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TWO STORIES BY ROALD DAHL

1Dip in the Pool

by Roald Dahl

ON THE MORNING of the third day, the seacalmed. Even the most delicate passengers- those who had not been seen around theship since sailing time - emerged from theircabins and crept on to the sun deck wherethe deck steward gave them chairs andtucked rugs around their legs and left themlying in rows, their faces upturned to thepale, almost heatless January sun. It hadbeen moderately rough the first two days,and this sudden calm and the sense ofcomfort that it brought created a moregenial atmosphere over the whole ship. Bythe time evening came, the passengers,with twelve hours of good weather behindthem, were beginning to feel confident, andat eight o'clock that night the main dining-room was filled with people eating anddrinking with the assured, complacent air ofseasoned sailors. The meal was not halfover when the passengers became aware,by the slight friction between their bodiesand the seats of their chairs, that the bigship had actually started rolling again. Itwas very gentle at first, just a slow, lazyleaning to one side, then to the other, but itwas enough to cause a subtle, immediatechange of mood over the whole room. Afew of the passengers glanced up fromtheir food, hesitating, waiting, almostlistening for the next roll, smiling nervously,little secret glimmers of apprehension intheir eyes. Some were completelyunruffled, some were openly smug, anumber of the smug ones making jokesabout food and weather in order to torturethe few who were beginning to suffer. Themovement of the ship then became rapidlymore and more violent, and only five or sixminutes after the first roll had beennoticed, she was swinging heavily from sideto side, the passengers bracing themselvesin their chairs, leaning against the pull as ina car cornering.

At last the really bad roll came, and MrWilliam Botibol, sitting at the purser's table,saw his plate of poached turbot withhollandaise sauce sliding suddenly awayfrom under his fork. There was a flutter ofexcitement, everybody reaching for plates

and wineglasses. Mrs Renshaw, seated atthe purser's right, gave a little scream andclutched that gentleman's arm.'Going to be a dirty night,' the purser said,looking at Mrs Renshaw. 'I think it's blowingup for a very dirty night.' There was justthe faintest suggestion of relish in the wayhe said it.

A steward came hurrying up and sprinkledwater on the tablecloth between the plates.The excitement subsided. Most of thepassengers continued with their meal. Asmall number, including Mrs Renshaw, gotcarefully to their feet and threaded theirways with a kind of concealed hastebetween the tables and through thedoorway.'Well,' the purser said, 'there she goes.' Heglanced around with approval at theremainder of his flock who were sittingquiet, looking complacent, their facesreflecting openly that extraordinary pridethat travellers seem to take in beingrecognised as 'good sailors'.

When the eating was finished and thecoffee had been served, Mr Botibol, whohad been unusually grave and thoughtfulsince the rolling started, suddenly stood upand carried his cup of coffee around to MrsRenshaw's vacant place, next to the purser.He seated himself in her chair, thenimmediately leaned over and began towhisper urgently in the purser's ear.'Excuse me,' he said, 'but could you tell mesomething, please?' The purser, small andfat and red, bent forward to listen.

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'What's the trouble, Mr Botibol?, 'What Iwant to know is this.' The man's face wasanxious and the purser was watching it.'What I want to know is will the captainalready have made his estimate on theday's run you know, for the auction pool? Imean before it began to get rough likethis?' The purser, who had preparedhimself to receive a personal confidence,smiled and leaned back in his seat to relaxhis full belly. 'I should say so - yes,' heanswered. He didn't bother to whisper hisreply, although automatically he loweredhis voice, as one does when answering awhisperer.‘About how long ago do you think he didit?’. 'Some time this afternoon. He usuallydoes it in the afternoon.' 'About what time?''Oh, I don't know. Around four o'clock Ishould guess, 'Now tell me another thing.How does the captain decide which numberit shall be? Does he take a lot of troubleover that?' The purser looked at theanxious frowning face of Mr. Botibol and hesmiled, knowing quite well what the manwas driving at. 'Well, you see, the captainhas a little conference with the navigatingofficer, and they study the weather and alot of other things, and then they maketheir estimate.' ...

Mr Botibol nodded, pondering this answerfor a moment.

Then he said, 'Do you think the captainknew there was bad weather comingtoday?' 'I couldn't tell you,' the purserreplied. He was looking into the small blackeyes of the other man, seeing the twosingle little sparks of excitement dancing intheir centres. 'I really couldn't tell you, MrBotibol. I wouldn't know.' 'If this gets anyworse it might be worth buying some of thelow numbers. What do you think?' Thewhispering was more urgent, more anxiousnow.'Perhaps it will,' the purser said. 'I doubtwhether the old man allowed for a reallyrough night. It was pretty calm thisafternoon when he made his estimate.' Theothers at the table had become silent andwere trying to hear, watching the purserwith that intent, half-cocked, listening lookthat you can see also at the race trackwhen they are trying to overhear a trainertalking about his chance: the slightly openlips, the upstretched eyebrows, the headforward and cocked a little to one side -

that desperately straining, half hypnotised,listening look that comes to all of themwhen they are hearing something straightfrom the horse's mouth. 'Now suppose youwere allowed to buy a number, which onewould you choose today?' Mr Botibolwhispered. 'I don't know what the range isyet,' the purser patiently answered. 'Theydon't announce the range till the auctionstarts after dinner. And I'm really not verygood at it anyway. I'm only the purser, youknow.' At that point Mr Botibol stood up.'Excuse me, all,' he said, and he walkedcarefully away over the swaying floorbetween the other tables, and twice he hadto catch hold of the back of a chair tosteady himself against the ship's roll.'The sun deck, please,' he said to theelevator man.The wind caught him full in the face as hestepped out on to the open deck. Hestaggered and grabbed hold of the rail andheld on tight with both hands, and he stoodthere looking out over the darkening seawhere the great waves were welling uphigh and white horses were riding againstthe wind with plumes of spray behind themas they went.'Pretty bad out there, wasn't it, sir?' theelevator man said on the way down.

