THE LANDLADY ROALD DAHL

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 quartermile

to The Bell and Dragon. He had

never been to Bath before. 20 He didn’t know

anyone who lived there. But Mr

Greenslade at the Head Office 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

40 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 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.

60 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 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.

80 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 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 100 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 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 bell-button – the door swung

open and a woman was standing there.

Normally you ring the bell and you have

120 at least a half-minute’s wait before the

door opens. But this dame was a like a

jack-in-the-box. 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 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

140 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.”

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.”

160 She seemed terribly nice. She looked

exactly like the mother of one’s best schoolfriend

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 walkingsticks

– nothing.

“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.

180 “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

off-chance 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 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,

200 “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 waterbottle

between the sheets to air them out,

Mr Weaver. 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 220 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. “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

240 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

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

260 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 name

before?

Was he a boy at school? No. Was it one of

his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or

280 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.

“They do? How interesting.”

300 “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 320 three years ago.”

“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head

and 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

340 though they were both famous for the

same sort of thing, if you see what I mean

– like … like Dempsey 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

360 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

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

380 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.

“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

400 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.

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 420 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 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

440 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.”

“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

460 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

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

480 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 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.'

500

© Roald Dahl

Reprinted by kind permission of David

Higham Associates

‘The Landlady’ first appeared in ‘Kiss Kiss’