by Roald Dahl
‘Yes.’
‘Writin’ books is OK,’ he said. ‘It’s what I call a skilled trade. I’m in a skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin’ crummy old routine jobs with no skill in ’em at all. You see what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘The secret of life,’ he said, ‘is to become very very good at somethin’ that’s very very ’ard to do.’
‘Like you,’ I said.
‘Exactly. You and me both.’
‘What makes you think that I’m any good at my job?’ I asked. ‘There’s an awful lot of bad writers around.’
‘You wouldn’t be drivin’ about in a car like this if you weren’t no good at it,’ he answered. ‘It must’ve cost a tidy packet, this little job.’
‘It wasn’t cheap.’
‘What can she do flat out?’ he asked.
‘One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour,’ I told him.
‘I’ll bet she won’t do it.’
‘I’ll bet she will.’
‘All car makers is liars,’ he said. ‘You can buy any car you like and it’ll never do what the makers say it will in the ads.’
‘This one will.’
‘Open ’er up then and prove it,’ he said. ‘Go on, guv’nor, open ’er right up and let’s see what she’ll do.’
There is a roundabout at Chalfont St Peter and immediately beyond it there’s a long straight section of dual carriageway. We came out of the roundabout on to the carriageway and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. The big car leaped forwards as though she’d been stung. In ten seconds or so, we were doing ninety.
‘Lovely!’ he cried. ‘Beautiful! Keep goin’!’
I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.
‘One hundred!’ he shouted … ‘A hundred and five! … A hundred and ten! … A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don’t slack off!’
I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still – a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroën, a white Land Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus …
‘A hundred and twenty!’ my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. ‘Go on! Go on! Get ’er up to one-two-nine!’
At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.
‘Oh, my sainted aunt!’ I said. ‘That’s torn it!’
The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. ‘I didn’t know police motorcycles could go as fast as that,’ I said rather lamely.
‘That one can,’ my passenger said. ‘It’s the same make as yours. It’s a BMW R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That’s what they’re usin’ nowadays.’
The policeman got off his motor-cycle and leaned the machine sideways on to its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.
‘This is real trouble,’ I said. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’
‘Don’t talk to ’im any more than is necessary, you understand,’ my companion said. ‘Just sit tight and keep mum.’
Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.
We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.
‘Watch out for this man,’ my passenger whispered. ‘’Ee looks mean as the devil.’
The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.
‘No hurry, officer,’ I answered.
‘Perhaps there’s a woman in the back having a baby and you’re rushing her to hospital? Is that it?’
‘No, officer.’
‘Or perhaps your house is on fire and you’re dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?’ His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.
‘My house isn’t on fire, officer.’
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’ve got yourself into a nasty mess, haven’t you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?’
‘Seventy,’ I said.
‘And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just now?’
I shrugged and didn’t say anything.
When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. ‘One hundred and twenty miles per hour!’ he barked. ‘That’s fifty miles an hour over the limit!’
He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back again and stared hard at my passenger. ‘And who are you?’ he asked sharply.
‘He’s a hitch-hiker,’ I said. ‘I’m giving him a lift.’
‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said. ‘I asked him.’
‘’Ave I done somethin’ wrong?’ my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream.
‘That’s more than likely,’ the policeman answered. ‘Anyway, you’re a witness. I’ll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence,’ he snapped, holding out his hand.
I gave him my driving-licence.
He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the dreaded book of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence. Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that down as well. He filled in the date, the time and the details of my offence. Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the button.
‘Now you,’ he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black notebook. ‘Name?’ he snapped.
‘Michael Fish,’ my passenger said.
‘Address?’
‘Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton.’
‘Show me something to prove this is your real name and address,’ the policeman said.
My passenger fished in his pockets and came out with a driving-licence of his own. The policeman checked the name and address and handed it back to him. ‘What’s your job?’ he asked sharply.
‘I’m an ’od carrier.’
‘A what?’
‘An ’od carrier.’
‘Spell it.’
‘H-O-D C-A- …’
‘That’ll do. And what’s a hod carrier, may I ask?’
‘An ’od carrier, officer, is a person ’oo carries the cement up the ladder to the bricklayer. And the ’od is what ’ee carries it in. It’s got a long ’andle, and on the top you’ve got two bits of wood set at an angle …’
‘All right, all right. Who’s your employer?’
‘Don’t ’ave one. I’m unemployed.’
The policeman wrote all this down in the black notebook. Then he returned the book to its pocket and did up the button.
‘When I get back to the station I’m going to do a little checking up on you,’ he said to my passenger.
‘Me? What’ve I done wrong?’ the rat-faced man asked.