Mr Botibol was combing his hair back intoplace with a small red comb. 'Do you thinkwe've slackened speed at all on account ofthe weather?' he asked.'Oh my word yes, sir. We slackened offconsiderable since this started you got toslacken off speed in weather like this oryou'll be throwing the passengers all overthe ship.' Down in the smoking-roompeople were already gathering for theauction. They were grouping themselvespolitely around the various tables, the mena little stiff in their dinner jackets, a littlepink and overshaved and stiff beside theircool white-armed women. Mr Botibol took achair close to the auctioneer's table. Hecrossed his legs, folded his arms, andsettled himself in his seat with the ratherdesperate air of a man who has made atremendous decision and refuses to befrightened.

The pool, he was telling himself, wouldprobably be around seven thousand dollars.That was almost exactly what it had beenthe last two days with the numbers sellingfor between three and four hundred a

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piece. Being a British ship they did it inpounds, but he liked to do his thinking inhis own currency. Seven thousand dollarswas plenty of money. My goodness, yes!And what he would do he would get themto pay him in hundred-dollar bills and hewould take it ashore in the inside pocket ofhis jacket. No problem there. And rightaway, yes right away, he would buy aLincoln convertible. He would pick it up onthe way from the ship and drive it homejust for the pleasure of seeing Ethel’s facewhen she came out the front door andlooked at it. Wouldn't that be something, tosee Ethers face when he glided up to thedoor in a brand-new pale-green Lincolnconvertible! Hello, Ethel, honey, he wouldsay, speaking very casual. I just thought I'dget you a little present. I saw it in thewindow as I went by, so I thought of youand how you were always wanting one. youlike it, honey?

He would say you like the colour? And thenhe would watch her face. The auctioneerwas standing up behind his table now.'Ladies and gentlemen!' he shouted. 'Thecaptain has estimated the day's run, endingmidday tomorrow, at five hundred andfifteen miles. As usual we will take the tennumbers on either side of it to make up therange. That makes it five hundred and fiveto five hundred and twenty-five. And ofcourse for those who think the true figurewill be still farther away, there'll be "lowfield" and "high field" sold separately aswell.Now, we'll draw the first numbers out ofthe hat . . . here we are. . . five hundredand twelve?, The room became quiet. Thepeople sat still in their chairs, all eyeswatching the auctioneer. There was acertain tension in the air, and as the bidsgot higher, the tension grew. This wasn't agame or a joke; you could be sure of thatby the way one man would look across atanother who had raised his bid smilingperhaps, but only the lips smiling, the eyesbright and absolutely cold.

Number five hundred and twelve wasknocked down for one hundred and tenpounds. The next three or four numbersfetched roughly the same amount.The ship was rolling heavily, and each timeshe went over, the wooden panelling onthe walls creaked as if it were going tosplit. The passengers held on to the arms

of their chairs, concentrating upon theauction.'Low field! ' the auctioneer called out. 'Thenext number is low field.' Mr Botibol sat upvery straight and tense. He would wait, hehad decided, until the others had finishedbidding, then he would jump in and makethe last bid. He had figured that there mustbe at least five hundred dollars in hisaccount at the bank at home, probablynearer six. That was about two hundredpounds - over two hundred. This ticketwouldn't fetch more than that.‘As you all know,' the auctioneer wassaying, 'low field covers every numberbelow the smallest number in the range, inthis case every number below five hundredand five. So, if you think this ship is goingto cover less than five hundred and fivemiles in the twenty-four hours ending atnoon tomorrow, you better get in and buythis number. So what am I bid?' It wentclear up to one hundred and thirty pounds.Others besides Mr Botibol seemed to havenoticed that the weather was rough. Onehundred and forty . . . fifty . . . There itstopped.The auctioneer raised his hammer.'Going at one hundred and fifty . . .' 'Sixty!'Mr Botibol called, and every face in theroom turned and looked at him.'Seventy!' 'Eighty!' Mr Botibol called.'Ninety!' 'Two hundred!' Mr Botibol called.He wasn't stopping now, not for anyone.There was a pause.‘Any advance on two hundred pounds?' Sitstill, he told himself. Sit absolutely still anddon't look up. It's unlucky to look up. Holdyour breath. No one's going to bid you upso long as you hold your breath.'Going for two hundred pounds . . .' Theauctioneer had a pink bald head and therewere little beads of sweat sparkling on topof it. 'Going . . .!' Mr Botibol held hisbreath. .Going . .. Gone!' The man bangedthe hammer on the table. Mr Botibol wroteout a cheque and handed it to theauctioneer's assistant, then he settled backin his chair to wait for the finish. He did notwant to go to bed before he knew howmuch there was in the pool.They added it up after the last number hadbeen sold and it came to twenty-onehundred-odd pounds. That was around sixthousand dollars. Ninety per cent to go tothe winner, ten per cent to seamen'scharities. Ninety per cent of six thousandwas five thousand four hundred. Well- that

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was enough. He could buy the Lincolnconvertible and there would be somethingleft over, too. With this gratifying thoughthe went off, happy and excited, to hiscabin.

