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THE LANDLADY
ROALD DAHL
Billy Weaver had travelled down from
London on the slow afternoon train, with a
change at Swindon on the way, and by the
time he got to Bath it was about nine o’clock
in the evening and the moon was coming up
out of a clear starry sky over the houses
opposite the station entrance. But the air was
deadly cold and the wind was like a flat
blade of ice on his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a fairly
cheap hotel not too far away from here?”
“Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter
answered, pointing down the road. “They
might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a
mile along on the other side.”
Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase
and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The
Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath
before. He didn’t know anyone who lived
there. But Mr Greenslade at the Head Office 20
in London had told him it was a splendid city.
“Find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and
then go along and report to the Branch
Manager as soon as you’ve got yourself
settled.”
Billy was seventeen years old. He was
wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new
brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and
he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down
the street. He was trying to do everything
briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided,
was the one common characteristic of all
successful businessmen. The big shots up at
Head Office were absolutely fantastically brisk
all the time. They were amazing.
There were no shops on this wide street that
he was walking along, only a line of tall houses
on each side, all them identical. They had
porches and pillars and four or five steps
going up to their front doors, and it was 40
obvious that once upon a time they had been
very swanky residences. But now, even in the
darkness, he could see that the paint was
peeling from the woodwork on their doors
and windows, and that the handsome white
façades were cracked and blotchy from
neglect.
Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was
brilliantly illuminated by a street-lamp not six
yards away, Billy caught sight of a printed notice
propped up against the glass in one of the upper
panes. It said BED AND BREAKFAST. There
was a vase of yellow chrysanthemums, tall and
beautiful, standing just underneath the notice.
He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer.
Green curtains (some sort of velvety material)
were hanging down on either side of the window.
The chrysanthemums looked wonderful beside
them. He went right up and peered through the
glass into the room, and the first thing he saw 60
was a bright fire burning in the hearth. On the
carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little
dachshund was curled up asleep with its nose
tucked into its belly.
The room itself, so far as he could see in the
half-darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture.
There was a baby-grand piano and a big sofa and
several plump armchairs; and in one corner he
spotted a large parrot in a cage. Animals were
usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told
himself; and all in all, it looked to him as though
it would be a pretty decent house to stay in.
Certainly it would be more comfortable than The
Bell and Dragon.
On the other hand, a pub would be more
congenial than a boarding-house. There would be
beer and darts in the evenings, and lots of people
to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit
cheaper, too. He had stayed a couple of nights in
a pub once before and he had liked it. He had 80
never stayed in any boarding-houses, and, to be
perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of
them. The name itself conjured up images of
watery cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a
powerful smell of kippers in the living-room.
After dithering about like this in the cold for
two or three minutes, Billy decided that he would
walk on and take a look at The Bell and Dragon
before making up his mind. He turned to go. And
now a queer thing happened to him. He was in
the act of stepping back and turning away from
the window when all at once his eye was caught
and held in the most peculiar manner by the
small notice that was there. BED AND
BREAKFAST, it said. BED AND
BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST, BED
AND BREAKFAST. Each word was like a large
black eye staring at him through the glass,
holding him, compelling him, forcing him to
stay where he was and not to walk away from 100
that house, and the next thing he knew, he
was actually moving across from the window
to the front door of the house, climbing the
steps that led up to it, and reaching for the
bell.
He pressed the bell. Far away in a back
room he heard it ringing, and then at once – it
must have been at once because he hadn’t
even had time to take his finger from the bellbutton
– the door swung open and a woman
was standing there.
Normally you ring the bell and you have at
least a half-minute’s wait before the door
opens. But this dame was a like a jack-in-thebox.
He pressed the bell – and out she
popped! It made him jump.
She was about forty-five or fifty years old,
and the moment she saw him, she gave him a
warm welcoming smile.
“Please come in,” she said pleasantly. She 120
stepped aside, holding the door wide open,
and Billy found himself automatically starting
forward into the house. The compulsion or,
more accurately, the desire to follow after her
into that house was extraordinarily strong.
“I saw the notice in the window,” he said,
holding himself back.
“Yes, I know.”
“I was wondering about a room.”
“It's all ready for you, my dear,” she said.
She had a round pink face and very gentle
blue eyes.
“I was on my way to The Bell and Dragon,”
Billy told her. “But the notice in your window
just happened to catch my eye.”
“My dear boy,” she said, “why don't you
come in out of the cold?”
“How much do you charge?”
“Five and sixpence a night, including
breakfast.” 140
It was fantastically cheap. It was less than
half of what he had been willing to pay.
“If that is too much,” she added, “then
perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you
desire an egg for breakfast? Eggs are
expensive at the moment. It would be
sixpence less without the egg.”
“Five and sixpence is fine,” he answered. “I
should like very much to stay here.”
“I knew you would. Do come in.”
She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly
like the mother of one’s best school-friend
welcoming one into the house to stay for the
Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat, and
stepped over the threshold.
“Just hang it there,” she said, “and let me help
you with your coat.”
There were no other hats or coats in the hall.
