by Roald Dahl
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, taking the martini and seating herself on the sofa with her handbag on her lap. ‘And what did you do last night?’
‘I stayed on in the office and cast a few inlays. I also got my accounts up to date.’
‘Now really, Cyril, I think it’s high time you let other people do your donkey work for you. You’re much too important for that sort of thing. Why don’t you give the inlays to the mechanic?’
‘I prefer to do them myself. I’m extremely proud of my inlays.’
‘I know you are, darling, and I think they’re absolutely wonderful. They’re the best inlays in the whole world. But I don’t want you to burn yourself out. And why doesn’t that Pulteney woman do the accounts? That’s part of her job, isn’t it?’
‘She does do them. But I have to price everything up first. She doesn’t know who’s rich and who isn’t.’
‘This martini is perfect,’ Mrs Bixby said, setting down her glass on the side table. ‘Quite perfect.’ She opened her bag and took out a handkerchief as if to blow her nose. ‘Oh look!’ she cried, seeing the ticket. ‘I forgot to show you this! I found it just now on the seat of my taxi. It’s got a number on it, and I thought it might be a lottery ticket or something, so I kept it.’
She handed the small piece of stiff brown paper to her husband, who took it in his fingers and began examining it minutely from all angles, as though it were a suspect tooth.
‘You know what this is?’ he said slowly.
‘No dear, I don’t.’
‘It’s a pawn ticket.’
‘A what?’
‘A ticket from a pawnbroker. Here’s the name and address of the shop – somewhere on Sixth Avenue.’
‘Oh dear, I am disappointed. I was hoping it might be a ticket for the Irish Sweep.’
‘There’s no reason to be disappointed,’ Cyril Bixby said. ‘As a matter of fact this could be rather amusing.’
‘Why could it be amusing, darling?’
He began explaining to her exactly how a pawn ticket worked, with particular reference to the fact that anyone possessing the ticket was entitled to claim the article. She listened patiently until he had finished his lecture.
‘You think it’s worth claiming?’ she asked.
‘I think it’s worth finding out what it is. You see this figure of fifty dollars that’s written here? You know what that means?’
‘No, dear, what does it mean?’
‘It means that the item in question is almost certain to be something quite valuable.’
‘You mean it’ll be worth fifty dollars?’
‘More like five hundred.’
‘Five hundred!’
‘Don’t you understand?’ he said. ‘A pawnbroker never gives you more than about a tenth of the real value.’
‘Good gracious! I never knew that.’
‘There’s a lot of things you don’t know, my dear. Now you listen to me. Seeing that there’s no name and address of the owner …’
‘But surely there’s something to say who it belongs to?’
‘Not a thing. People often do that. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been to a pawnbroker. They’re ashamed of it.’
‘Then you think we can keep it?’
‘Of course we can keep it. This is now our ticket.’
‘You mean my ticket,’ Mrs Bixby said firmly. ‘I found it.’
‘My dear girl, what does it matter? The important thing is that we are now in a position to go and redeem it any time we like for only fifty dollars. How about that?’
‘Oh, what fun!’ she cried. ‘I think it’s terribly exciting, especially when we don’t even know what it is. It could be anything, isn’t that right, Cyril? Absolutely anything!’
‘It could indeed, although it’s most likely to be either a ring or a watch.’
‘But wouldn’t it be marvellous if it was a real treasure? I mean something really old, like a wonderful old vase or a Roman statue.’
‘There’s no knowing what it might be, my dear. We shall just have to wait and see.’
‘I think it’s absolutely fascinating! Give me the ticket and I’ll rush over first thing Monday morning and find out!’
‘I think I’d better do that.’
‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘Let me do it!’
‘I think not. I’ll pick it up on my way to work.’
‘But it’s my ticket! Please let me do it, Cyril! Why should you have all the fun?’
‘You don’t know these pawnbrokers, my dear. You’re liable to get cheated.’
‘I wouldn’t get cheated, honestly I wouldn’t. Give it to me, please.’
‘Also you have to have fifty dollars,’ he said, smiling. ‘You have to pay out fifty dollars in cash before they’ll give it to you.’
‘I’ve got that,’ she said. ‘I think.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t handle it, if you don’t mind.’
‘But Cyril, I found it. It’s mine. Whatever it is, it’s mine, isn’t that right?’
‘Of course it’s yours, my dear. There’s no need to get so worked up about it.’
‘I’m not. I’m just excited, that’s all.’
‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that this might be something entirely masculine – a pocket-watch, for example, or a set of shirt-studs. It isn’t only women that go to pawnbrokers, you know.’
‘In that case I’ll give it to you for Christmas,’ Mrs Bixby said magnanimously. ‘I’ll be delighted. But if it’s a woman’s thing, I want it myself. Is that agreed?’