When Mr Botibol awoke the next morninghe lay quite still for several minutes with hiseyes shut, listening for the sound of thegale, waiting for the roll of the ship. Therewas no sound of any gale and the ship wasnot rolling. He jumped up and peered outof the porthole. The sea - Oh Jesus Godwas smooth as glass, the great ship wasmoving through it fast, obviously making upfor time lost during the night. Mr Botibolturned away and sat slowly down on theedge of his bunk. A fine electricity of fearwas beginning to prickle under the skin ofhis stomach. He hadn't a hope now. One ofthe higher numbers was certain to win itafter this.'Oh, my God,' he said aloud. 'What shall Ido?' What, for example, would Ethel say? Itwas simply not possible to tell her that hehad spent almost all of their two years'savings on a ticket in the ship's pool. Norwas it possible to keep the matter secret.To do that he would have to tell her to stopdrawing cheques. And what about themonthly instalments on the television setand the Encyclopaedia Britannica?Already he could see the anger andcontempt in the woman's eyes, the bluebecoming grey and the eyes themselvesnarrowing as they always did when therewas anger in them, 'Oh, my God. Whatshall I do?, There was no point inpretending that he had the slightest chancenow - not unless the goddamn ship startedto go backwards. They'd have to put her inreverse and go full speed astern and keepright on going if he was to have any chanceof winning it now. Well, maybe he shouldask the captain to do just that. Offer himten per cent of the profits. Offer him moreif he wanted it. Mr Botibol started to giggle.Then very suddenly he stopped, his eyesand mouth both opening wide in a kind ofshocked surprise. For it was at this momentthat the idea came. It hit him hard andquick, and he jumped up from his bed,terribly excited, ran over to the portholeand looked out again. Well, he thought,why not? Why ever not?The sea was calm and he wouldn't haveany trouble keeping afloat until they pickedhim up. He had a vague feeling that

someone had done this thing before, butthat didn't prevent him from doing it again.The ship would have to stop and lower aboat, and the boat would have to go backmaybe half a mile to get him, and then itwould have to return to the ship, the wholething. An hour was about thirty miles. Itwould knock thirty miles off the day's run.That would do it. 'Low field' would be sureto win it then. Just so long as he madecertain someone saw him falling over; butthat would be simple to arrange. And he'dbetter wear light clothes, something easy toswim in. Sports clothes, that was it. Hewould dress as though he were going up toplay some deck tennis - just a shirt and apair of shorts and tennis-shoes. And leavehis watch behind. What was the time?Nine-fifteen. The sooner the better, then.Do it now and get it over with. Have to doit soon, because the time limit was midday.

Mr Botibol was both frightened and excitedwhen he stepped out on to the sun deck inhis sports clothes. His small body was wideat the hips, tapering upward to extremelynarrow sloping shoulders, so that itresembled, in shape at any rate, a bollard.His white skinny legs were covered withblack hairs, and he came cautiously out ondeck, threading softly in his tennis shoes.

Nervously he looked around him. Therewas only one other person in sight, anelderly woman with very thick ankles andimmense buttocks who was leaning overthe rail staring at the sea. She was wearinga coat of Persian lamb and the collar wasturned up so Mr Botibol couldn't see herface.

He stood still, examining her carefully froma distance. Yes, he told himself, she wouldprobably do. She would probably give thealarm just as quickly as anyone else. Butwait one minute, take your time, WilliamBotibol, take your time. Remember whatyou told yourself a few minutes ago in thecabin when you were changing? Youremember that?

The thought of leaping off a ship into theocean a thousand miles from the nearestland had made Mr Botibol - a cautious manat the best of times - unusually advertent.He was by no means satisfied yet that thiswoman he saw before him was absolutelycertain to give the alarm when he made his

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jump. In his opinion there were twopossible reasons why she might fail him.Firstly, she might be deaf and blind. It wasnot very probable, but on the other hand itmight be so, and why take a chance? All hehad to do was check it by talking to her fora moment beforehand. Secondly - and thiswill demonstrate how suspicious the mindof a man can become when it is workingthrough self preservation and fear -secondly, it had occurred , to him that thewoman might herself be the owner of oneof the high numbers in the pool and assuch would have a sound financial reasonfor not wishing to stop the ship, Mr Botibolrecalled that people had killed their fellowsfor far less than six thousand dollars. It washappening every day in the newspapers. Sowhy take a chance on that either? Check onit first, Be sure of your facts. Find out aboutit by a little polite conversation. Then,provided that the woman appeared also tobe a pleasant, kindly human being, thething was a cinch and he, could leapoverboard with a light heart. Mr Botiboladvanced casually towards the woman andtook up a position beside her, leaning onthe rail. 'Hullo,' he said pleasantly.

She turned and smiled at him, asurprisingly lovely, almost a beautiful smile,although the face itself was very plain.'Hullo, she answered him.Check, Mr Botibol told himself, on the firstquestion. She is neither blind nor deaf. 'Tellme,' he said, coming straight to the point,'what did you think of the auction lastnight?' 'Auction?' she asked, frowning.'Auction? What auction?' 'You know, thatsilly old thing they have in the lounge afterdinner, selling numbers on the ship's dailyrun. I just wondered what you thoughtabout it.' She shook her head, and againshe smiled, a sweet and pleasant smile thathad in it perhaps the trace of an apology.‘I'm very lazy,' she said. 'I always go to bedearly. I have my dinner in bed. It's sorestful to have dinner in bed.' Mr Botibolsmiled back at her and began to edgeaway. Got to go and get my exercise now,'he said. 'Never miss my exercise in themorning. It was nice seeing you. Very niceseeing you . . .' He retreated about tenpaces, and the woman let him go withoutlooking around.

Everything was now in order. The sea wascalm, he was lightly dressed for swimming,

there were almost certainly no man-eatingsharks in this part of the Atlantic, and therewas this pleasant kindly old woman to givethe alarm. It was a question now only ofwhether the ship would be delayed longenough to swing the balance in his favour.Almost certainly it would. In any event, hecould do a little to help in that directionhimself. He could make a few difficultiesabout getting hauled up into the lifeboat.Swim around a bit, back away from themsurreptitiously as they tried to come upclose to fish him out. Every minute, everysecond gained would help him win. Hebegan to move forward again to the rail,but now a new fear assailed him. Would heget caught in the propeller?