‘I don’t like your face, that’s all,’ the policeman said. ‘And we just might have a picture of it somewhere in our files.’ He strolled round the car and returned to my window.
‘I suppose you know you’re in serious trouble,’ he said to me.
‘Yes, officer.’
‘You won’t be driving this fancy car of yours again fo
r a very long time, not after we’ve finished with you. You won’t be driving any car again come to that for several years. And a good thing, too. I hope they lock you up for a spell into the bargain.’
‘You mean prison?’ I asked, alarmed.
‘Absolutely,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘In the clink. Behind the bars. Along with all the other criminals who break the law. And a hefty fine into the bargain. Nobody will be more pleased about that than me. I’ll see you in court, both of you. You’ll be getting a summons to appear.’
He turned away and walked over to his motor-cycle. He flipped the prop stand back into position with his foot and swung his leg over the saddle. Then he kicked the starter and roared off up the road out of sight.
‘Phew!’ I gasped. ‘That’s done it.’
‘We was caught,’ my passenger said. ‘We was caught good and proper.’
‘I was caught, you mean.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘What you goin’ to do now, guv’nor?’
‘I’m going straight up to London to talk to my solicitor,’ I said. I started the car and drove on.
‘You mustn’t believe what ’ee said to you about goin’ to prison,’ my passenger said. ‘They don’t put nobody in the clink just for speedin’.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ I asked.
‘I’m positive,’ he answered. ‘They can take your licence away and they can give you a whoppin’ big fine, but that’ll be the end of it.’
I felt tremendously relieved.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘why did you lie to him?’
‘Who, me?’ he said. ‘What makes you think I lied?’
‘You told him you were an unemployed hod carrier. But you told me you were in a highly skilled trade.’
‘So I am,’ he said. ‘But it don’t pay to tell everythin’ to a copper.’
‘So what do you do?’ I asked him.
‘Ah,’ he said slyly. ‘That’d be tellin’, wouldn’t it?’
‘Is it something you’re ashamed of?’
‘Ashamed?’ he cried. ‘Me, ashamed of my job? I’m about as proud of it as anybody could be in the entire world!’
‘Then why won’t you tell me?’
‘You writers really is nosey parkers, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘And you ain’t goin’ to be ’appy, I don’t think, until you’ve found out exactly what the answer is?’
‘I don’t really care one way or the other,’ I told him, lying.
He gave me a crafty little ratty look out of the sides of his eyes. ‘I think you do care,’ he said. ‘I can see it in your face that you think I’m in some kind of a very peculiar trade and you’re just achin’ to know what it is.’
I didn’t like the way he read my thoughts. I kept quiet and stared at the road ahead.
‘You’d be right, too,’ he went on. ‘I am in a very peculiar trade. I’m in the queerest peculiar trade of ’em all.’
I waited for him to go on.
‘That’s why I ’as to be extra careful ’oo I’m talkin’ to, you see. ’Ow am I to know, for instance, you’re not another copper in plain clothes?’
‘Do I look like a copper?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t. And you ain’t. Any fool could tell that.’
He took from his pocket a tin of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers and started to roll a cigarette. I was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and the speed with which he performed this rather difficult operation was incredible. The cigarette was rolled and ready in about five seconds. He ran his tongue along the edge of the paper, stuck it down and popped the cigarette between his lips. Then, as if from nowhere, a lighter appeared in his hand. The lighter flamed. The cigarette was lit. The lighter disappeared. It was altogether a remarkable performance.
‘I’ve never seen anyone roll a cigarette as fast as that,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ he said, taking a deep suck of smoke. ‘So you noticed.’
‘Of course I noticed. It was quite fantastic.’
He sat back and smiled. It pleased him very much that I had noticed how quickly he could roll a cigarette. ‘You want to know what makes me able to do it?’ he asked.
‘Go on then.’
‘It’s because I’ve got fantastic fingers. These fingers of mine,’ he said, holding up both hands high in front of him, ‘are quicker and cleverer than the fingers of the best piano player in the world!’
‘Are you a piano player?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘Do I look like a piano player?’
I glanced at his fingers. They were so beautifully shaped, so slim and long and elegant, they didn’t seem to belong to the rest of him at all. They looked more like the fingers of a brain surgeon or a watchmaker.
‘My job,’ he went on, ‘is a hundred times more difficult than playin’ the piano. Any twerp can learn to do that. There’s titchy little kids learnin’ to play the piano in almost any ’ouse you go into these days. That’s right, ain’t it?’
‘More or less,’ I said.
‘Of course it’s right. But there’s not one person in ten million can learn to do what I do. Not one in ten million! ’Ow about that?’
‘Amazing,’ I said.