‘That sounds very fair. Why don’t you come with me when I collect it?’
Mrs Bixby was about to say yes to this, but caught herself just in time. She had no wish to be greeted like an old customer by the pawnbroker in her husband’s presence.
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think I will. You see, it’ll be even more thrilling if I stay behind and wait. Oh, I do hope it isn’t going to be something that neither of us wants.’
‘You’ve got a point there,’ he said. ‘If I don’t think it’s worth fifty dollars, I won’t even take it.’
‘But you said it would be worth five hundred.’
‘I’m quite sure it will. Don’t worry.’
‘Oh, Cyril, I can hardly wait! Isn’t it exciting?’
‘It’s amusing,’ he said, slipping the ticket into his waistcoat pocket. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’
Monday morning came at last, and after breakfast Mrs Bixby followed her husband to the door and helped him on with his coat.
‘Don’t work too hard, darling,’ she said.
‘No, all right.’
‘Home at six?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Are you going to have time to go to that pawnbroker?’ she asked.
‘My God, I forgot all about it. I’ll take a cab and go there now. It’s on my way.’
‘You haven’t lost the ticket, have you?’
‘I hope not,’ he said, feeling in his waistcoat pocket. ‘No, here it is.’
‘And you have enough money?’
‘Just about.’
‘Darling,’ she said, standing close to him and straightening his tie, which was perfectly straight. ‘If it happens to be something nice, something you think I might like, will you telephone me as soon as you get to the office?’
‘If you want me to, yes.’
‘You know, I’m sort of hoping it’ll be something for you, Cyril. I’d much rather it was for you than for me.’
‘That’s very generous of you, my dear. Now I must run.’
About an hour later, when the telephone rang, Mrs Bixby was across the room so fast she had the receiver off the hook before the first ring had finished.
‘I got it!’ he said.
‘You did! Oh, Cyril, what was it? Was it something good?’
‘Good!’ he cried. ‘It’s fantastic! You wait till you get your eyes on this! You’ll swoon!’
‘Darl
ing, what is it? Tell me quick!’
‘You’re a lucky girl, that’s what you are.’
‘It’s for me, then?’
‘Of course it’s for you. Though how in the world it ever got to be pawned for only fifty dollars I’ll be damned if I know. Someone’s crazy.’
‘Cyril! Stop keeping me in suspense! I can’t bear it!’
‘You’ll go mad when you see it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Try to guess.’
Mrs Bixby paused. Be careful, she told herself. Be very careful now.
‘A necklace,’ she said.
‘Wrong.’
‘A diamond ring.’
‘You’re not even warm. I’ll give you a hint. It’s something you can wear.’
‘Something I can wear? You mean like a hat?’
‘No, it’s not a hat,’ he said, laughing.
‘For goodness’ sake, Cyril! Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because I want it to be a surprise. I’ll bring it home with me this evening.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ she cried. ‘I’m coming right down there to get it now!’
‘I’d rather you didn’t do that.’
‘Don’t be so silly, darling. Why shouldn’t I come?’
‘Because I’m too busy. You’ll disorganize my whole morning schedule. I’m half an hour behind already.’
‘Then I’ll come in the lunch hour. All right?’
‘I’m not having a lunch hour. Oh well, come at one thirty then, while I’m having a sandwich. Good-bye.’
At half past one precisely, Mrs Bixby arrived at Dr Bixby’s place of business and rang the bell. Her husband, in his white dentist’s coat, opened the door himself.
‘Oh, Cyril, I’m so excited!’
‘So you should be. You’re a lucky girl, did you know that?’ He led her down the passage and into the surgery.
‘Go and have your lunch, Miss Pulteney,’ he said to the assistant, who was busy putting instruments into the sterilizer. ‘You can finish that when you come back.’ He waited until the girl had gone, then he walked over to a closet that he used for hanging up his clothes and stood in front of it, pointing with his finger. ‘It’s in there,’ he said. ‘Now – shut your eyes.’
Mrs Bixby did as she was told. Then she took a deep breath and held it, and in the silence that followed she could hear him opening the cupboard door and there was a soft swishing sound as he pulled out a garment from among the other things hanging there.
‘All right! You can look!’
‘I don’t dare to,’ she said, laughing.
‘Go on. Take a peek.’
Coyly, beginning to giggle, she raised one eyelid a fraction of an inch, just enough to give her a dark blurry view of the man standing there in his white overalls holding something up in the air.
‘Mink!’ he cried. ‘Real mink!’
At the sound of the magic word she opened her eyes quick, and at the same time she actually started forward in order to clasp the coat in her arms.
But there was no coat. There was only a ridiculous little fur neckpiece dangling from her husband’s hand.
‘Feast your eyes on that!’ he said, waving it in front of her face.
