‘Everyone fancied Dad. He had great sexual charisma’
In the centenary year of Roald Dahl’s birth, his daughter Lucy recalls an idyllic childhood full of tales and treats, and discloses her pride at the author’s greatest secret
At the London film premiere of The BFG last week, all eyes were on Lucy Dahl. It wasn’t just her elegant outfit that was attracting attention on the red carpet – it was her presence as the youngest daughter of Roald Dahl, the beloved children’s author who wrote the story behind Steven Spielberg’s latest creation.
But after watching the film, which she said was “fantastic”, and hearing Spielberg praise her father’s work, Lucy grabbed her best friend and slipped away from the crowds. They jumped into a taxi from Leicester Square to Knightsbridge and headed to The Park Tower casino.
Her father, Lucy explains, would have approved: “He loved gambling, though he wasn’t an addict. Every Saturday night, he had a ‘tickle on the tables’. He taught us all how to play blackjack as soon as we could count. One of my favourite memories was when he snuck me into the Ritz casino, aged 16, and we won. It was magical.” Of course, Roald Dahl created many magical moments for his family when they were living in Gipsy House, their sprawling home in the village of Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire. It was there that he and his first wife, Patricia Neal, the Hollywood actress, raised their five children: Olivia, who died aged seven from measles, Tessa, Theo, Ophelia and Lucy.
Neal was often working in America, starring in, among other films,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s, so Dahl would look after the children, ferrying them to school before heading to his hut at the bottom of the garden to write.
Lucy, 50, reminisces joyfully about that period – particularly night-time visits to the woods, where her father would make mugs of hot chocolate and wrap the children in blankets for a trip to see “Mr Badger and Mr Mole”. To stop them being bored (“He absolutely hated children being bored. He used to say boredom was death”), Lucy remembers how he once bought a Morris Minor for them to drive around a track he had created in their five-acre
orchard. “We spent our days zooming around and never crashed!”
Mealtimes were equally eventful. The children grew up on a diet of Minpin eggs (quails eggs from Harrods), giant eggs from the BFG (duck eggs) and red cabbage that they were told had been delivered by footmen from Buckingham Palace sent by the Queen. “We believed all of this stuff,” says Lucy. “I never stopped believing in it.”
Dahl, who died 26 years ago from a blood disease, is survived by his second wife Felicity – whom he married after divorcing Neal in 1983 – and his four children. On Sept 13, 100 years since his birth, there will be global celebrations marking Roald Dahl Day, while this weekend the BBC screened a documentary, The Marvellous World of Roald Dahl.
“He lived and worked at home – it was where he was happiest,” Lucy tells me when we meet in London’s Soho House. “When I was young, I was close to him because he was always there. He would write in his hut at the bottom of the garden, and disappear into the world of his characters.”
Dahl’s storytelling has bewitched millions of children across the world, but it all started with his own brood. When they were young, he would send them to sleep with stories of witches who hated children and big friendly giants who collected dreams – all before these characters made their way on to the page and became the classics we know today.
“The only time he was a bit grumpy was if ever he lost at the horse racing,” says Lucy. “He’d also be annoyed [if he was interrupted] in his hut. It was his dream world – he used to call it a nest. If we ever interrupted him, it was that same reaction: ‘What do you want? You’ve just woken me from a dream’.”
Dahl grew up in South Wales to Norwegian parents. Educated at boarding school – his worst teachers there are combined and immortalised in Matilda’s Miss Trunchbull – he never went to university, working instead for Shell Oil in Tanzania. When the Second World War broke out, his
‘The only time he was grumpy was if he lost at the horse racing or if one of us interrupted him in his writing hut’
lust for adventure led him to join the Royal Air Force. Dahl began writing after his active life ended when a crash left him with hip and spinal injuries. But it was more than a decade before he became established as a children’s author, with James and the Giant Peach, at the age of 45.
Today, Lucy thinks he would be “secretly very chuffed” with the fuss around his centenary, though he disliked “notoriety”. That reluctance to avoid the limelight could be why he never told anyone that he was a spy during the war and slept with countless high-society women while gathering intelligence in the US. These glimpses into his other life only emerged in a biography by Donald Sturrock, written 20 years after Dahl’s death.
“When it came out, I felt like saluting him,” Lucy says. “I’m amazed he kept his mouth shut.” His womanising, though, was less of a surprise to his daughter.
“People were madly attracted to him. Even the girls at school would put their make-up on when he came to pick me up because everyone fancied my dad. He had this enormous sexual charisma. Women melted when they saw him.”
Lucy has a family of her own – Phoebe, 27, a fashion designer and Chloe, 25, a restaurateur – from her first marriage to Michael Faircloth, a water-ski instructor whom she married, aged 22, in Florida. She is also aunt to the model Sophie Dahl.
Though she raised her daughters in Los Angeles, where she worked as a screenwriter, she tried to give them a taste of her own childhood in Buckinghamshire. “I did the same things, but the American version. I’d wake them up with a big midnight feast and surprised them one day by taking them to Disneyland instead of school.”