‘You’re darn right it’s amazin’,’ he said.
‘I think I know what you do,’ I said. ‘You do conjuring tricks. You’re a conjurer.’
‘Me?’ he snorted. ‘A conjurer? Can you picture me goin’ round crummy kids’ parties makin’ rabbits come out of top ’ats?’
‘Then you’re a card player. You get people into card games and deal yourself marvellous hands.’
‘Me! A rotten card-sharper!’ he cried. ‘That’s a miserable racket if ever there was one.’
‘All right. I give up.’
I was taking the car along slowly now, at no more than forty miles an hour, to make quite sure I wasn’t stopped again. We had come on to the main London–Oxford road and were running down the hill towards Denham.
Suddenly, my passenger was holding up a black leather belt in his hand. ‘Ever seen this before?’ he asked. The belt had a brass buckle of unusual design.
‘Hey!’ I said. ‘That’s mine, isn’t it? It is mine! Where did you get it?’
He grinned and waved the belt gently from side to side. ‘Where d’you think I got it?’ he said. ‘Off the top of your trousers, of course.’
I reached down and felt for my belt. It was gone.
‘You mean you took it off me while we’ve been driving along?’ I asked, flabbergasted.
He nodded, watching me all the time with those little black ratty eyes.
‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘You’d have to undo the buckle and slide the whole thing out through the loops all the way round. I’d have seen you doing it. And even if I hadn’t seen you, I’d have felt it.’
‘Ah, but you didn’t, did you?’ he said, triumphant. He dropped the belt on his lap, and now all at once there was a brown shoelace dangling from his fingers. ‘And what about this, then?’ he exclaimed, waving the shoelace.
‘What about it?’ I said.
‘Anyone round ’ere missin’ a shoelace?’ he asked, grinning.
I glanced down at my shoes. The lace of one of them was missing. ‘Good grief!’ I said. ‘How did you do that? I never saw you bending down.’
‘You never saw nothin’,’ he said proudly. ‘You never even saw me move an inch. And you know why?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Because you’ve got fantastic fingers.’
‘Exactly right!’ he cried. ‘You catch on pretty quick, don’t you?’ He sat back and sucked away at his homemade cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream against the windshield. He knew he had impressed me greatly with those two tricks, and this made him very happy. ‘I don’t want to be late,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’
‘There’s a clock in front of you,’ I told him.
‘I don’t trust car clocks,’ he said. ‘What does your watch say?’
&nbs
p; I hitched up my sleeve to look at the watch on my wrist. It wasn’t there. I looked at the man. He looked back at me, grinning.
‘You’ve taken that, too,’ I said.
He held out his hand and there was my watch lying in his palm. ‘Nice bit of stuff, this,’ he said. ‘Superior quality. Eighteen-carat gold. Easy to flog, too. It’s never any trouble gettin’ rid of quality goods.’
‘I’d like it back, if you don’t mind,’ I said rather huffily.
He placed the watch carefully on the leather tray in front of him. ‘I wouldn’t nick anything from you, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘You’re my pal. You’re giving me a lift.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said.
‘All I’m doin’ is answerin’ your questions,’ he went on. ‘You asked me what I did for a livin’ and I’m showin’ you.’
‘What else have you got of mine?’
He smiled again, and now he started to take from the pocket of his jacket one thing after another that belonged to me – my driving-licence, a key-ring with four keys on it, some pound notes, a few coins, a letter from my publishers, my diary, a stubby old pencil, a cigarette-lighter, and last of all, a beautiful old sapphire ring with pearls around it belonging to my wife. I was taking the ring up to the jeweller in London because one of the pearls was missing.
‘Now there’s another lovely piece of goods,’ he said, turning the ring over in his fingers. ‘That’s eighteenth century, if I’m not mistaken, from the reign of King George the Third.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, impressed. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
He put the ring on the leather tray with the other items.
‘So you’re a pickpocket,’ I said.
‘I don’t like that word,’ he answered. ‘It’s a coarse and vulgar word. Pickpockets is coarse and vulgar people who only do easy little amateur jobs. They lift money from blind old ladies.’
‘What do you call yourself, then?’
‘Me? I’m a fingersmith. I’m a professional fingersmith.’ He spoke the words solemnly and proudly, as though he were telling me he was the President of the Royal College of Surgeons or the Archbishop of Canterbury.
‘I’ve never heard that word before,’ I said. ‘Did you invent it?’
‘Of course I didn’t invent it,’ he replied. ‘It’s the name given to them who’s risen to the very top of the profession. You’ve ’eard of a goldsmith and a silversmith, for instance. They’re experts with gold and silver. I’m an expert with my fingers, so I’m a fingersmith.’