The Umbrella Man and Other Stories

by Roald Dahl

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here, and then I’ll come on in.”

  Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t arrive back at the house on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.

  Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. “Well,” he said, standing by the study door, “how was Paris?”

  “We leave at eleven in the morning,” she answered. “It’s definite.”

  “You mean if the fog clears.”

  “It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.”

  “You look tired,” he said. “You must have had an anxious day.”

  “It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”

  “I’ve ordered a car for the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drop me at the club on your way.”

  She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.

  “The club is downtown,” she said. “It isn’t on the way to the airport.”

  “But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want to drop me at the club?”

  “Oh, yes—of course.”

  “That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.”

  She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after she lay down.

  Next morning, Mrs. Foster was up early, and by eight-thirty she was downstairs and ready to leave.

  Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. “Did you make any coffee?” he asked.

  “No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m all ready to go.”

  They were standing in the hall—they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays—she with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels.

  “Your luggage?”

  “It’s at the airport.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. And if you’re going to take me to the club first, I suppose we’d better get going fairly soon, hadn’t we?”

  “Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes—please!”

  “I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you. You get in the car.”

  She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for her as she approached.

  “What time is it?” she asked him.

  “About nine-fifteen.”

  Mr. Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps, she noticed that his legs were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As on the day before, he paused halfway down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.

  “Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,” he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.

  “Hurry, please,” she said to the chauffeur. “Don’t bother about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug. Please get going. I’m late.”

  The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.

  “Just a moment!” Mr. Foster said suddenly. “Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?”

  “What is it, dear?” She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.

  “I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,” he said. “Now, where on earth is it? I’m sure I had it in my hand as I came down.”

  “I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present?”

  “A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it to you yesterday. I don’t want to forget it today.”

  “A little box!” Mrs. Foster cried. “I never saw any little box!” She began hunting frantically in the back of the car.

  Her husband continued searching through the pockets of his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat and felt around in his jacket. “Confound it,” he said, “I must’ve left it in my bedroom. I won’t be a moment.”

  “Oh, please!” she cried. “We haven’t got time! Please leave it! You can mail it. It’s only one of those silly combs anyway. You’re always giving her combs.”

  “And what’s wrong with combs, may I ask?” he said, furious that she should have forgotten herself for once.

  “Nothing, dear, I’m sure. But . . . ”

  “Stay here!” he commanded. “I’m going to get it.”

  “Be quick, dear! Oh, please be quick!”

  She sat still, waiting and waiting.

  “Chauffeur, what time is it?”

  The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. “I make it nearly nine-thirty.”

  “Can we get to the airport in an hour?”

  “Just about.”

  At this point, Mrs. Foster suddenly spotted a corner of something white wedged down in the crack of the seat on the side where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and pulled out a small paper-wrapped box, and at the same time she couldn’t help noticing that it was wedged down firm and deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.

  “Here it is!” she cried. “I’ve found it! Oh dear, and now he’ll be up there for ever searching for it! Chauffeur, quickly—run in and call him down, will you please?”

  The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth, didn’t care very much for any of this, but he climbed out of the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house. Then he turned and came back. “Door’s locked,” he announced. “You got a key?”

  “Yes—wait a minute.” She began hunting madly in her purse. The little face was screwed up tight with anxiety, the lips pushed outward like a spout.

  “Here it is! No—I’ll go myself. It’ll be quicker. I know where he’ll be.”

  She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front door, holding the key in one hand. She slid the key into the keyhole and was about to turn it—and then she stopped. Her head came up, and she stood there absolutely motionless, her whole body arrested right in the middle of all this hurry to turn the key and get into the house, and she waited—five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds, she waited. The way she was standing there, with her head in the air and the body so tense, it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of some sound that she had heard a moment before from a place far away inside the house.

  Yes—quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude was a listening one. She appeared actually to be moving one of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up against the door, and for still another few seconds she remained in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key, about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed, to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly from this place deep within the house.

  Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew the key from the door and came running back down the steps.

  “It’s too late!” she cried to the chauffeur. “I can’t wait for him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver, hurry! To the airport!”

