Tales of the Unexpected Read online

  Roald Dahl

  Tales of the Unexpected

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Taste

  Lamb to the Slaughter

  Man from the South

  My Lady Love, My Dove

  Dip in the Pool

  Galloping Foxley

  Skin

  Neck

  Nunc Dimittis

  The Landlady

  William and Mary

  The Way Up To Heaven

  Parson’s Pleasure

  Mrs Bixby and the Colonel’s Coat

  Royal Jelly

  Edward the Conqueror

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Tales Of The Unexpected

  Roald Dahl’s parents were Norwegian, but he was born in Llandaff, Glamorgan, in 1916 and educated at Repton School. On the outbreak of the Second World War, he enlisted in the RAF at Nairobi. He was severely wounded after joining a fighter squadron in Libya, but later saw service as a fighter pilot in Greece and Syria. In 1942 he went to Washington as Assistant Air Attaché, which was where he started to write, and then was transferred to Intelligence, ending the war as a wing commander. His first twelve short stories, based on his wartime experiences, were originally published in leading American magazines and afterwards as a book, Over to You. All of his highly acclaimed stories have been widely translated and have become bestsellers all over the world. Anglia Television dramatized a selection of his short stories under the title Tales of the Unexpected. Among his other publications are two volumes of autobiography, Boy and Going Solo, his much-praised novel My Uncle Oswald, and Roald Dahl’s Book of Ghost Stories, of which he was editor. During the last year of his life he compiled a book of anecdotes and recipes with his wife, Felicity, which was published by Penguin in 1996 as Roald Dahl’s Cookbook. He is one of the most successful and well known of all children’s writers, and his books are read by children all over the world. These include James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Magic Finger, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, Fantastic Mr Fox, The Twits, The Witches, winner of the 1983 Whithread Award, The BFG and Matilda.

  Roald Dahl died in November 1990. The Times described him as ‘one of the most widely read and influential writers of our generation’ and wrote in its obituary: ‘Children loved his stories and made him their favourite… They will be classics of the future.’ In 2000 Roald Dahl was voted the nation’s favourite author in the World Book Day poll.

  For more information on Roald Dahl go to www.roalddahl.com

  Roald Dahl In Penguin

  Fiction

  Over To You

  Someone Like You

  Kiss Kiss

  Switch Bitch

  Tales of the Unexpected

  My Uncle Oswald

  More Tales of the Unexpected

  The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar

  The Best of Roald Dahl

  Roald Dahl’s Book of Ghost Stories (editor)

  Completely Unexpected Tales

  Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life

  The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl

  Non-Fiction

  Boy

  Going Solo

  (also published together in one volume)

  Roald Dahl’s Cookbook

  (with Felicity Dahl)

  Taste

  There were six of us to dinner that night at Mike Schofield’s house in London: Mike and his wife and daughter, my wife and I, and a man called Richard Pratt.

  Richard Pratt was a famous gourmet. He was president of a small society known as the Epicures, and each month he circulated privately to its members a pamphlet on food and wines. He organized dinners where sumptuous dishes and rare wines were served. He refused to smoke for fear of harming his palate, and when discussing wine, he had a curious, rather droll habit of referring to it as though it were a living being. ‘A prudent wine,’ he would say, ‘rather diffident and evasive, but quite prudent.’ Or, ‘A good-humoured wine, benevolent and cheerful – slightly obscene, perhaps, but none the less good-humoured.’

  I had been to dinner at Mike’s twice before when Richard Pratt was there, and on each occasion Mike and his wife had gone out of their way to produce a special meal for the famous gourmet. And this one, clearly, was to be no exception. The moment we entered the dining-room, I could see that the table was laid for a feast. The tall candles, the yellow roses, the quantity of shining silver, the three wineglasses to each person, and above all, the faint scent of roasting meat from the kitchen brought the first warm oozings of saliva to my mouth.

  As we sat down, I remembered that on both Richard Pratt’s previous visits Mike had played a little betting game with him over the claret, challenging him to name its breed and its vintage. Pratt had replied that that should not be too difficult provided it was one of the great years. Mike had then bet him a case of the wine in question that he could not do it. Pratt had accepted, and had won both times. Tonight I felt sure that the little game would be played over again, for Mike was quite willing to lose the bet in order to prove that his wine was good enough to be recognized, and Pratt, for his part, seemed to take a grave, restrained pleasure in displaying his knowledge.

  The meal began with a plate of whitebait, fried very crisp in butter, and to go with it there was a Moselle. Mike got up and poured the wine himself, and when he sat down again, I could see that he was watching Richard Pratt. He had set the bottle in front of me so that I could read the label. It said, ‘Geierslay Ohligsberg, 1945’. He leaned over and whispered to me that Geierslay was a tiny village in the Moselle, almost unknown outside Germany. He said that this wine we were drinking was something unusual, that the output of the vineyard was so small that it was almost impossible for a stranger to get any of it. He had visited Geierslay personally the previous summer in order to obtain the few dozen bottles that they had finally allowed him to have.