He had heard about that happening topersons falling off the sides of big ships.But then, he wasn't going to fall, he wasgoing to jump, and that was a verydifferent thing. Provided he jumped out farenough he would be sure to clear thepropeller.Mr Botibol advanced slowly to a position atthe rail about twenty yards away from thewoman. She wasn't looking at him now. Somuch the better. He didn't want herwatching him as he jumped off. So long asno one was watching he would be able tosay afterwards that he had slipped andfallen by accident. He peered over the sideof the ship. It was a long, long drop. Cometo think of it now, he might easily hurthimself badly if he hit the water flat. Wasn'tthere someone who once split his stomachopen that way, doing a belly flop from thehigh dive? He must jump straight and landfeet first. Go in like a knife. Yes, sir. Thewater seemed cold and deep and grey andit made him shiver to look at it. But it wasnow or never. Be a man, William Botibol,be a man. All right then . . . now. . . heregoes. . .

He climbed up on to the wide wooden top-rail, stood there poised, balancing for threeterrifying seconds, then he leaped - heleaped up and out as far as he could goand at the same time he shouted 'Help!''Help! Help!' he shouted as he fell. Then hehit the water and went under. When thefirst shout for help sounded, the womanwho was leaning on the rail started up andgave a little jump of surprise, She lookedaround quickly and saw sailing past herthrough the air this small man dressed in

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white shorts and tennis shoes, spreadeagled and shouting as he went. For amoment she looked as though she weren'tquite sure what she ought to do: throw alifebelt, run away and give the alarm, orsimply turn and yell. She drew back a pacefrom the rail and swung half around facingup to the bridge, and for this brief momentshe remained motionless, tense, undecided.Then almost at once she seemed to relax,and she leaned forward far over the rail,staring at the water where it was turbulentin the ship's wake. Soon a tiny round blackhead appeared in the foam, an arm wasraised above it, once, twice, vigorouslywaving, and a small faraway voice washeard calling something that was difficult tounderstand. The woman leaned still fartherover the rail, trying to keep the littlebobbing black speck in sight, but soon, sovery soon, it was such a long way awaythat she couldn't even be sure it was thereat all.

After a while another woman came out ondeck. This one was bony and angular, andshe wore horn-rimmed spectacles.She spotted the first woman and walkedover to her, treading the deck in thedeliberate, military fashion of all spinsters.'So there you are,' she said.The woman with the fat ankles turned andlooked at her, but said nothing.'I've been searching for you,' the bony onecontinued.'Searching all over.''It's very odd’ , the woman with the fatankles said. 'A man dived overboard justnow, with his clothes on.' 'Nonsense!' 'Ohyes. He said he wanted to get someexercise and he dived in and didn't evenbother to take his clothes off.' 'You bettercome down now,' the bony woman said.Her mouth had suddenly become firm, herwhole face sharp and alert, and she spokeless kindly than before.' And don't you evergo wandering about on deck alone like thisagain. you know quite well you're meant towait for me.' 'Yes, Maggie,' the woman withthe fat ankles answered, and again shesmiled, a tender, trusting smile, and shetook the hand of the other one and allowedherself to be led away across the deck.'Such a nice man,' she said. 'He waved tome.'

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My Lady Love, My Doveby Roahl Dahl

It has been my habit for many years totake a nap after lunch. I settle myself in achair in the living-room with a cushionbehind my head and my feet up on a smallsquare leather stool and I read until I dropoff. On this Friday afternoon, I was in mychair and feeling as comfortable as everwith a book in my hands - an old favourite,Doubleday and Westwood’s The Genera ofDiurnal Lepiúdoptera - when my wife, whohas never been a silent lady, began to talkto me from the sofa opposite. “These twopeople,” she said, “what time are theycoming?”

I made no answer, so she repeated thequestion, louder this time.

I told her politely that I didn’t know.“I don’t think I like them very much,” shesaid . ”Especially him.” “No dear, all right.”“Arthur. I said I don’t think I like them verymuch.”

I lowered my book and looked across at herlying with her feet up on the sofa, flippingover the pages of some fashion magazine.”We’ve only met them once,” I said.“A dreadful man, really. Never stoppedtelling jokes, or stories, or something.”“I’m sure you’ll manage them very well,dear.”“And she’s pretty frightful, too. When doyou think they’ll arrive?”“Somewhere around six o’clock.” I guessed.“But don’t you think they’re awful?” sheasked, pointing at me with her finger.“Well ...”“They’re too awful, they really are.”“We can hardly put them off now. Pamela.”“They’re absolutely the end,” she said.

“Then why did you ask them?” Thequestion slipped out before I could stopmyself and I regretted it at once, for it is arule with me never to provoke my wife if Ican help it. There was a pause, and Iwatched her face, waiting for the answer -the big white face that to me wassomething so strange and fascinating therewere occasions when I could hardly bring

myself to look away from it. In theevenings sometimes - workúing on herembroidery, or painting those smallintricate flower pictures - the face wouldtighten and glimmer with a subtle inwardstrength that was beautiful beyond words,and I would sit and stare at it minute afterminute while pretending to read. Even now,at this moment, with that compressed acidlook, the frowning forehead, the petulantcurl of the nose, I had to admit that therewas a majestic quality about this woman,something splendid, almost stately; and sotall she was, far taller than I -althoughtoday, in her fifty-first year, I think onewould have to call her big rather than tall.

“You know very well why I asked them,”she answered sharply. “For bridge, that’sall. They play an absolutely firstú-classgame, and for a decent stake.” She glancedup and saw me watching her. “Well,” shesaid, “that’s about the way you feel too,isn’t it?”