There were no umbrellas, no walking-sticks –
nothing. 160
“We have it all to ourselves,” she said, smiling
at him over her shoulder as she led the way
upstairs.
“You see, it isn’t very often I have the pleasure
of taking a visitor into my little nest.”
The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself.
But at five and sixpence a night, who gives a
damn about that? – “I should've thought you’d
be simply swamped with applicants,” he said
politely.
“Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course I am. But
the trouble is that I'm inclined to be just a teeny
weeny bit choosy and particular – if you see what
I mean.”
“Ah, yes.”
“But I’m always ready. Everything is always
ready day and night in this house just on the offchance
that an acceptable young gentleman will
come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear,
such a very great pleasure when now and again I 180
open the door and I see someone standing there
who is just exactly right.” She was half-way up
the stairs, and she paused with one hand on the
stair-rail, turning her head and smiling down at
him with pale lips. “Like you,” she added, and her
blue eyes travelled slowly all the way down the
length of Billy's body, to his feet, and then up
again.
On the first-floor landing she said to him,
“This floor is mine.”
They climbed up a second flight. “And this one
is all yours,” she said. “Here’s your room. I do
hope you’ll like it.” She took him into a small but
charming front bedroom, switching on the light
as she went in.
“The morning sun comes right in the window,
Mr Perkins. It is Mr Perkins, isn’t it?”
“No,” he said. “It’s Weaver.”
“Mr Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water-bottle
between the sheets to air them out, Mr Weaver. 200
It’s such a comfort to have a hot water-bottle in a
strange bed with clean sheets, don’t you agree?
And you may light the gas fire at any time if
you feel chilly.”
“Thank you,” Billy said. “Thank you ever so
much.” He noticed that the bedspread had
been taken off the bed, and that the
bedclothes had been neatly turned back on
one side, all ready for someone to get in.
“I’m so glad you appeared,” she said,
looking
earnestly into his face. “I was beginning to get
worried.”
“That’s all right,” Billy answered brightly.
“You mustn’t worry about me.” He put his
suitcase on the chair and started to open it.
“And what about supper, my dear? Did you
manage to get anything to eat before you
came here?”
“I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,” he said. 220
“I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as possible
because tomorrow I’ve got to get up rather
early and report to the office.”
“Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so that
you can unpack. But before you go to bed,
would you be kind enough to pop into the
sitting-room on the ground floor and sign the
book? Everyone has to do that because it’s
the law of the land, and we don’t want to go
breaking any laws at this stage in the
proceedings, do we?” She gave him a little
wave of the hand and went quickly out of the
room and closed the door.
Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to
be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry Billy in
the least. After all, she was not only harmless
– there was no question about that – but she
was also quite obviously a kind and generous
soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a
son in the war, or something like that, and had 240
never got over it.
So a few minutes later, after unpacking his
suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted
downstairs to the ground floor and entered
the living-room. His landlady wasn’t there, but
the fire was glowing in the hearth, and the
little dachshund was still sleeping in front of
it. The room was wonderfully warm and cosy.
I’m a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his
hands. This is a bit of all right.
He found the guest-book lying open on the
piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down
his name and address. There were only two
other entries above his on the page, and, as
one always does with guest-books, he started to
read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland
from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple
from Bristol. That’s funny, he thought suddenly.
Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell. Now
where on earth had he heard that rather unusual 260
name before?
Was he a boy at school? No. Was it one of his
sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or a
friend of his father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any of
those. He glanced down again at the book.
Christopher Mulholland, 231 Cathedral Road,
Cardiff. Gregory W. Temple, 27 Sycamore Drive,
Bristol. As a matter of fact, now he came to think
of it, he wasn’t at all sure that the second name
didn’t have almost as much of a familiar ring
about it as the first.
“Gregory Temple?” he said aloud, searching his
memory. “Christopher Mulholland? …”
“Such charming boys,” a voice behind him
answered, and he turned and saw his landlady
sailing into the room with a large silver tea-tray in
her hands. She was holding it well out in front of
her, and rather high up, as though the tray were a
pair of reins on a frisky horse.
“They sound somehow familiar,” he said. 280
“They do? How interesting.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names
before somewhere. Isn’t that queer? Maybe it was
in the newspapers. They weren’t famous in any
way, were they? I mean famous cricketers or
footballers or something like that?”
“Famous,” she said, setting the tea-tray down
on the low table in front of the sofa. “Oh no, I
don’t think they were famous. But they were
extraordinarily handsome, both of them, I can
promise you that. They were tall and young and
handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.”
Once more, Billy glanced down at the book.
“Look here,” he said, noticing the dates. “This
last entry is over two years old.”
“It is?”
“Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is
nearly a year before that – more than three years
ago.”
“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head and 300
heaving a dainty little sigh. “I would never have
thought it. How time does fly away from us all,
doesn’t it, Mr Wilkins?”
“It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”
“Oh, of course it is!” she cried, sitting down
on the sofa. “How silly of me. I do apologise.
In one ear and out the other, that’s me, Mr
Weaver.”
