James and the Giant Peach: A Musical Novelization

Ch.1

Author's Note: You know the saying that goes "If you want something done right, do it yourself?" Well, the musical of "James and the Giant Peach" was already written perfectly by Timothy Allen McDonald. But a full-on novelization of the musical would be something I would buy. Of course, I also have 2 copies of the original book by Roald Dahl as well as the movie novelization by Karey Kirkpatrick, but since there isn't a musical novelization available, I decided to go ahead and write it out myself. So if you enjoy my transcribing of the musical, please go and download the soundtrack and show support to the amazing talent behind this wonderful adaptation.

Another rainy night in England. Spring was nearly over, but the temperature had dropped quite a bit and the storm that descended felt more like an omen of autumn rather than a herald of summer. Torrents of icy water poured from the sky, pounding grass flat and turning dirt into mud. Leaves were ripped from branches and umbrellas torn from frozen fingers. Cars trundled slowly through the streets as their drivers eagerly sought to get out of the storm. Those unlucky enough to be caught outside as the rain began hurried for their warm dry homes, shivering as they sloshed through puddles or felt their hoods and hats whipped from their heads. Unfortunate though they were to be caught outside on such a night, the soaked pedestrians were all lucky in one regard: they all had homes to go back to.

One building, looming over the town, was more than happy to remind those who passed it of that fact. The three-story residence sat behind a tall iron fence, indifferent to the horrible weather. The few people who glanced up at it quickly averted their eyes and walked faster. Not surprising, really; the sign "Painswick Orphanage" didn't really conjure up images of a happy home. The sight of the ugly greystone building with its dark windows, barren front lawn, and tightly fastened door didn't help to dispel any notions of unhappiness either.

The rain ran down the worn walls of the orphanage, splattering against the windows with enough force to make the glass rattle in their panes. In the boys' dormitory, the fifteen or so children spared the weather only a passing glance as they prepared for bed. One of the boys, a sturdy brown-haired child roughly ten years old, frowned as his eyes found the sole window at the end of the room. While the glass was intact, the window never shut completely, allowing chilly drafts to seep into the room from the small gap between the window and the ledge.

"It'll be cold in here tonight," he muttered to the boy next to him. The second boy shrugged, crawling into his bed.

"It always is," he remarked, pulling the thin blanket around him.

"Let's just go to bed," a third boy whispered, passing by them with his toothbrush. "Matron always gets mad when we're up past lights out."

The boy glanced behind him as he left to brush his teeth, but the little boy huddled on his bed at the far end of the room didn't move. At only six years old, James Henry Trotter was one of the youngest children in the orphanage. He was also one of the new arrivals, having only been at Painswick for a little less than two weeks. In that short amount of time, however, he had managed to earn the ire of the Matron Nurse several times over thanks to his frequent nightmares that usually ended with him waking one or more of the boys with his cries.

For the moment, James was silent and still, staring out at the stormy night. His pale face, framed by tawny hair, looked as though it had been scrubbed clean of any color and his brown eyes were ringed by black circles from nights of broken sleep. His pajamas, already a size too big for him, sagged even more than they should have around his small frame thanks to the fact that he barely managed to eat at mealtimes (another strike against him, according to Matron). Some of the other boys spared James a sympathetic glance as they laid down in their beds, but no one spoke to him. They were familiar enough with the little boy by now to know that he would be far too focused on his evening ritual.