  ‘I doubt whether anyone else in the country has any of it at the moment,’ he said. I saw him glance again at Richard Pratt. ‘Great thing about Moselle,’ he continued, raising his voice, ‘it’s the perfect wine to serve before a claret. A lot of people serve a Rhine wine instead, but that’s because they don’t know any better. A Rhine wine will kill a delicate claret, you know that? It’s barbaric to serve a Rhine before a claret. But a Moselle – ah! – a Moselle is exactly right.’

  Mike Schofield was an amiable, middle-aged man. But he was a stockbroker. To be precise, he was a jobber in the stock market, and like a number of his kind, he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed, almost ashamed to find that he had made so much money with so slight a talent. In his heart he knew that he was not really much more than a bookmaker – an unctuous, infinitely respectable, secretly unscrupulous bookmaker – and he knew that his friends knew it, too. So he was seeking now to become a man of culture, to cultivate a literary and aesthetic taste, to collect paintings, music, books, and all the rest of it. His little sermon about Rhine wine and Moselle was a part of this thing, this culture that he sought.

  ‘A charming little wine, don’t you think?’ he said. He was still watching Richard Pratt. I could see him give a rapid furtive glance down the table each time he dropped his head to take a mouthful of whitebait. I could almost feel him waiting for the moment when Pratt would take his first sip, and look up from his glass with a smile of pleasure, of astonishment, perhaps even of wonder, and then there would be a discussion and Mike would tell him about the village of Geierslay.

  But Richard Pratt did not taste his wine. He was completely engrossed in conversation with Mike’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Louise. He was half turned towards her, smiling at her, telling her, so far as I could gather, some story about a chef in a Paris restaurant. As he spoke, he leaned closer a
nd closer to her, seeming in his eagerness almost to impinge upon her, and the poor girl leaned as far as she could away from him, nodding politely, rather desperately, and looking not at his face but at the topmost button of his dinner jacket.

  We finished our fish, and the maid came round removing the plates. When she came to Pratt, she saw that he had not yet touched his food, so she hesitated, and Pratt noticed her. He waved her away, broke off his conversation, and quickly began to eat, popping the little crisp brown fish quickly into his mouth with rapid jabbing movements of his fork. Then, when he had finished, he reached for his glass, and in two short swallows he tipped the wine down his throat and turned immediately to resume his conversation with Louise Schofield.

  Mike saw it all. I was conscious of him sitting there, very still, containing himself, looking at his guest. His round jovial face seemed to loosen slightly and to sag, but he contained himself and was still and said nothing.

  Soon the maid came forward with the second course. This was a large roast of beef. She placed it on the table in front of Mike who stood up and carved it, cutting the slices very thin, laying them gently on the plates for the maid to take around. When he had served everyone, including himself, he put down the carving knife and leaned forward with both hands on the edge of the table.

  ‘Now,’ he said, speaking to all of us but looking at Richard Pratt. ‘Now for the claret. I must go and fetch the claret, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘You go and fetch it, Mike?’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my study, with the cork out – breathing.’

  ‘Why the study?’

  ‘Acquiring room temperature, of course. It’s been there twenty-four hours.’

  ‘But why the study?’

  ‘It’s the best place in the house. Richard helped me choose it last time he was here.’

  At the sound of his name, Pratt looked round.

  ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ Mike said.

  ‘Yes,’ Pratt answered, nodding gravely. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘On top of the green filing cabinet in my study,’ Mike said. ‘That’s the place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it.’

  The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and he hurried out of the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking softly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The label was out of sight, facing downwards. ‘Now!’ he cried as he came towards the table. ‘What about this one, Richard? You’ll never name this one!’

  Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike, then his eyes travelled down to the bottle nestling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his eyebrows, a slight, supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing outward of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.

  ‘You’ll never get it,’ Mike said. ‘Not in a hundred years.’

  ‘A claret?’ Richard Pratt asked, condescending.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I assume, then, that it’s from one of the smaller vineyards?’

  ‘Maybe it is, Richard. And then again, maybe it isn’t.’

  ‘But it’s a good year? One of the great years?’

  ‘Yes, I guarantee that.’

  ‘Then it shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Richard Pratt said, drawling his words, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something strange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of something evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of uneasiness as I watched him.

  ‘This one is really rather difficult,’ Mike said. ‘I won’t force you to bet on this one.’

  ‘Indeed. And why not?’ Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, intent look.

  ‘Because it’s difficult.’

  ‘That’s not very complimentary to me, you know.’

  ‘My dear man,’ Mike said, ‘I’ll bet you with pleasure, if that’s what you wish.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.’

  ‘You mean you want to bet?’

