Lamb to the Slaughter Dahl, R. (1953): Patrick’s Perspective
About this Project
This piece was originally created as part of a university literature assignment based on Roald Dahl’s Lamb to the Slaughter. The project explores the story from Patrick Maloney’s perspective through creative rewriting and literary interpretation. It is presented here as part of my academic and writing portfolio to demonstrate my skills in English writing, literary analysis, rewriting, and editing.
Lamb to the Slaughter and its original characters are the work of Roald Dahl. This project is an independent academic exercise and is not affiliated with or endorsed by the copyright holder.
It was the time to go home but I was too oppressive for it. I think she is waiting for me at home as usual. Punctually, ten minutes to five my tires land on the gravel, which flooring around my house. I am heading straight to unlock the door. When I came in, she was coming to kiss me immediately.
The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.
“Hullo darling” she said.
“Hullo darling” I answered.
She took my coat and hung it in the closet. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for me, a weak one for herself, even though she was pregnant, and soon she was back again in her chair opposite me with the sewing. I was holding the tall glass with my both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side.
She knew I didn’t want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying my company after the long hours alone in the house.
“Tired darling?”
“Yes.” I said. “I’m tired,” And as I spoke, I did an unusual thing. I lifted my glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left. I paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then I got up and went slowly over to fetch myself another.
“I’ll get it!” She cried, jumping up.
“Sit down,” I said.
I came back holding dark amber with the quantity of whiskey in it.
“Darling, shall I get you slippers?”
“No.”
She watched me as I began to sip the dark yellow drink.
“I think it’s a shame,” She said, “that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long.”
I didn’t answer, so she went on with her sewing.
“Darling,” She said. “Would you like me to get you some cheese? I haven’t made any supper because it’s Thursday.”
“No,” I said.
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“If you’re too tired to eat out,” she went on, “it’s still not too late. There’s plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair.”
Her eyes waited on me for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but I made no sign. “Anyway,” she went on, “I’ll get you some cheese and crackers first.”
“I don’t want it,” I said.
She moved uneasily in her chairs, the large eyes still watching my face. “But you must eat! I’ll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like.”
She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.
“Sit down,” I said. “Just for a moment, sit down.”
I feel like she began to frightened.
“Go on,” I said. “Sit down.”
She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching me all the time with those large, bewildered eyes. I had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning, because of the oppressiveness.
“Listen,” I said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What is it, darling? What’s the matter?”
I had now become absolutely motionless.
“This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I’m afraid,” I said. “But I’ve thought about it a good deal and I’ve decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won’t blame me too much.”
And I told her. It didn’t take long, four or five minutes at most, and she say very still through it all, watching me with a kind of dazed horror.
“So, there it is,” I added. “And I know it’s kind of a bad time to be telling you, bet there simply wasn’t any other way. Of course I’ll give you money and see you’re looked after. But there needn’t really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn’t be very good for my job.”
Her reaction seems not to believe any of it.
“I’ll get the supper,” she managed to whisper, and this time I didn’t stop her.
Then I saw her back gradually far away. I thought she might go to the cellar. Not very long, I heard her footsteps again.
“For God’s sake,” I said, hearing her, but not turning round. “Don’t make supper for me. I’m going out.”
Suddenly, her footsteps were quickly approaching. Something swung hard on my head, it feels like a steel club. I began to faint consciousness, I’m so tired, maybe I could rest now.
Skills Demonstrated
literary interpretation, creative rewriting, English writing, editing, proofreading