  The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.

  “Hurry, driver, hurry!”

  “Isn’t your husband travelling with you?” the man asked, astonished.

&
nbsp; “Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club. It won’t matter. He’ll understand. He’ll get a cab. Don’t sit there talking, man. Get going! I’ve got a plane to catch for Paris!”

  With Mrs. Foster urging him from the back seat, the man drove fast all the way, and she caught her plane with a few minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic, reclining comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last. The new mood was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer sort of way, wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all, but this was more from pure astonishment at what she had done than anything else, and as the plane flew further and further away from New York and East Sixty-second Street, a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time she reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as she could wish.

  She met her grandchildren, and they were even more beautiful in the flesh than in their photographs. They were like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every day she took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought them presents, and told them charming stories.

  Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her husband—a nice, chatty letter—full of news and gossip, which always ended with the words “Now be sure to take your meals regularly, dear, although this is something I’m afraid you may not be doing when I’m not with you.”

  When the six weeks were up, everybody was sad that she had to return to America, to her husband. Everybody, that is, except her. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to mind as much as one might have expected, and when she kissed them all good-bye, there was something in her manner and in the things she said that appeared to hint at the possibility of a return in the not too distant future.

  However, like the faithful wife she was, she did not overstay her time. Exactly six weeks after she had arrived, she sent a cable to her husband and caught the plane back to New York.

  Arriving at Idlewild, Mrs. Foster was interested to observe that there was no car to meet her. It is possible that she might even have been a little amused. But she was extremely calm and did not overtip the porter who helped her into a taxi with her baggage.

  New York was colder than Paris, and there were lumps of dirty snow lying in the gutters of the streets. The taxi drew up before the house on Sixty-second Street, and Mrs. Foster persuaded the driver to carry her two large cases to the top of the steps. Then she paid him off and rang the bell. She waited, but there was no answer. Just to make sure, she rang again, and she could hear it tinkling shrilly far away in the pantry, at the back of the house. But still no one came.

  So she took out her own key and opened the door herself.

  The first thing she saw as she entered was a great pile of mail lying on the floor where it had fallen after being slipped through the letter box. The place was dark and cold. A dust sheet was still draped over the grandfather clock. In spite of the cold, the atmosphere was peculiarly oppressive, and there was a faint and curious odour in the air that she had never smelled before.

  She walked quickly across the hall and disappeared for a moment around the corner to the left, at the back. There was something deliberate and purposeful about this action; she had the air of a woman who is off to investigate a rumour or to confirm a suspicion. And when she returned a few seconds later, there was a little glimmer of satisfaction on her face.

  She paused in the centre of the hall, as though wondering what to do next. Then, suddenly, she turned and went across into her husband’s study. On the desk she found his address book, and after hunting through it for a while she picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  “Hello,” she said. “Listen—this is Nine East Sixty-second Street . . . Yes, that’s right. Could you send someone round as soon as possible, do you think? Yes, it seems to be stuck between the second and third floors. At least, that’s where the indicator’s pointing . . . Right away? Oh, that’s very kind of you. You see, my legs aren’t any too good for walking up a lot of stairs. Thank you so much. Good-bye.”

  She replaced the receiver and sat there at her husband’s desk, patiently waiting for the man who would be coming soon to repair the lift.

  “It worries me to death, Albert, it really does,” Mrs. Taylor said.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the baby who was now lying absolutely motionless in the crook of her left arm.

  “I just know there’s something wrong.”

  The skin on the baby’s face had a pearly translucent quality and was stretched very tightly over the bones.

  “Try again,” Albert Taylor said.

  “It won’t do any good.”

  “You have to keep trying, Mabel,” he said.

  She lifted the bottle out of the saucepan of hot water and shook a few drops of milk on to the inside of her wrist, testing for temperature.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, my baby. Wake up and take a bit more of this.”

  There was a small lamp on the table close by that made a soft yellow glow all around her.

  “Please,” she said. “Take just a weeny bit more.”

  The husband watched her over the top of his magazine. She was half dead with exhaustion, he could see that, and the pale oval face, usually so grave and serene, had taken on a kind of pinched and desperate look. But even so, the drop of her head as she gazed down at the child was curiously beautiful.

