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Re: the landlady
Anonymous - 22.03.2004, 17:26the landlady
wenn es einem für die zusammenfassung von dem film hilft hier ist noch mal die ganze geschichte
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 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 halfdarkness,
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 twentyeight.
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.'
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