Both of Lucy’s daughters are gay, as is her sister Ophelia, but she is reluctant to discuss this. “I do draw a line with my children. I get very maternal instincts.” However, she will say how thrilled she was when Chloe announced her engagement to fellow restaurateur Nikki Booth, her girlfriend of three years. “We were out riding recently with Nikki, and Chloe said, ‘Mum, would you mind if we eloped?’ I said I’d be delighted, because I know how much weddings cost.”
She also tells me how much she can see of her father in both daughters.
“They say it skips a generation, and I see immense talent in both of them. Dad would have been very proud.”
Lucy divorced her daughters’ father in 1991, and last month finalised her second divorce from John LaViolette, a lawyer. “I’m a bit embarrassed about that,” she admits. “Dad used to say it’s forgivable to be married two times because everyone’s allowed one mistake. But a third marriage? There’s a problem somewhere. The things you learn from your parents when you’re young stay in your heart.”
It’s why she is “determined” never to marry again. “Unless he’s rich, doesn’t want a prenup and is old.”
She never took either husband’s surname, something she’s now pleased about: “If I were to advise any young woman, I’d say keep your name purely to keep your identity. It is important women keep their own identity.”
Her full name is Lucy Neal Dahl, and the reference to both her parents reflects a strong part of her identity. “I think about my father every day – and my mother. I talk to them both all the time. I feel they’re around me at different times. If I need courage, I call upon my mother. If I need creativity, I call upon my father. If I’m scared, I call them both. I hope one day I hang around my children, too.”
With all the publicity surrounding Steven Spielberg’s film The BFG, there’s a risk it may be confused with other important things known by the same initials. I am thinking, for example, of Biofoliate Gelatazone, the miracle ingredient in a certain brand of shampoo which gives your hair that extra glossy look and that almost unbelievable bounce. Then there’s Bisulphide Flexigamate, the breakthrough in toothpaste science, which delivers dazzling whiteness and fights plaque.
Brie, Fennel and Gooseberry is now the go-to sandwich for the desklunching executive. BLT is a thing of the past.
You will be hearing a lot more about Breast Feeding Guerrillas, a group of ultra-militant new mothers who are rumoured to be planning co-ordinated action to occupy a number of juice bars round the country and take hostages. Another militant organisation calls itself Boycott French Gîtes. They are making a gesture of solidarity with French swimming pool cleaners who are demanding better pay and conditions.
BFG also stands for Bitter Facebook Guilt. This is a newly discovered psychological disorder: a feeling of self-disgust after unfriending too many people on Facebook. It is usually cured by a series of prolonged sessions on Snapchat. Another online problem is the Broadband Feedback Gap: in certain parts of the country, for no known reason, online feedback gets distorted and tends to become over-enthusiastic or mysteriously disappears entirely. This is also known as the TripAdvisor Triangle.
Look out for Bilious Fainting Grippe. The first case of BFG was recently identified in South Kensington, and is now heading for top place in the allergies league table. It manifests itself in an adverse reaction to cocktail gherkins.
Borderline Fleshy Gluteus is feared by people who go to the gym and those in the fashion industry. It is a barely discernible expansion of the backside. You may overhear someone whisper: “I think Amanda has a touch of BFG.”
“Hello, is that Mr Van Winkle? Mr R. Van Winkle? It’s the doctor’s surgery reception here. I am ringing to inform you that, as you have not shown up for your flu jab for the last five years, we are now compelled to strike you off our list. Well I’m sorry if you overslept, Mr Winkle, but it’s not really our fault if you can’t get up in the morning.”
“Doctor’s surgery reception. Sorry you have been kept on hold; we are particularly busy right now. What is your first name, Ms Beauty? Could you spell it for me? Sorry, did you say Sleeping or Fleeping? And what is your date of birth? I am sorry you are not on our computer. That means, as far as we are concerned, you do not exist. Please do not adopt that tone with me, Ms Beauty. You may have royal connections, but we treat all patients equally – except the ones we don’t treat at all. A pricked finger doesn’t sound very serious. Try your local pharmacist.”
“Hello, I’m trying to contact Mr Cristo. First name, Count of Monte. Doctor’s surgery here. Not at that address any more? Could you give me the number of Château d’If, so I can contact him there?”
“You want an appointment? What’s the name? Sorry, Andy Dufresne was removed from our list last year because we had not heard from you. Last known address, Shawshank State Penitentiary? I’m sorry, Mr Dufresne, you should have given us advance notice of your intention to break out.”
“Hello, doctor’s surgery here. Is that KLM Royal Dutch Airlines? I’m trying to contact a flying Dutchman...”
Startling census findings: I have just done a roll call of all the various ballpoint pens and pencils stacked in china coffee mugs in our house and it comes to 55 pens and 15 pencils distributed between eight mugs. I haven’t got round to testing how many of these rollerball, fibre tipped, fine and medium pointed pens actually work; that would be a long and tedious job.
I blame the mugs. There must be some law which states that the number of pens multiplies in proportion to the rate of accumulation of surplus coffee mugs. Those mugs have certainly accumulated. We have a plague of them. Many must have been last-resort Christmas presents; some were bought on a whim from a twee gift shop somewhere on holiday. Some have jokes or slogans on them, which have now worn thin. I use only one mug for my coffee. It was a rather pointed present from my daughter. On it is written: “I am silently correcting your grammar.”