Chapter 45 landlady

Billy Weaver left London on the afternoon local train, changed at Swindon, and reached Bath at nine o'clock in the evening.The moon was rising into the starry clear sky behind the houses opposite the station entrance.But the weather was extremely cold, and the wind blew on his face like a knife. "Excuse me! Excuse me," he said, "are there any cheap hotels nearby?" "You go to the Dragon Bell Hotel," replied the porter, pointing in the direction of the city. "They may let you stay. Walk a quarter of a mile down the road, across the street." Billy thanked the porter, picked up the suitcase and walked to the Dragonbell Hotel.He had never been to Bath, and had no acquaintance here.But Mr. Greenslade of the head office in London told him that it was a very beautiful city. "Find your own lodgings," he told him, "and report to the branch manager as soon as you settle in."

Billy was seventeen, in a new navy blue coat, a new brown suit, and a new brown felt hat, and he was in a very good mood.He walked vigorously along the road.Lately he has been vigorously trying to do everything.Vitality, he concluded, was the only trait all successful industrialists had in common.It's amazing how incredibly dynamic the big guys at head office are all day and night. There are no shops on both sides of the wide street he walks on, only row upon row of high-rise residences of the same type.There was a porch and columns in front of the house, and four or five steps led up to the front door.Evidently, these houses had once been very fashionable mansions, but now, even in the dark, the paint was beginning to peel off the wooden parts of the doors and windows, and the stately white facades were cracked and stained with neglect. trace.

Not six yards from him was a window very brightly lit by a street lamp.Billy suddenly noticed that behind a pane of glass on the upper side stood a notice in typeface: BED AND BREAKFAST.Immediately below the notice stood a tall and beautiful bottle of pussy willow. He stopped and leaned against the window.There were green curtains (of a kind of velvet) hanging on either side of the windows, against which the pussy willows looked beautiful.He went to the window and looked into the room through the glass: a fire was burning brightly in the fireplace, and on the hearth rug a beautiful German spaniel was curled up sleeping with its face under its belly.From what could be seen in the half-light, the room was filled with comfortable furniture, a baby piano, a large sofa, and several heavily cushioned armchairs.He found a large parrot in a cage in one corner.Billy said to himself that the presence of critters is always a good omen in places like this; and it seemed like a decent place to be, sure to be more comfortable than the Dragonbell Hotel.

But on the other hand, a small hotel is more lively and pleasant than a boarding house in a private home.An evening of beer, darts, lots of people talking and probably a lot cheaper.He had spent two nights in a small hotel and liked it.He had never boarded in a private home before, and, to tell the truth, he was a little afraid of such places.The very name conjured up images of undercooked cabbage, a large landlady, and the strong smell of herring in the drawing room. After standing hesitantly in the cold air for two or three minutes, Billy decided to go on and visit the Dragon Bell Hotel before deciding where to stay.He turned around to walk away.

At this time, a strange thing happened.He was about to take a step back and turn away from the window when suddenly his eyes were caught in the strangest way by the little notice placed there.Bed and breakfast, it says, bed and breakfast, bed and breakfast.Every word was like a huge black eye staring at him through the glass, grabbing him, forcing him, forcing him to stay where he was, not to leave the house.Suddenly he found himself leaving the window for the front door, climbing up the front steps, and reaching for the bell. He rang the doorbell, heard it ring in a room far behind, and the door swung open -- it must have swung open immediately, because he hadn't even had time to take his finger off the bell button -- — A woman is standing by the door.

Normally you have to wait at least half a minute for the door to open after you ring the bell, but this lady was like a doll in a doll's box, as soon as he pressed the button - she jumped out!It took him by surprise. She was about forty-five to fifty years of age, and when she saw him she greeted him with a warm smile. "Come in," she said cheerfully.She stood aside, the door wide open, and Billy found himself lifting his foot mechanically to walk into the house.The force, or rather, the desire to do so, compelled him to follow her into the house was uncharacteristically strong.

"I saw the notice on the window." He restrained himself and stopped walking. "Yes, I know that." "I was looking for a room to stay." "Everything is ready for you, dear," she said.She had a round, rosy face and extremely soft blue eyes. "I was going to the Dragon Bell Hotel," Billy said to her, "but the notice in your window caught me." "My dear boy," she said, "why don't you come out of the cold into the house?" "How much do you charge for the room?" "Five shillings and sixpence a night, breakfast included."

It was simply too cheap, less than half of what he imagined. "If you think it's too expensive," she added, "then I can ask for a little less. Would you like eggs in the morning? Eggs are very expensive at present, and if you don't eat eggs, you can get sixpence less." "Five shillings and sixpence," he answered, "I should very much like to live here." "I know you will stay, please come in." She seemed very nice, like the mother of a best friend welcoming you to her house for Christmas.Billy took off his hat and stepped over the threshold.