  “You see,” she murmured. “It’s no good. She won’t have it.”

  She held the bottle up to the light, squinting at the calibrations.

  “One ounce again. That’s all she’s taken. No—it isn’t even that. It’s only three-quarters. It’s not enough to keep body and soul together, Albert, it really isn’t. It worries me to death.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “If only they could find out what was wrong.”

  “There’s nothing wrong, Mabel. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Of course there’s something wrong.”

  “Dr. Robinson says no.”

  “Look,” she said, standing up. “You can’t tell me it’s natural for a six-week-old child to weigh less, less by more than two whole pounds than she did when she was born! Just look at those legs! They’re nothing but skin and bone!”

  The tiny baby lay limply on her arm, not moving.

  “Dr. Robinson said you was to stop worrying, Mabel. So did that other one.”

  “Ha!” she said. “Isn’t that wonderful! I’m to stop worrying!”

  “Now, Mabel.”

  “What does he want me to do? Treat it as some sort of a joke?”

  “He didn’t say that.”

  “I hate doctors! I hate them all!” she cried, and she swung away from him and walked quickly out of the room towards the stairs, carrying the baby with her.

  Albert Taylor stayed where he was and let her go.

  In a little while he heard her moving about in the bedroom directly over his head, quick nervous footsteps going tap tap tap on the linoleum above. Soon the footsteps would stop, and then he would have to get up and follow her, and when he went into the bedroom he would find her sitting beside the cot as usual, staring at the child and crying softly to herself and refusing to move.

  “She’s starving, Albert,” she would say.

  “Of course she’s not starving.”

  “She is starving. I know she is. And Albert?”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe you know it too, but you won’t admit it. Isn’t that right?”

  Every night now it was like this.

  Last week they had taken the child back to the hospital, and the doctor had examined it carefully and told them that there was nothing the matter.

  “It took us nine years to get this baby, Doctor,” Mabel had said. “I think it would kill me if anything should happen to her.”

  That was six days ago and since then it had lost another five ounces.

  But worrying about it wasn’t going to help anybody, Albert Ta
ylor told himself. One simply had to trust the doctor on a thing like this. He picked up the magazine that was still lying on his lap and glanced idly down the list of contents to see what it had to offer this week:

  Among the Bees in May

  Honey Cookery

  The Bee Farmer and the B. Pharm.

  Experiences in the Control of Nosema

  The Latest on Royal Jelly

  This Week in the Apiary

  The Healing Power of Propolis

  Regurgitations

  British Beekeepers’ Annual Dinner

  Association News

  All his life Albert Taylor had been fascinated by anything that had to do with bees. As a small boy he often used to catch them in his bare hands and go running with them into the house to show to his mother, and sometimes he would put them on his face and let them crawl about over his cheeks and neck, and the astonishing thing about it all was that he never got stung. On the contrary, the bees seemed to enjoy being with him. They never tried to fly away, and to get rid of them he would have to brush them off gently with his fingers. Even then they would frequently return and settle again on his arm or hand or knee, any place where the skin was bare.

  His father, who was a bricklayer, said there must be some witch’s stench about the boy, something noxious that came oozing out through the pores of the skin, and that no good would ever come of it, hypnotizing insects like that. But the mother said it was a gift given him by God, and even went so far as to compare him with St. Francis and the birds.

  As he grew older, Albert Taylor’s fascination with bees developed into an obsession, and by the time he was twelve he had built his first hive. The following summer he had captured his first swarm. Two years later, at the age of fourteen, he had no less than five hives standing neatly in a row against the fence in his father’s small back yard, and already—apart from the normal task of producing honey—he was practising the delicate and complicated business of rearing his own queens, grafting larvae into artificial cell cups, and all the rest of it.

  He never had to use smoke when there was work to do inside a hive, and he never wore gloves on his hands or a net over his head. Clearly there was some strange sympathy between this boy and the bees, and down in the village, in the shops and pubs, they began to speak about him with a certain kind of respect, and people started coming up to the house to buy his honey.