“Well, of course, I .….”“Don’t be a fool, Arthur.”“The only time I met them I must say theydid seem quite nice.”“So is the butcher.”“Now Pamela, dear - please. We don’t wantany of that.”“Listen,” she said, slapping down themagazine on her lap, “you saw the sort ofpeople they were as well as I did. A pair ofstupid climbers who think they can goanywhere just because they play goodbridge.”

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“I’m sure you’re right dear, but what I don’thonestly underústand is why - “

“I keep telling you - so that for once wecan get a decent game. I’m sick and tiredof playing with rabbits. But I really can’tsee why I should have these awful peoplein the house.“

“Of course not, my dear, but isn’t it a littlelate now –““Arthur ?”“Yes ?”“Why for God’s sake do you always arguewith me. You know you disliked them asmuch as I did”“Arthur don’t be pompous.” She waslooking at me hard with those wide greyeyes of hers, and to avoid them - theysometimes made me feel quiteuncomfortable - I got un and walked overto the French windows that led into thegarden.

The big sloping lawn out in front of thehouse was newly mown, striped with paleand dark ribbons of green. On the far side,the two laburnums were in full flower atlast, the long golden chains making a blazeof colour against the darker trees beyond.The roses were out too, and the scarlet inthe long begonias herbaceous border of allmy lovely lupins, columbine, delphinium,sweet-william, and the huge - pale. scentediris. One of the gardeners was coming upthe drive from his lunch. I could see theroof of his cottage through the trees, andbeyond it to one side, the place where thedrive went out through the iron gates onthe Canterbury Road

My wife’s house. Her garden. How beautifulit all was! How peaceful ! Now, if onlyPamela would try to be a little lesssoliúcitous of my welfare, less prone tocoax me into doing things for my own goodrather than for my own pleasure, theneveryúthing would be heaven. Mind you. Idon’t want to give the impression that I donot love her - I worship the very air shebreathes - or that I can’t manage her, orthat I am not the captain of my ship. All Iam trying to say is that she can be a trifleirritating at times, the way she carries on.For example, those little mannerisms ofhers - I do wish she would drop them all,especially the way she has of pointing a

finger at me to emphasise a phrase. Youmust remember that I am a man who isbuilt rather small, and a gesture like this,when used to excess by a person like mywife, is apt to intimidate. I someútimes findit difficult to convince myself that she is notan overúbearing woman.

“Arthur!” she called. Come here.”“What?”“I’ve just had a most marvellous idea.Come here.”I turned and went over to where she waslying on the sofa.“Look,” she said, “do you want to havesome fun?”“What sort of fun? ”“With the Snapes ? ”“Who are the Snapes?”“Come on, ”she said. “Wake up. Henry andSally Snape. Our week-end guests.”“Well?”“Now listen. I was lying here thinking howawful they really are .... the way theybehave ... him with his jokes and her like asort of love-crazed sparrow ...” Shehesitated, smiling slyly, and for somereason, I got the impression she was aboutto say a shocking thing- “Well - if that’s theway they behave when they’re in front ofus, then what on earth must they be likewhen they’re alone together?”

“Now wait a minute, Pamela –“

“Don’t be an ass, Arthur. Let’s have somefun - some real fun for once - tonight.” Shehad half raised herself up off the sofa, herface bright with a kind of suddenrecklessness, the mouth slightly open, andshe was looking at me with two round greyeyes, a spark dancing slowly in each.

“Why shouldn’t we ? ”“What do you want to do ? ”“Why, it’s obvious. Can’t you see?”“No, I can’t.”“All we’ve got to do is put a microphone intheir room.” I admit I was expectingsomething pretty bad, but when she saidthis I was so shocked I didn’t know what toanswer.“That’s exactly what we’ll do,” she said.“Here!” I cried. “No. Wait a minute. Youcan’t do that.”“Why not?”“That’s about the nastiest trick I ever heardof- It’s like -why, it’s like listening at

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keyholes, or reading letters, only far farworse. You don’t mean this seriously, doyou?”“Of course I do.”

I knew how much she disliked beingcontradicted, but there were times when Ifelt it necessary to assert myself, even atconsiderable risk. “Pamela,” I said,snapping the words out sharply, “I forbidyou to do it!”

She took her feet down from the sofa andsat up straight. “What in God’s name areyou trying to pretend to be, Arthur? Isimply don’t understand you.”“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”Tommyrot ! I’ve known you do lots ofworse things than this before now.”“Never !”“Oh yes I have. What makes you suddenlythink you’re a so much nicer person than Iam ?”“I’ve never done things like that.”“All right, my boy,” she said, pointing herfinger at me like a pistol. “What about thattime at the Milfords’ last Christmas ?Remember ? You nearly laughed your headoff and I had to put my hand over yourmouth to stop them hearing us. Whatabout that for one?”“That was different,” I said. “It wasn’t ourhouse. And they weren’t our guests.”“It doesn’t make any difference at all.” Shewas sitting very upright, staring at me withthose round grey eyes. and the chin wasbeginning to come up high in a peculiarlyconútemptuous manner. “Don’t be such apompous hypocrite,” she said. ”What onearth’s come over you?”“I really think it’s a pretty nasty thing, youknow, Pamela. I honestly do.”“But listen, Arthur. I’m a nasty person. Andso are you - in a secret sort of way. That’swhy we get along together.”“I never heard such nonsense.”“Mind you. if you’ve suddenly decided tochange your character completely, that’sanother story! ““You’ve got to stop talking this way,Pamela.”“You see,” she said, “if you really havedecided to reform, then what on earth am Igoing to do?”“You don’t know what you’re saying.” “Arthur, how could a nice person like youwant to associate with a stinker?”

I sat myself down slowly in the chairopposite her, and she was watching me allthe time. You understand, she was a bigwoman, with a big white face, and whenshe looked at me hard, as she was doingnow, I became - how shall I say it -surrounded, almost enveloped by her, asthough she were a great tub of cream and Ihad fallen in.

