The Landlady by 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.”
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.
“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 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, “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. 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. “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 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
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.
“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 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 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 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.
“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. 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 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.”
“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 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 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.'
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.”
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.
“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 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, “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. 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. “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 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
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.
“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 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 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 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.
“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. 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 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.”
“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 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 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.'
Achtergrond informatie
Dit kort verhaal is geschreven door Roald Dahl.
Billy Weaver arriveert op het treinstation in Bath. Hij wil een plekje voor de nacht vinden. Wanneer hij door de hoofdstraat loopt ziet hij ‘Bed and Breakfast Inn’. Het ziet er niet aantrekkelijk uit, maar toch gaat hij er heen. De waardin verwelkomt hem en nodig hem uit voor een kopje thee beneden. Het blijkt dat zij alleen mooie, jonge en rijke mannen uitnodigt.
De vrouw heeft een hele rare ‘hobby’. Ze verteld Billy dat ze in het verleden maar twee gasten heeft gehad, het blijkt dat ze deze heeft opgezet (net zoals bij dieren). Hetzelfde lot zal Billy ondergaan…
Billy komt over als iemand die nog niet veel ervaring heeft opgedaan in zijn leven. Hij is een naïef persoon, denkt dat de vrouw gewoon een beetje gek is. Hij heeft dus totaal niet door dat zij met een plan bezig is. Wij vinden hem een zielig persoon, omdat wij als lezers weten wat hem te wachten staat, terwijl hij het zelf niet eens doorheeft.
De waardin is een heel vreemd mens. Zij heeft in al die tijd maar twee gasten in haar bed and breakfast gehad en deze hebben het gebouw dus nooit meer verlaten. Wat zij doet is eigenlijk iets wat niet door de beugel kan. Wij zouden bijna kunnen zij dat ze gestoord is, ze is in ieder geval een mens met verkeerde bedoelingen. Zij is gemeen.
De tijd en plaats waarin het verhaal zich afspeelt versterkt de gesprekken en gebeurtenissen in het verhaal. Het speelt zich af in een hotelletje in Londen op een donkere avond. Deze avond weerspiegelt onguur, dit geeft een versterkend effect, aangezien de hoofdpersoon veel te wachten staat.
Het stuk waarin duidelijk wordt dat de twee eerdere gasten het hotel nooit hebben verlaten: “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.”
Dit stuk is eigenlijk het hoogtepunt van het verhaal, hierin kom je als lezer het plan van de gemene, oude vrouw min of meer te weten.
Maar Billy heeft nog steeds niet door dat de vrouw iets van plan is, hij zit gewoon naast haar met zijn onwetendheid. Wel is hij aan het nadenken waarom die twee namen (van de twee eerdere gasten) hem zo bekend voorkomen: “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…” Als lezer weet je welke connectie Billy eigenlijk bedoelt. De twee namen zijn met elkaar verbonden, omdat beiden mannen allebei verdwenen waren voor de buitenwereld, zij staan op de derde etage van het hotel.
Onze mening
Het verhaal bevat een zekere spanning. De vrouw verteld Billy doodgewoon dat de twee mannen nog op de derde verdieping staan, Billy maakt zich hier niet zo druk om. Maar voor ons als lezers wekt dat toch bepaalde verwachtingen op, waarom staan die mannen daar.
De hoofdpersoon is erg onwetend, eigenlijk is het zielig dat hij na een tijd praten nog niet door heeft dat de vrouw wat van plan heeft. Het lijkt ons raar dat je dat niet door hebt, als er in een hotel nooit meer dan twee gasten zijn geweest en er nog steeds zijn.
Roald Dahl heeft het verhaal ‘The Landlady’ goed geschreven. Hij heeft beschrijvingen op een mysterieuze manier beschreven die je aan het denken zet.
Toch blijft het een vreemd verhaal en over de vrouw kan je niets anders zeggen dan dat zij gek is. Een erg vreemde bezigheid, mensen opzetten…
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