"Just hang it here," she said. "Give me the coat." In the hall there were no other hats or coats hanging there, no umbrellas, no walking sticks—nothing. "Just the two of us," she said.She smiled back at him as she led him upstairs. "You know, I don't often have the honor of bringing guests to my little den." The old lady is a little crazy, Billy thought.But at five shillings and sixpence a night, who cares? "I think you'll be overwhelmed with lodgers," he said politely. "Oh, yes, dear, yes, of course I am. But the thing is, I'm a little picky and demanding—I don't know if you know what I mean."

"Ah, I understand." "But I always keep everything in this house ready, day and night, in case a desirable young gentleman should appear. Whenever I open the door, there is standing outside the door a man who suits me. What a joy it is to me when I meet someone I like. What a great joy it is, my dear!" Halfway up the stairs, she stopped with one hand on the railing, turned her head, and moved her pale lips to her. He smiled from behind. "Someone like you," she added, blue eyes sweeping slowly across his body from head to feet, then to head. On the stairs on the second floor, she said to him, "I live on this floor."

They went up another level. "This floor is all yours," she said. "Here is your room, and I hope you like it." She led him into a small but lovely room facing the street, and when she entered He turned on the light easily. "The sun shines in through the window in the morning, Mr. Perkins. Your name is Mr. Perkins, isn't it?" "No," he said, "Weaver." "Mr. Weaver, that's very nice. I put a hot water bottle under your quilt to warm you up, Mr. Weaver. You don't think sleeping in a strange bed with a clean quilt has a Is the hot water bottle a great comfort? You can always turn on the gas if you feel cold." "Thank you," Billy said, "thank you very, very much." He noticed that the coverlet had been lifted and one side of the comforter was neatly turned up, just waiting for someone to slip in and sleep. "I'm so glad you're here," she said, looking eagerly into his face. "I'm starting to worry." "It's all right," Billy said cheerfully, "don't you worry about me." He put the case on the chair and opened it. "Supper, dear? Did you get something to eat before you came here?" "I'm not hungry at all, thank you," he said. "I want to go to bed as soon as possible, because tomorrow I have to report to work early." "Well then, I'm leaving. You'd better get the contents out of the suitcase. But before you go to bed, would you bother to go down to the living room and fill out the registration form? Everyone is required to do so by law, and here we are Times don't want to do anything illegal, do they?" With a slight wave to him, she walked out quickly and closed the door. It seemed that the landlady was a little out of her mind, but that didn't disturb Billy in the slightest.Anyway, not only was she harmless - there was no doubt about that - but she was clearly good-hearted.He guessed that she had probably lost a son in the war, or something similar, and had never recovered from the blow. And so, after a few minutes, when he had unpacked his things from the box and washed his hands, he hurried downstairs into the drawing-room.The landlady was not in the drawing room, but a fire was burning in the fireplace, and the German terrier was still asleep in front of it.The room is warm and makes people feel very comfortable.I'm lucky, he thought, rubbing his hands together, this is a nice place. Seeing that the dormitory registration book was open and placed on the piano, he took out a pen and wrote down his name and address.There were only two entries before his name on the page, as one often does when one sees a passenger register, and he read the preceding entries.One of them was Christopher Moore Holland, from Cardiff; the other was Gregory Temple, from Bristol. Strange, it occurred to him, Christopher Mooreholland, the name sounded familiar. Where had he heard this rather uncommon name? Is it a classmate in primary school?no.Was it one of his sister's many boyfriends?Maybe.Or maybe a friend of his father?No, no, neither.He looked at the register again. In fact, upon reflection, the second name seemed as familiar as the first. "Gregory Temple?" he read aloud, trying to recall, "Christopher Mooreholland? . . . " "What lovely children," answered a voice behind him.He looked back to see the landlady floating into the room with the tea tray in her hand, held high in her hand as if it were the bridle of a galloping horse. "Somehow the two names sound familiar," he said. "Really? It's so interesting." "I'm almost sure I've heard those two names somewhere before. Is it any wonder? Maybe in the papers. They're not famous people, are they? I mean famous cricketers. hands, or football players or something." "Famous people," she said, setting the tray down on a low coffee table in front of the sofa, "ah, no, I don't think they're famous people. But they're very pretty, and both of them are pretty, I'm That's for sure. They're tall, young, and pretty, my dear, exactly like you." Billy looked down at the register again. "Hey, I said," he said, noting the date, "the last one registered was two years ago." "yes?" "Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mooreholland was almost a year before that—more than three years ago." "Oh!" she said, shaking her head and sighing slightly. "I wouldn't be aware of it if you didn't tell me. Time is passing us by in a blink of an eye, very quickly, isn't it, Mr. Wilkins?" "My name's Weaver," said Billy, "w-e-a-v-e-r." "Oh, of course it is!" she exclaimed, sitting down on the sofa. "I'm stupid, I apologize to you. One ear goes in, the other goes out, and that's the way I am, Mr. Weaver." "You know," said Billy, "that