The Way Up to Heaven – Roald Dahl
All her life, Mrs Foster had had an almost unhealthy fear of missing a train, a plane, a boat, or even
a theatre starting time. She didn't worry about other things in her daily life. But the simple thought
of being late at times like this would throw her into such a state of nerves that she would develop a
twitch. It was nothing much - just a tiny movement of the muscle in the corner of the left eye,
causing it to continuously open and close. But the worst part about it was that the twitching would
not stop until an hour or so after the train or plane or whatever it was had been safely caught.
It is really strange how in certain people worrying about a simple thing like catching a train can
grow into something that has a major effect on their life. Whenever they had to go somewhere, Mrs
Foster would be ready to leave at least half an hour before it was time to go. She would step out of
the lift on the ground floor of their house, with hat and coat and gloves, and be quite unable to sit
down. Then she would walk about from room to room until her husband, who must have known of
her state, finally came from his study and suggested in a cool dry voice that perhaps they had better
get going.
Mr Foster may possibly have had a right to be a little angry at this foolishness of his wife's.
However, he could have had no excuse for making her suffer by keeping her waiting without a good
reason. Mind you, it is by no means certain that this is what he did. Yet, whenever they were to go
somewhere, he was always a minute or two late. And when this happened, he didn't seem worried at
all. This made it hard to believe that he wasn't trying to bring on one of her twitching attacks. He
must have known that she would never call out and tell him to hurry. He had taught her too well for
that. He must also have known that if he was prepared to wait until after the last moment of safety,
he could drive her into a state of uncontrollable crying. Once or twice in the later years of their
married life, it seemed almost as though he had wanted to miss a train in order to do this.
If (though one cannot be sure) Mr Foster did do this to hurt her, his actions were truly unfair. Other
than this one small weakness which Mrs Foster could not control, she was and always had been a
good and loving wife. For over thirty years, she had served him well. There was no question about
this. Even she, who rarely felt proud of anything she did, knew it. For years she would not let
herself believe that Mr Foster would ever knowingly treat her so badly. However there had been
times recently when she had caught herself beginning to wonder.
Mr Eugene Foster was nearly seventy years old. He and his wife lived in a large six floor house in
New York City, on East Sixty-second Street. They had four servants. It was a dark and depressing
place, and few people came to visit them. But on this morning in January, the house had come alive
and there was a lot of running about. One servant was going through the house putting out dust
sheets in every room. Another was following, placing them over the furniture. The butler was
bringing down suitcases and leaving them in the hall. The cook kept popping up from the kitchen to
have a word with the butler. Mrs Foster, in an old-fashioned coat and with a black hat on the top of
her head, was flying from room to room acting as if she was trying to make sure that everything was
done correctly. Actually, the only thing she was thinking about was that she was going to miss her
plane if her husband didn't come out of his study soon and get ready.
"What time is it, Walker?" she said to the butler as she passed him.
"It's ten minutes past nine, Madam."
www.ajarnjohn.com
, "And has the car come?"
"Yes, Madam, it's waiting. I'm just going to put the luggage in now."
"It takes an hour to get to the airport," she said. "My plane leaves at eleven. I have to be there half
an hour before it leaves to complete the paper work. I shall be late. I just know I'm going to be late."
"I think you have enough time, Madam," the butler said kindly. "I told Mr Foster that you must
leave at nine-fifteen. There's still another five minutes."
"Yes, Walker, I know, I know. But get the luggage in quickly, will you please?"
She began walking up and down the hall, and whenever the butler came by, she asked him the time.
This, she kept telling herself, was the one plane she must not miss. It had taken months to get her
husband to agree for her to go. If she missed it, he might easily decide that she should not go at all.
And the trouble was that for some reason he wanted to come to the airport to see her off.
"Dear God," she said, "I'm going to miss it. I know, I know, I know I'm going to miss it." The little
muscle beside the left eye was twitching madly now. The eyes themselves were very close to tears.
"What time is it, Walker?"
"It's eighteen minutes past, Madam."
"Now I really will miss it!" she cried. "Oh, I wish he would come!"
This was an important journey for Mrs Foster. She was going all alone to Paris to visit her daughter,
her only child, who was married to a Frenchman. Mrs Foster didn't care much for the Frenchman,
but she loved her daughter, and, more than that, she had developed a great need to set eyes on her
three grandchildren. She knew them only from the many photographs that her daughter had sent,
which she kept putting up all over the house. They were beautiful, these children. She loved them
dearly, and each time a new picture came she would carry it away and sit with it for a long time.
She would look at it lovingly, searching the small faces for signs of her side of the family that meant
so much.
And now, lately, she had come more and more to feel that she did not really wish to live out her
days in New York. She wanted to be near these children, and have them visit her, and take them for
walks, and buy them presents, and watch them grow. She knew, of course, that it was wrong to have
thoughts like these while her husband was still alive. Although he was no longer active in his many
businesses, he would never agree to leave New York and live in Paris. It was a miracle that he had
ever agreed to let her fly over there alone for six weeks to visit them. But, oh, how she wished she
could live there always, and be close to them!
"Walker, what time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes past, Madam."
