I said, laughing, ‘you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.’
‘Charles?’ she said. ‘We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.’
abandoned – left (her)
haggard – worn out
raucous – very loud, noisy
reformation – change for the better
rubbers – rainboots
| Post-reading | |
| 3. | At home, Laurie is very rude to his father. |
| a) | Give one instance of this. |
| b) | How does his father respond to this rudeness? |
| c) | What do you think about the father’s way of dealing with his son’s rudeness? |
| 4. | By weeks three and four, Charles’s behaviour changes dramatically. |
| a) | How does it change? |
| b) | Why do you think this change occurs? |
| 5. | The story ends in a surprising way. Is this a good ending? Why? |
| 6. | Children often invent an alter ego (another identity) as a way of coping with their own feelings while trying to work out just who they are and where they fit into things that are new to them. The alter ego does things and has adventures. Compare Laurie’s behaviour to your own when you started school. How did you cope? |
| Pre-reading | |
| 1. | Onomatopoeia is the use of words that imitate real life sounds, e.g. buzz, crash, splat. Look at the poem “TRIS-TRAS” on page 5 for other examples. Malapropism is the unintentionally funny use of a word which sounds like the intended one but has a totally different meaning, e.g. The cannonballs ate the missionaries. Think of another example of malapropism. (You could look in the dictionary if you find this difficult.) |
| During reading | |
| 2. | The clue to understanding the story lies in the words “secret life” of Walter Mitty. As you read, try to work out why the author chooses these words rather than the “daydreams” of Walter Mitty. |
The secret life of Walter Mitty
James Thurber
‘We’re going through!’ The Commander’s voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold grey eye. ‘We can’t make it, sir. It’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.’ ‘I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,’ said the Commander. ‘Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We’re going through!’ The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. ‘Switch on No 8 auxiliary!’ he shouted. ‘Switch on No 8 auxiliary!’ repeated Lieutenant Berg. ‘Full strength in No 3 turret!’ shouted the Commander. ‘Full strength in No 3 turret!’ The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. ‘The Old Man’ll get us through,’ they said to one another. ‘The Old Man ain’t afraid of Hell!’ …
‘Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!’ said Mrs Mitty. ‘What are you driving so fast for?’
‘Hmm?’ said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife in the seat beside him with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. ‘You were up to fifty-five,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five.’ Walter Mitty drove on towards Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. ‘You’re tensed up again,’ said Mrs Mitty. ‘It’s one of your days. I wish you’d let Dr Renshaw look you over.’
Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done. ‘Remember to get those overshoes while I’m having my hair done,’ she said. ‘I don’t need overshoes,’ said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. ‘We’ve been through all that,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘You’re not a young man any longer.’ He raced the engine a little. ‘Why don’t you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?’ Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. ‘Pick it up, brother!’ snapped a cop as the lights changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove round the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way back to the parking lot.
… ‘It’s the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,’ said the pretty nurse. ‘Yes?’ said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. ‘Who has the case?’ ‘Dr Renshaw and Dr Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr Remington from New York and Mr Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over.’ A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. ‘Hello, Mitty,’ he said. ‘We’re having the devil’s own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you’d take a look at him.’ ‘Glad to,’ said Mitty.
In the operating room there were whispered introductions: ‘Dr Remington, Dr Mitty, Mr Pritchard-Mitford, Dr Mitty.’ ‘I’ve read your book on streptothricosis,’ said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. ‘A brilliant performance, sir.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Walter Mitty. ‘Didn’t know you were in the States, Mitty,’ grumbled Remington. ‘Goals to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary.’ ‘You are very kind,’ said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. ‘The new anaesthetizer is giving way!’ shouted an intern. ‘There is no-one in the East who knows how to fix it!’ ‘Quiet man!’ said Mitty, in a low cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. ‘Give me a fountain pen!’ he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place. ‘That will hold for ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Get on with the operation.’ A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale. ‘Coreopsis has set in,’ said Renshaw nervously. ‘If you would take over, Mitty?’ Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave uncertain faces of the two great specialists. ‘If you wish,’ he said. They slipped a white gown on him; he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining …
‘Back it up, Mac! Look out for that Buick!’ Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. ‘Wrong lane, Mac,’ said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. ‘Gee. Yeh,’ muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked ‘Exit Only’. ‘Leave her sit there,’ said the attendant. ‘I’ll put her away.’ Mitty got out of the car. ‘Hey, better leave the key.’ ‘Oh,’ said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.
They’re so damned cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street: they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his chains off outside New Milford, and he had got them wound round the axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking-car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs Mitty always made him drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he thought, I’ll wear my right arm in a sling; they won’t grin at me then. I’ll