there's something really queer about this?" "Honey, I don't know." "Well, look--these two names, Moore Holland and Temple, I not only seem to remember, but I don't know why, the two names seem to have some strange connection. Something famous, if you know what I mean - like... well... like, say, like Dempsey and Tunis (William H. Dempsey and Tunis) Tunnney (James J. Tunnney are both famous American boxing champions in the 1920s.), or like Churchill and Roosevelt." "That's funny," she said, "now you come over here, my dear, and sit next to me on the sofa, and you have a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed." "You really shouldn't be bothering," Billy said. "I didn't want you to." He stood by the piano and watched her arrange the teacups and saucers.He noticed her white, small, nimble hands with red painted nails. "I almost certainly saw their names in the paper," Billy said. "I'll remember it right away, I will." There is nothing more frustrating than seeming to remember something but not being able to remember it.He didn't want to let go. "Well, wait a minute," he said, "wait a minute, Moore Holland...Christopher Moore Holland...isn't that the name of the boy at Eton who was hiking in the West, But suddenly..." "Would you like milk?" she asked. "Would you like sugar?" "Yes. But suddenly..." "An Etonian?" she asked. "Oh, no, my dear, it can't be, because my Mr. Mooreholland was certainly not an Etonian when he came to me, he A student at Cambridge University. Come sit next to me and warm up in front of this lovely fire. Come on, your tea is all ready." She patted the empty seat on the sofa beside her and smiled at Billy , waiting for him to come to her. He walked slowly across the room and sat down on the edge of the sofa.She put his tea on the table in front of him. "Well," she said, "it's nice, nice and warm, isn't it?" Billy sipped his tea, and so did she.Neither of them spoke for about half a minute.But Billy knew she was looking at him, halfway toward him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, looking at him over the rim of his teacup.Now and then he caught a strange smell that seemed to emanate directly from her, which was not at all unpleasant, and which reminded him of—well, he couldn't say what it reminded him of.Is it pickled walnuts?Freshly tanned leather?Or the smell in the hospital corridors? "Mr. Moore Holland is a big tea drinker," she continued after a long time. "I've never seen anyone drink as much tea in my life as dear, lovely Mr. Moore Holland." "I think he just left here a while ago," Billy said, still running the names in his head.Now he was sure he had seen the names in the paper--on the headlines. "Going away?" she said, arching her eyebrows. "But my dear boy, he hasn't gone away at all. He's still here, and Mr. Temple is here. They're on the third floor, together." Billy slowly put the teacup on the table and looked intently at his landlady.She smiled back, then put out a white hand to pat his knee reassuringly, and asked, "How old are you, dear?" "Seventeen years old." "Seventeen!" she exclaimed. "Ah, the perfect age! Mr. Mooreholland is seventeen too. But I think he's a little shorter than you, in fact, I'm sure he is." Some, and his teeth are not as white as yours. You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr. Weaver, you know?" "My teeth aren't as good as they look," Billy said. "The back teeth are all filled." "Of course, Mr. Temple is older," she went on, ignoring him. "He's actually twenty-eight, but if he hadn't told me I wouldn't have guessed it. Wouldn't have guessed it either. He doesn't have a single blemish all over his body." "A what?" Billy asked. "His skin was like that of a baby." The conversation stopped.Billy picked up his teacup, took another sip of tea, and put the cup gently back into the saucer.He waited for her to say something else, but she seemed to fall into her usual silence again.He sat there, biting his lower lip, looking straight ahead into the far corner of the room. "That parrot," he said at last, "you know, when I saw it from the window in the street, it totally blew me away. I could have sworn it was a live parrot." "Ah, it's no longer alive." "This specimen is simply exquisitely made," he said. "It is not at all recognizable as dead. Who made it?" "I." "You did it?" "Of course I did it," she said. "Have you seen my little Basil?" She tipped her head toward the German terrier who was curled up comfortably in front of the fire.Billy looked at the dog, and suddenly he saw that the beast had been as motionless and silent as the parrot.He reached out a hand and stroked the dog's back lightly.The dog's back was hard and cold, and when he pushed the dog's fur to one side with his fingers, he could see the skin under the fur, gray-black, dry, and well-preserved. "My God," he said, "it's amazing." He turned from the dog and looked with deep admiration at the little man sitting next to him on the couch woman. "It must be very difficult to make such a specimen." "It's not difficult at all," she said. "When my little ones died, I taxidermied them all with my own hands. Would you like more tea?" "No, thank you," Billy said.The tea tasted a little bit of bitter almonds (the poisonous cyanide.) and he didn't like it very much. "Have you filled out the register?" "Ah, it's done." "Very well, if I happen to forget your name in the future, I can come down and look it up anytime. I still look up Mr. Chamoor Holland and Mr. . . . . . . " "Temple," Billy reminded, "Gregory Temple. If you'll excuse me, haven't there been any other guests in the last two or three years besides these two?" She held the teacup high in one hand, tilted her head slightly to the left, squinted at him, and smiled gently at him again. "No, dear," she said, "only you."