“You don’t honestly want to do thismicrophone thing, do you?”“But of course I do. It’s time we had a bitof fun around here. Come on. Arthur. Don’tbe so stuffy.”“It’s not right, Pamela.”“It”s just as right” - up came the fingeragain - “just as right as when you foundthose letters of Mary Probert’s in her purseand you read them through from beginningto end.”“We should never have done that.”“We!”“You read them afterwards, Pamela.”“It didn’t harm anyone at all. You said soyourself at the time. And this one’s noworse.”“How would you like it if someone did it toyou?”“How could I mind if I didn’t know it wasbeing done? Come on, Arthur. Don’t be soflabby.”“I’ll have to think about it.”“Maybe the great radio engineer doesn’tknow how to connect the mike to thespeaker?”“That’s the easiest part.”“Well, go on then. Go on and do it.”“I’ll think about it and let you know later.”“There’s no time for that. They might arriveany moment”“Then I won’t do it. I’m not going to becaught red-handed.”“If they come before you’re through, I’llsimply keep them down here. No danger.What’s the time, anyway?”

It was nearly three o’clock.“They’re driving down from London,” shesaid, “and they certainly won’t leave tillafter lunch. That gives you plenty of time.”“Which room are you putting them in?”“The big yellow room at the end of thecorridor. That’s not too far away, is it ?”“I suppose it could be done.”“And by the by,” she said, “where are yougoing to have the speaker?”“I haven’t said I’m going to do it yet.”

10

“My God!” she cried, “I’d like to seesomeone try and stop you now. You oughtto see your face. It’s all pink and excited atthe very prospect. Put the speaker in ourbedroom, why not? But go on - and hurry.”

I hesitated. It was something I made apoint of doing whenúever she tried to orderme about, instead of asking nicely. “I don’tlike it, Pamela.”

She didn’t say any more after that; she justsat there, absolutely still, watching me, aresigned, waiting expression on her face, asthough she were in a long queue. This, Iknew from experience, was a dangersignal. She was like one of those bombthings with the pin pulled out, and it wasonly a matter of time before - bang! andshe would explode. In the silence thatfollowed, I could almost hear her ticking.

So I got up quietly and went out to theworkshop and colúlected a mike and ahundred and fifty feet of wire. Now that Iwas away from her, I am ashamed to admitthat I began to feel a bit of excitementmyself, a tiny warm prickling sensaútionunder the skin, near the tips of my fingers.It was nothing much, mind you - reallynothing at all. Good heavens, I exúperiencethe same thing every morning of my lifewhen I open the paper to check the closingprices on two or three of my wife’s largerstockholdings. So I wasn’t going to getcarried away by a silly joke like this. At thesame time, I couldn’t help being amused.

I took the stairs two at a time and enteredthe yellow room at the end of the passage.It had the clean, unlived-in appearúance ofall guest rooms, with its twin beds, yellowsatin bedúspreads, pale-yellow walls, andgolden-coloured curtains. I began to lookaround for a good place to hide the mike.This was the most important part of all, forwhatever happened, it must not bediscovered. I thought first of the basket oflogs by the fireplace. Put it under the logs.No - not safe enough. Behind the radiator?On top of the wardrobe? Under the desk?None of these seemed very professional tome. All might be subject to chanceinspection because of a dropped collar studor something like that. Finally, withconsiderable cunning, I decided to put itinside of the springing of the sofa. The sofawas against the wall, near the edge of the

carpet, and my lead wire could go straightunder the carpet over to the door.

I tipped up the sofa and slit the materialunderneath. Then I tied the microphonesecurely up among the springs, makingsure that it faced the room. After that, I ledthe wire under the carpet to the door. Iwas calm and cautious in everything I did.Where the wire had to emerge from underthe carpet and pass out of the door, I madea little groove in the wood so that it wasalmost invisible.

All this, of course, took time, and when Isuddenly heard the crunch of wheels on thegravel of the drive outside, and then theslamming of car doors and the voices of ourguests I was still only half-way down thecorridor, tacking the wire along the skirting.I stopped and straightened up, hammer inhand, and I must confess that I felt afraid.You have no idea how unnerving that noisewas to me. I experienced the same suddenstomachy feeling of fright as when a bombonce dropped the other side of the villageduring the war, one afterúnoon, while Iwas working quietly in the library with mybutterflies.

Don’t worry, I told myself. Pamela will takecare of these people. She won’t let themcome up here.

Rather frantically. I set about finishing thejob, and soon I had the wire tacked allalong the corridor and through into ourbedroom. Here, concealment was not soimportant, alúthough I still did not permitmyself to get careless because of theservants. So I laid the wire under thecarpet and brought it up unobtrusively intothe back of the radio. Making the finalconnexions was an elementary technicalmatter and took me no time at all.

11

Well - I had done it. I stepped back andglanced at the little radio. Somehow, now,it looked different - no longer a silly box formaking noises but an evil little creature thatcrouched on the table top with a part of itsown body reaching out secretly into aforbidden place far away. I switched it on.It hummed faintly but made no othersound. I took my bedúside clock, which hada loud tick, and carried it along to theyellow room and placed it on the floor bythe sofa. When I returned, sure enough theradio creature was ticking away as loudlyas if the clock were in the room - evenlouder.

I fetched back the clock. Then I tidiedmyself up in the bathroom, returned mytools to the workshop, and prepared tomeet the guests. But first, to composemyself, and so that I would not have toappear in front of them with the blood, as itwere, still wet on my hands, I spent fiveminutes in the library with my collection. Iconcentrated on a tray of the lovelyVanessa cardui - the “painted lady” - andmade a few notes for a paper I waspreparing entitled “The Relation beútweenColour Pattern and Framework of Wings”,which I intended to read at the nextmeeting of our society in Canterúbury- Inthis way I soon regained my normal grave,attentive manner.