  I’m perfectly willing to bet,’ Richard Pratt said.

  ‘All right then, we’ll have the usual. A case of the wine itself.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ll be able to name it, do you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don’t,’ Mike said. He was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuch to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his next question seemed to betray a certain interest.

  ‘You like to increase the bet?’

  ‘No, Richard. A case is plenty.’

  ‘Would you like to bet fifty cases?’

  ‘That would be silly.’

  Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whiteness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.

  Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows raised, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. And again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the man’s face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themselves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdness, hiding.

  ‘So you don’t want to increase the bet?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, old man, I don’t give a damn,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll bet you anything you like.’

  The three women and I sat quietly, watching the two men. Mike’s wife was becoming annoyed; her mouth had gone sour and I felt that at any moment she was going to interrupt. Our roast beef lay before us on our plates, slowly steaming.

  ‘So you’ll bet me anything I like?’

  ‘That’s what I told you. I’ll bet you anything you damn well please, if you want to make an issue out of it.’

  ‘Even ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘Certainly I will, if that’s the way you want it.’ Mike was more confident now. He knew quite well that he could call any sum Pratt cared to mention.

  ‘So you say I can name the bet?’ Pratt asked again.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  There was a pause while Pratt looked slowly around the table, first at me, then at the three women, each in turn. He appeared to be reminding us that we were witness to the offer.

  ‘Mike!’ Mrs Schofield said. ‘Mike, why don’t we stop this nonsense and eat our food. It’s getting cold.’

  ‘But it isn’t nonsense,’ Pratt told her evenly. ‘We’re making a little bet.’

  I noticed the maid standing in the background holding a dish of vegetables, wondering whether to come forward with them or not.

  ‘All right, then,’ Pratt said. ‘I’ll tell you what I want you to bet.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ Mike said, rather reckless. ‘I don’t give a damn what it is – you’re on.’

  Pratt nodded, and again the little smile moved the corners of his lips, and then, quite slowly, looking at Mike all the time, he said, ‘I want you to bet me the hand of your daughter in marriage.’

  Louise Schofield gave a jump. ‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘No! That’s not funny! Look here, Daddy, that’s not funny at all.’

  ‘No, dear,’ her mother said. ‘They’re only joking.’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ Richard Pratt said.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Mike said. He was off balance again now.

  ‘You said you’d bet anything I liked.’

  ‘I meant money.’

  ‘You didn’t say money.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  ‘Then it’s a pity you didn’t say it. But anyway, if you wish to go back on your offer, that’s quite all right with me.’

  ‘It’s not a question of going back on my offer, old man. It’s a no-bet anyway, because you can’t match the stake. You yourself don’t happen to have a daughter to put up aga
inst mine in case you lose. And if you had, I wouldn’t want to marry her.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, dear,’ his wife said.

  ‘I’ll put up anything you like,’ Pratt announced. ‘My house, for example. How about my house?’

  ‘Which one?’ Mike asked, joking now.

  ‘The country one.’

  ‘Why not the other one as well?’

  ‘All right then, if you wish it. Both my houses.’

  At that point I saw Mike pause. He took a step forward and placed the bottle in its basket gently down on the table. He moved the salt-cellar to one side, then the pepper, and then he picked up his knife, studied the blade thoughtfully for a moment, and put it down again. His daughter, too, had seen him pause.

  ‘Now, Daddy!’ she cried. ‘Don’t be absurd! It’s too silly for words. I refuse to be betted on like this.’

  ‘Quite right, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Stop it at once, Mike, and sit down and eat your food.’

  Mike ignored her. He looked over at his daughter and he smiled, a slow, fatherly, protective smile. But in his eyes, suddenly, there glimmered a little triumph. ‘You know,’ he said, smiling as he spoke. ‘You know, Louise, we ought to think about this a bit.’

  ‘Now, stop it, Daddy! I refuse even to listen to you! Why, I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life!’

  ‘No, seriously, my dear. Just wait a moment and hear what I have to say.’

  ‘But I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Louise! Please! It’s like this. Richard, here, has offered us a serious bet. He is the one who wants to make it, not me. And if he loses, he will have to hand over a considerable amount of property. Now, wait a minute, my dear, don’t interrupt. The point is this. He cannot possibly win.’

  ‘He seems to think he can.’

  ‘Now listen to me, because I know what I’m talking about. The expert, when tasting a claret – so long as it is not one of the famous great wines like Lafite or Latour – can only get a certain way towards naming the vineyard. He can, of course, tell you the Bordeaux district from which the wine comes, whether it is from St Emilion, Pomerol, Graves, or Médoc. But then each district had several communes, little counties, and each county has many, many small vineyards. It is impossible for a man to differentiate between them all by taste and smell alone. I don’t mind telling you that this one I’ve got here is a wine from a small vineyard that is surrounded by many other small vineyards, and he’ll never get it. It’s impossible.’