Mrs Bixby put a hand up to her mouth and started backing away. I’m going to scream, she told herself. I just know it. I’m going to scream.
‘What’s the matter, my dear? Don’t you like it?’ He stopped waving the fur and stood staring at her, waiting for her to say something.
‘Why yes,’ she stammered. ‘I … I … think it’s … it’s lovely … really lovely.’
‘Quite took your breath away for a moment there, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘Magnificent quality,’ he said. ‘Fine colour, too. You know something, my dear? I reckon a piece like this would cost you two or three hundred dollars at least if you had to buy it in a shop.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
There were two skins, two narrow mangy-looking skins with their heads still on them and glass beads in their eye sockets and little paws hanging down. One of them had the rear end of the other in its mouth, biting it.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try it on.’ He leaned forward and draped the thing round her neck, then stepped back to admire. ‘It’s perfect. It really suits you. It isn’t everyone who has mink, my dear.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Better leave it behind when you go shopping or they’ll all think we’re millionaires and start charging us double.’
‘I’ll try to remember that, Cyril.’
‘I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything else for Christmas. Fifty dollars was rather more than I was going to spend anyway.’
He turned away and went over to the basin and began washing his hands. ‘Run along now, my dear, and buy yourself a nice lunch. I’d take you out myself but I’ve got old man Gorman in the waiting-room with a broken clasp on his denture.’
Mrs Bixby moved towards the door.
I’m going to kill that pawnbroker, she told herself. I’m going right back there to the shop this very minute and I’m going to throw this filthy neckpiece right in his face and if he refuses to give me back my coat I’m going to kill him.
‘Did I tell you I was going to be late home tonight?’ Cyril Bixby said, still washing his hands.
‘No.’
‘It’ll probably be at least eight thirty the way things look at the moment. It may even be nine.’
‘Yes, all right. Good-bye.’ Mrs Bixby went out, slamming the door behind her.
At that precise moment, Miss Pulteney, the secretary-assistant, came sailing past her down the corridor on her way to lunch.
‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ Miss Pulteney said as she went by, flashing a smile. There was a lilt in her walk, a little whiff of perfume attending her, and she looked like a queen, just exactly like a queen in the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs Bixby.
Claud’s Dog
First published in Someone Like You (1953)
Rummins
The sun was up over the hills now and the mist had cleared and it was wonderful to be striding along the road with the dog in the early morning, especially when it was autumn, with the leaves changing to gold and yellow and sometimes one of them breaking away and falling slowly, turning slowly over in the air, dropping noiselessly right in front of him on to the grass beside the road. There was a small wind up above, and he could hear the beeches rustling and murmuring like a crowd of people.
This was always the best time of the day for Claud Cubbage. He gazed approvingly at the rippling velvety hindquarters of the greyhound trotting in front of him.
‘Jackie,’ he called softly. ‘Hey, Jackson. How you feeling, boy?’
The dog half turned at the sound of its name and gave a quick acknowledging wag of the tail.
There would never be another dog like this Jackie, he told himself. How beautiful the slim streamlining, the small pointed head, the yellow eyes, the black mobile nose. Beautiful the long neck, the way the deep brisket curved back and up out of sight into no stomach at all. See how he walked upon his toes, noiselessly, hardly touching the surface of the road at all.
‘Jackson,’ he said. ‘Good old Jackson.’
In the distance, Claud could see Rummins’ farmhouse, small, narrow and ancient, standing back behind the hedge on the right-hand side.
I’ll turn round there, he decided. That’ll be enough for today.
Rummins, carrying a pail of milk across the yard, saw him coming down the road. He set the pail down slowly and came forward to the gate, leaning both arms on the topmost bar, waiting.
‘Morning, Mr Rummins,’ Claud said. It was necessary to be polite to Rummins because of eggs.
Rummins nodded and leaned over the gate, looking critically at the dog.
‘Looks well,’ he said.
‘He is well.’
‘When’s he running?’
<
br /> ‘I don’t know, Mr Rummins.’
‘Come on. When’s he running?’
‘He’s only ten months yet, Mr Rummins. He’s not even schooled properly, honest.’
The small beady eyes of Rummins peered suspiciously over the top of the gate. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting a couple of quid you’re having it off with him somewhere secret soon.’
Claud moved his feet uncomfortably on the black road surface. He disliked very much this man with the wide frog mouth, the broken teeth, the shifty eyes; and most of all he disliked having to be polite to him because of eggs.
‘That hayrick of yours opposite,’ he said, searching desperately for another subject. ‘It’s full of rats.’
‘All hayricks got rats.’
‘Not like this one. Matter of fact we’ve been having a touch of trouble with the authorities about that.’
Rummins glanced up sharply. He didn’t like trouble with the authorities. Any man who sells eggs blackmarket and kills pigs without a permit is wise to avoid contact with that sort of people.