient that will have a delayed action result.
Well, tell us the secret.
The secret is an alarm clock.
You set a 24-hour alarm clock today and exactly 9 o'clock tomorrow it will go off.
We will need five million alarm clocks.
One for each child.
Idiots!
One clock is enough for a thousand children.
You set your alarm clock to go off at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.
Then you roast it in the oven until it is crisp and tender.
Are you writing all this down?
Yes, we are.
We are your granddaughters.
Put everything in a mixer at the yolk of a gruntool's egg, the claw of a crab cruncher, the beak of a blabbersnitch, the snout of a grobble squirt and the tongue of a cat springer.
I trust you are not having any trouble finding those.
Oh, no, no, no!
I am now going to prove to you that this recipe is working to perfection.
Yesterday, I am personally preparing a small quantity of the magic potion in order to give you a public demonstration.
I set the alarm clock to go off at half past three this afternoon.
I put a droplet of potion into a very squishy chocolate bar and I am giving this chocolate bar to a repulsive, smelly little boy who is hanging round the lobby of the hotel.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Something bad is going to happen.
I told the little boy...
I will give him six more chocolate bars if he meets me here in the ballroom today at 3.30.
In five minutes' time, the nasty little stinker will be turning into a mouse.
I look down at my watch.
Twenty-five past three.
Let me in.
There he is.
The greedy little swine is early.
Quick, everyone!
Wigs, gloves, shoes!
The Grand High Witch reaches for her mask and puts it on over that revolting face of hers.
Unchain the doors and let him come in.
Where are those chocolate bars you promised me?
I'm here to collect.
Dish them out.
Well, hello, little man.
How nice to see you.
It's Bruno.
Bruno Jenkins.
He's staying at the hotel with his parents.
He's one of those boys who's always eating something whenever you meet him.
Darling boy, I have your chocolate bars ready.
Do come up here first. and say hello to all these lovely ladies.
The witch at the back is quietly putting the chains back on the door handles.
The Grand High Witch holds Bruno firmly by the hand.
No.
What the heck's going on?
30 seconds left.
What is this?
Give me my chocolate.
Keep still now.
Let go of me.
20 seconds.
Give me the chocolate and let me out of here.
15 seconds.
One of you crazy punks kindly tell me what this is all about.
10 seconds.
9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Zero!
We have ignition!
The formula 86 delayed action mouse maker is beginning to work.
Look at him jump.
This smelly brat, this filthy scum, this horrid little louse will very, very soon become a lovely little mouse.
He's getting smaller.
I watch in horror.
He's growing far.
He's got a tail.
He's got whiskers.
He's a mouse.
And here I have a mouse trap.
I will set it and we can chop his head off.
I don't want to see this.
Where is he?
Where has that mouse got to?
Clever Bruno has scampered off into some corner.
He is nowhere to be seen.
It matters not.
Silence!
And sit down.
It comes to me that you ancient ones will not be able to climb high trees in search of Grontoul's eggs or sprint after the speedy catspringer.
So I have prepared personally, with my own hands, a limited quantity of Formula 86 delayed action mouse maker, which I will distribute to all the ancient ones before I leave the hotel.
She holds up a tiny, dark blue bottle.
This bottle contains 500 doses.
Enough to turn 500 children into mice.
Each of the ancient ones will get two bottles.
Oh, thank you, most generous one.
Our meeting is over.
Here is the timetable for the remainder of your stay in the hotel.
Six o'clock.
Those entitled will report to my room to receive two bottles each of Formula 86 Delayed Action Mouse Maker.
My room number is 454.
Eight o'clock.
All of you will assemble in the dining room for supper.
Now, out you go.
It's over.
Hold everything.
Dog stroppings.
I just got away with dog stroppings.
Yes.
Yes, there it is again.
It's not strong, but it's definitely not far away.
What's going on down there?
She's right.
Dog stroppings.
There's a child in here.
What am I to do?
Brutal it out and exterminate it immediately!
There is no escape.
The doors are chained.
I look round the screen and see a hideous, painted and powdered face staring at me.
It's here.
Catch it then, you idiots!
I try to run for it, but it's no good.
They have me cornered.
Help!
Get it!
Stop it!
They rush at me.
About five of them grab me by my arms and legs.
One of them claps a gloved hand over my mouth.
Bring it here.
Now for a little medicine.
Hold his nose and make him open his mouth.
I try to keep my mouth shut, but it's impossible.
The Grand High Witch pours the entire bottle of Formula 86 Delayed Action.
Mouse Maker down my throat.
A searing, scorching feeling spreads from my chest to my tummy to my arms and legs.
My skin starts tightening and shrinking.
Then the squeezing.
Like I'm inside an iron suit that's getting smaller and smaller.
This stinking little carbuncle has had 500 doses and now we are having instantaneous action.
I'm only an inch from the floor.
I've got furry front paws.
I'm a mouse.
Now for the mousetrap.
Snappity-snap.
Snappity-snap.
No.
I'm not waiting for that.
I run.
I run across the ballroom floor like a streak of lightning.
Over the witch's feet as fast as my four furry legs will carry me.
I'm running.
Running for my life.
In part one of The Witches by Roald Dahl, dramatized by Lucy Catherine, Boy was played by Ryan Watson, Grandmother by Margaret Tyzak, Boy's Father by Ben Unwukwe, Bruno by Jordan Clarke, and the narrator was Toby Jones.
The Grand High Witch was Amanda Lawrence.
Other witches were played by Leanne Rowe and Rachel Atkins.
Mr. Stringer by Peter Marinka.
And the director was Claire Grove.