When I entered the living-room, our twoguests, whose names I could neverremember, were seated on the sofa. Mywife was mixing drinks.

“Oh, there you are, Arthur,” she said.“Where have you been?,I thought this was an unnecessary remark.“I’m so sorry,” I said to the guests as weshook hands. “I was busy and forgot thetime.”“We all know what you’ve been doing,” thegirl said, smiling wisely. “But we’ll forgivehim, won’t we, dearest?”“I think we should,” the husband answered.

I had a frightful, fantastic vision of my wifetelling them, amidst roars of laughter,precisely what I had been doing upústairs-She couldn’t - she couldn’t have done that!I looked round at her and she too wassmiling as she measured out the gin.

“I’m sorry we disturbed you,” the girl said.

I decided that if this was going to be a jokethen I’d better join in quickly, so I forcedmyself to smile with her.

“You must let us see it,” the girl continued,“See what?”“Your collection. Your wife says that theyare absolutely beautiful.”

I lowered myself slowly into a chair andrelaxed. It was ridiculous to be so nervousand jumpy. “Are you interested inbutterflies ?” I asked her.

“I’d love to see yours, Mr Beauchamp.”

The Martinis were distributed and wesettled down to a couple of hours of talkand drink before dinner. It was from thenon that I began to form the impression thatour guests were a charming couple. Mywife, coming from a titled family, is apt tobe conscious of her class and breeding, andis often hasty in her judgement of strangerswho are friendly towards her - particularlytall men. She is frequently right - but in thiscase I felt that she might be making amistake. As a rule, I myself do not like tallmen either they are apt to be superúciliousand omniscient. But Henry Snape - my wifehad whispered his name - struck me asbeing an amiable simple young man withgood manners whose main preoccupation,very properly. was Mrs Snape. He washandsome in a longúfaced, horsy sort ofway, with dark-brown eyes that seemed tobe gentle and sympathetic. I envied him hisfine mop of black hair. and caught myselfwondering what lotion he used to keep itlooking so healthy. He did tell us one ortwo jokes, but they were on a high leveland no one could have objected.

“At school,” he said, “they used to call meScervix. Do you know why?”“I haven’t the least idea,” my wifeanswered.“Because cervix is Latin for nape.”

This was rather deep and it took me a whileto work out.

“What school was that, Mr Snape?” my wifeasked.“Eton,” he said. and my wife gave a quicklittle nod of approval. Now she will talk tohim, I thought, so I turned my attention tothe other one, Sally Snape. She was an

12

attractive girl with a bosom. Had I met herfifteen years earlier I might well have gotmyself into some sort of trouble. As it was.I had a pleasant enough time telling her allabout my beautiful butterflies. I wasobserving her closely as I talked, and aftera while I began to get the impression thatshe was not, in fact. quite so merry andsmiling a girl as I had been led to believe atfirst. She seemed to be coiled in herself, asthough with a secret she was jealouslyguarding. The deep-blue eyes moved tooquickly about the room, never settling orresting on one thing for more than amoment; and over all her face. though sofaint that they might not even have beenthere, those small downward lines ofsorrow.

“I’m so looking forward to our game ofbridge.” I said. finally changing the subject.“Us too,” she answered. “You know we playalmost every night we love it so.”“You are extremely expert, both of you.How did you get to be so good?”“It’s practice,” she said. “That’s all.Practice, practice, pracútice.”“Have you played in any championships?”“Not yet. but Henry wants very much for usto do that. It’s hard work, you know. toreach that standard. Terribly hard work.”Was there not here, I wondered, a hint ofresignation in her voice? Yes, that wasprobably it; he was pushing her too hard,making her take it too seriously, and thepoor girl was tired of it all.

At eight o’clock. without changing, wemoved in to dinner. The meal went well,with Henry Snape telling us some very drollstories. He also praised my Richebourg ‘34in a most knowledgeable fashion, whichpleased me greatly. By the time coffeecame, I realized that I had grown to likethese two youngsters immensely, and as aresult I began to feel uncomúfortable aboutthis microphone business. It would havebeen all right if they had been horridpeople, but to play this trick on two suchcharming young persons as these filled mewith a strong sense of guilt. Don’tmisunderstand me. I was not getting coldfeet. It didn’t seem necessary to stop theoperaútion. But I refused to relish theprospect openly as my wife seemed now tobe doing, with covert smiles and winks andsecret little noddings of the head.

Around nine-thirty, feeling comfortable andwell fed, we returned to the large living-room to start our bridge. We were playingfor a fair stake - ten shillings a hundred - sowe decided not to split families, and Ipartnered my wife the whole time. We allfour of us took the game seriously, which isthe only way to take it, and we playedsilently, intently, hardly speakúing at allexcept to bid. It was not the money weplayed for. Heaven knows, my wife hadenough of that, and so apparently did theSnapes. But among experts it is almosttraditional that they play for a reasonablestake.

That night the cards were evenly divided,but for once my wife played badly, so wegot the worst of it. I could see that shewasn’t concentrating fully, and as we camealong towards midnight she began not evento care. She kept glancing up at me withthose large grey eyes of hers, the eyebrowsraised, the nostrils curiously open. a littlegloating smile around the corner of hermouth.

Our opponents played a fine game. Theirbidding was masterly, and all through theevening they made only one misú take.That was when the girl badly overestimatedher partner’s hand and bid six spades. Idoubled and they went three down,vulnerable, which cost them eight hundredpoints. It was just a momentary lapse, but Iremember that Sally Snape was very putout by it, even though her husband forgaveher at once,

kissing her hand across the table and tellingher not to worry.

Around twelve-thirty my wife announcedthat she wanted to go to bed.

“Just one more rubber?” Henry Snape said.