As he spoke, a door opened and Mr Foster came into the hall. He stood for a moment and looked at
his wife, as she looked back at him. He was a small but well dressed old man, with a huge bearded
face that looked like those old photographs of Andrew Carnegie.
www.ajarnjohn.com
All her life, Mrs Foster had had an almost unhealthy fear of missing a train, a plane, a boat, or even
a theatre starting time. She didn't worry about other things in her daily life. But the simple thought
of being late at times like this would throw her into such a state of nerves that she would develop a
twitch. It was nothing much - just a tiny movement of the muscle in the corner of the left eye,
causing it to continuously open and close. But the worst part about it was that the twitching would
not stop until an hour or so after the train or plane or whatever it was had been safely caught.
It is really strange how in certain people worrying about a simple thing like catching a train can
grow into something that has a major effect on their life. Whenever they had to go somewhere, Mrs
Foster would be ready to leave at least half an hour before it was time to go. She would step out of
the lift on the ground floor of their house, with hat and coat and gloves, and be quite unable to sit
down. Then she would walk about from room to room until her husband, who must have known of
her state, finally came from his study and suggested in a cool dry voice that perhaps they had better
get going.
Mr Foster may possibly have had a right to be a little angry at this foolishness of his wife's.
However, he could have had no excuse for making her suffer by keeping her waiting without a good
reason. Mind you, it is by no means certain that this is what he did. Yet, whenever they were to go
somewhere, he was always a minute or two late. And when this happened, he didn't seem worried at
all. This made it hard to believe that he wasn't trying to bring on one of her twitching attacks. He
must have known that she would never call out and tell him to hurry. He had taught her too well for
that. He must also have known that if he was prepared to wait until after the last moment of safety,
he could drive her into a state of uncontrollable crying. Once or twice in the later years of their
married life, it seemed almost as though he had wanted to miss a train in order to do this.
If (though one cannot be sure) Mr Foster did do this to hurt her, his actions were truly unfair. Other
than this one small weakness which Mrs Foster could not control, she was and always had been a
good and loving wife. For over thirty years, she had served him well. There was no question about
this. Even she, who rarely felt proud of anything she did, knew it. For years she would not let
herself believe that Mr Foster would ever knowingly treat her so badly. However there had been
times recently when she had caught herself beginning to wonder.
Mr Eugene Foster was nearly seventy years old. He and his wife lived in a large six floor house in
New York City, on East Sixty-second Street. They had four servants. It was a dark and depressing
place, and few people came to visit them. But on this morning in January, the house had come alive
and there was a lot of running about. One servant was going through the house putting out dust
sheets in every room. Another was following, placing them over the furniture. The butler was
bringing down suitcases and leaving them in the hall. The cook kept popping up from the kitchen to
have a word with the butler. Mrs Foster, in an old-fashioned coat and with a black hat on the top of
her head, was flying from room to room acting as if she was trying to make sure that everything was
done correctly. Actually, the only thing she was thinking about was that she was going to miss her
plane if her husband didn't come out of his study soon and get ready.
"What time is it, Walker?" she said to the butler as she passed him.
"It's ten minutes past nine, Madam."
www.ajarnjohn.com
, "And has the car come?"
"Yes, Madam, it's waiting. I'm just going to put the luggage in now."
"It takes an hour to get to the airport," she said. "My plane leaves at eleven. I have to be there half
an hour before it leaves to complete the paper work. I shall be late. I just know I'm going to be late."
"I think you have enough time, Madam," the butler said kindly. "I told Mr Foster that you must
leave at nine-fifteen. There's still another five minutes."
"Yes, Walker, I know, I know. But get the luggage in quickly, will you please?"
She began walking up and down the hall, and whenever the butler came by, she asked him the time.
This, she kept telling herself, was the one plane she must not miss. It had taken months to get her
husband to agree for her to go. If she missed it, he might easily decide that she should not go at all.
And the trouble was that for some reason he wanted to come to the airport to see her off.
"Dear God," she said, "I'm going to miss it. I know, I know, I know I'm going to miss it." The little
muscle beside the left eye was twitching madly now. The eyes themselves were very close to tears.
"What time is it, Walker?"
"It's eighteen minutes past, Madam."
"Now I really will miss it!" she cried. "Oh, I wish he would come!"
This was an important journey for Mrs Foster. She was going all alone to Paris to visit her daughter,
her only child, who was married to a Frenchman. Mrs Foster didn't care much for the Frenchman,
but she loved her daughter, and, more than that, she had developed a great need to set eyes on her
three grandchildren. She knew them only from the many photographs that her daughter had sent,
which she kept putting up all over the house. They were beautiful, these children. She loved them
dearly, and each time a new picture came she would carry it away and sit with it for a long time.
She would look at it lovingly, searching the small faces for signs of her side of the family that meant
so much.
And now, lately, she had come more and more to feel that she did not really wish to live out her
days in New York. She wanted to be near these children, and have them visit her, and take them for
walks, and buy them presents, and watch them grow. She knew, of course, that it was wrong to have
thoughts like these while her husband was still alive. Although he was no longer active in his many
businesses, he would never agree to leave New York and live in Paris. It was a miracle that he had
ever agreed to let her fly over there alone for six weeks to visit them. But, oh, how she wished she
could live there always, and be close to them!
"Walker, what time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes past, Madam."
As he spoke, a door opened and Mr Foster came into the hall. He stood for a moment and looked at
his wife, as she looked back at him. He was a small but well dressed old man, with a huge bearded
face that looked like those old photographs of Andrew Carnegie.
www.ajarnjohn.com