“You know something?” Billy said.
‘Something that’s really quite extraordinary
about all this?”
“No, dear, I don’t.”
“Well, you see – both of these names,
Mulholland and Temple, I not only seem to
remember each one of them separately, so to
speak, but somehow or other, in some
peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of
connected together as well. As though they
were both famous for the same sort of thing,
if you see what I mean – like … like Dempsey 320
and Tunney, for example, or Churchill and
Roosevelt.”
“How amusing,” she said. “But come over
here now, dear, and sit down beside me on
the sofa and I’ll give you a nice cup of tea and
a ginger biscuit before you go to bed.”
“You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said. “I
didn’t mean you to do anything like that.” He
stood by the piano, watching her as she fussed
about with the cups and saucers. He noticed
that she had small, white, quickly moving
hands, and red finger-nails.
“I’m almost positive it was in the
newspapers I saw them,” Billy said. “I’ll think
of it in a second. I’m sure I will.”
There is nothing more tantalising than a
thing like this which lingers just outside the
borders of one’s memory. He hated to give
up.
“Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a 340
minute. Mulholland ... Christopher
Mulholland ... wasn’t that the name of the
Eton schoolboy who was on a walking-tour
through the West Country, and then all of a
sudden ...”
“Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”
“Yes, please. And then all of a sudden ...”
“Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my
dear, that can’t possibly be right because my
Mr Mulholland was certainly not an Eton
schoolboy when he came to me. He was a
Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here
now and sit next to me and warm yourself in
front of this lovely fire. Come on. Your tea’s
all ready for you.” She patted the empty place
beside her on the sofa, and she sat there
smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over.
He crossed the room slowly, and sat down on the
edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the
table in front of him. 360
“There we are,” she said. “How nice and cosy
this is, isn’t it?”
Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same.
For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke.
But Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her
body was half-turned towards him, and he could
feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him
over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he
caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to
emanate directly from her person. It was not in
the least unpleasant, and it reminded him – well,
he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded him of.
Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the
corridors of a hospital?
“Mr Mulholland was a great one for his tea,”
she said at length. “Never in my life have I seen
anyone drink as much tea as dear, sweet Mr
Mulholland.”
“I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said. He
was still puzzling his head about the two names. 380
He was positive now that he had seen them in the
newspapers – in the headlines.
“Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my
dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr Temple
is also here. They’re on the third floor, both of
them together.”
Billy set down his cup slowly on the table, and
stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him,
and then she put out one of her white hands and
patted him comfortingly on the knee. “How old
are you, my dear?” she asked.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the perfect
age! Mr Mulholland was also seventeen. But I
think he was a trifle shorter than you are, in fact
I’m sure he was, and his teeth weren’t quite so
white. You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr
Weaver, did you know that?”
“They’re not as good as they look,” Billy said.
“They’ve got simply masses of fillings in them 400
at the back.”
“Mr Temple, of course, was a little older,” she
said, ignoring his remark. “He was actually twenty
eight. And yet I never would have guessed it if he
hadn’t told me, never in my whole life. There
wasn’t a blemish on his body.”
“A what?” Billy said.
“His skin was just like a baby’s.”
There was a pause. Billy picked up his
teacup and took another sip of his tea, then he
set it down again gently in its saucer. He
waited for her to say something else, but she
seemed to have lapsed into another of her
silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of
him into the far corner of the room, biting his
lower lip.
“That parrot,” he said at last. “You know
something? It had me completely fooled when
I first saw it through the window from the
street. I could have sworn it was alive.” 420
“Alas, no longer.”
“It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been
done,” he said. “It doesn’t look in the least bit
dead. Who did it?”
“I did.”
“You did?”
“Of course,” she said. “And have you met
my little Basil as well?” She nodded towards
the dachshund curled up so comfortably in
front of the fire. Billy looked at it. And
suddenly, he realised that this animal had all
the time been just as silent and motionless as
the parrot. He put out a hand and touched it
gently on the top of its back. The back was
hard and cold, and when he pushed the hair
to one side with his fingers, he could see the
skin underneath, greyish-black and dry and
perfectly preserved.
“Good gracious me,” he said. “How
absolutely fascinating.” He turned away from 440
the dog and stared with deep admiration at
the little woman beside him on the sofa. “It
must be most awfully difficult to do a thing
like that.”
“Not in the least,” she said. “I stuff all my
little pets myself when they pass away. Will
you have another cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” Billy said. The tea tasted
faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much
care for it.
“You did sign the book, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s good. Because later on, if I happen
to forget what you were called, then I can
always come down here and look it up. I still
do that almost every day with Mr Mulholland
and Mr . . .Mr...”
“Temple,” Billy said. “Gregory Temple.
Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been any
other guests here except them in the last two or 460
three years?”
Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining
her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him
out of the corners of her eyes and gave him
another gentle little smile.
“No, my dear,” she said. ‘Only you.'
© Roald Dahl
Reprinted by kind permission of David
Higham Associates
‘The Landlady’ first appeared in ‘Kiss
Kiss’
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