“No, Mr Snape, I’m tired tonight. Arthur’stired, too. I can see it. Let’s alI go to bed.”

She herded us out of the room and wewent upstairs, the four of us together. Onthe way up, there was the usual talk aboutbreakfast and what they wanted and howthey were to call the maid. “I think you’lllike your room,” my wife said. “It has aview right across the valley, and the sun

13

comes to you in the morning around teno’clock.”

We were in the passage now, standingoutside our own bedúroom door, and Icould see the wire I had put down thatafterúnoon and how it ran along the top ofthe skirting down to their room Although itwas nearly the same colour as the paint, itlooked very conspicuous to me. “Sleepwell.” my wife said. “Sleep well, Mrs Snape.Good night, Mr Snape.” I followed her intoour room and shut the door.

“Quick !” she cried. “Turn it on!” My wifewas always like that, frightened that shewas going to miss something. She had areputation, when she went hunting - Inever go myself -of always being right upwith the hounds whatever the cost toherself or her horse for fear that she mightmiss a kill. I could see she had no intentionof missing this one.

The little radio warmed up just in time tocatch the noise of their door opening andclosing again.

“There !” my wife said. “They’ve gone in.”She was standing in the centre of the roomin her blue dress, her hands clasped beforeher, her head craned forward, intentlylistening, and the whole of the big whiteface seemed somehow to have gathereditself together, tight like a wineskin.

Almost at once the voice of Henry Snapecame out of the radio, strong and clear.“You’re just a goddam little fool,” he wassaying, and this voice was so different fromthe one I reúmembered, so harsh andunpleasant, it made me jump. “The wholebloody evening wasted ! Eight hundredpoints - that’s eight pounds between us!”

“I got mixed up,” the girl answered. “Iwon’t do it again, I promise.”“What’s this ?”my wife said. “What’s goingon?” Her mouth was wide open now, theeyebrows stretched up high, and she camequickly over to the radio and leanedforward, ear to the speaker. I must say Ifelt rather excited myself.“I promise, I promise I won’t do it again.”the girl was saying.“We’re not taking any chances.” the mananswered grimly. “We’re going to haveanother practice right now.”

“Oh no, please! I couldn’t stand it!”“Look,” the man said, “all the way out hereto take money off this rich bitch and youhave to go and mess it up.”

My wife’s turn to jump.“The second time this week, ” he went on.“I promise I won’t do it again.”“Sit down. I’ll sing them out and youanswer.”“No, Henry, please! Not all five hundred ofthem. It’ll take three hours.”“All right, then. We”ll leave out the fingerpositions. I think you’re sure of those. We’lljust do the basic bids showing honourtricks.”“Oh, Henry, must we? I’m so tired.”“It’s absolutely essential you get themperfect,” he said. “We have a game everyday next week, you know that. And we’vegot to eat.”“What is this?” my wife whispered. “Whaton earth is it?”“Shhh ! ”I said. ”Listen!”“All right,” the man’s voice was saying.“Now well start from the beginning.Ready?”“Oh Henry, please!” She sounded very nearto tears.“Come on, Sally. Pull yourself together.”

Then, in a quite different voice, the one wehad been used to hearing in the living-room, Henry Snape said, “One club.” Inoticed that there was a curious liltingemphasis on the word one”, the first part ofthe word drawn out long.

“Ace queen of clubs,” the girl repliedwearily. “King jack of spades. No hearts,and ace jack of diamonds.”“And how many cards to each suit? Watchmy finger posiútions carefully.”“You said we could miss those.”“Well - if you’re quite sure you knowthem?”“Yes, I know them.”A pause, then “A club.”“King, jack of clubs,” the girl recited. “Aceof spades. Queen jack of hearts, and acequeen of diamonds.”Another pause, then I’ll say one club”“Ace king of clubs . . .”“My heavens alive !” I cried. “It’s a biddingcode! They show every card in the hand!”“Arthur, it couldn’t be !” “It’s like those men who go into theaudience and borrow something from you

14

and there’s a girl blindfolded on the stage,and from the way he phrases the questionshe can tell him exactly what it is - even arailway ticket, and what station it’s from.”

“It’s impossible !”“Not at all. But it’s tremendous hard workto learn. Listen to them.”“I’ll go one heart,” the man’s voice wassaying.“King queen ten of hearts. Ace jack ofspades. No diamonds. Queen jack of clubs .. ““And you see,” I said, “he tells her thenumber of cards he has in each suit by theposition of his fingers.”“How?”“I don’t know. You heard him saying aboutit.”“My God, Arthur! Are you sure that’s whatthey’re doing?”

“I’m afraid so.” I watched her as shewalked quickly over to the side of the bedto fetch a cigarette. She lit it with her backto me and then swung round, blowing thesmoke up at the ceiling in a thin stream. Iknew we were going to have to dosomething about this, but I wasn’t quitesure what because we couldn’t possiblyaccuse them without revealing the sourceof our information. I waited for my wife’sdecision.

“Why, Arthur,” she said slowly. blowing outclouds of smoke. “Why, this is a marvellousidea. Do you think we could learn to do it?”“What!”“Of course. Why not?”

“Here! No! Wait a minute, Pamela . . .”butshe came swiftly across the room, right upclose to me where I was standing, and shedropped her head and looked down at me -the old look of a smile that wasn’t a smile,at the corners of the mouth. and the curl ofthe nose, and the big full grey eyes staringat me with their bright black centres, andthen they were grey, and all the rest waswhite flecked with hundreds of tiny redveins -and when she looked at me like this,hard and close, I swear to you it made mefeel as though I were drowning.

“Yes,” she said. “Why not?” “But Pamela ... Good heavens ... No ...After all

“Arthur, I do wish you wouldn’t argue withme all-the time. That’s exactly what we’lldo. Now, go fetch a deck of cards, we’llstart right away.”

THE END