More Tales of the Unexpected

by Roald Dahl

  ‘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 for 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 on 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 had 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 around ’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 home-made 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’s 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?’

  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.’

  ‘It must be an interesting job.’

  ‘It’s a marvellous job,’ he answered. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘And that’s why you go to the races?’

  ‘Race meetings is easy meat,’ he said. ‘You just stand around after the race, watchin’ for the lucky ones to queue up and draw their money. And when you see someone collectin’ a big bundle of notes, you simply follows after ’im and ’elps yourself. But don’t get me wrong, guv’nor. I never takes nothin’ from a loser. Nor from poor people neither. I only go after them as can afford it, the winners and the rich.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ I said. ‘How often do you get caught?’

  ‘Caught?’ he cried, disgusted. ‘Me get caught! It’s only pickpockets get caught. Fingersmiths never. Listen, I could take the false teeth out of your mouth if I wanted to and you wouldn’t even catch me!’

  ‘I don’t have false teeth,’ I said.

  ‘I know you don’t,’ he answered. ‘Otherwise I’d ’ave ’ad ’em out long ago!’

  I believed him. Those long slim fingers of his seemed able to do anything.

  We drove on for a while without talking.

  ‘That policeman’s going to check up on you pretty thoroughly,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t that worry you a bit?’

  ‘Nobody’s checkin’ up on me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course they are. He’s got your name and address written down most carefully in his black book.’

  The man gave me another of his sly, ratty little smiles. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So ’ee ’as. But I’ll bet ’ee ain’t got it all written down in ’is memory as well. I’ve never known a copper yet with a decent memory. Some of ‘em can’t even remember their own names.’

  ‘What’s memory got to do with it?’ I asked. ‘It’s written down in his book, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, guv’nor, it is. But the trouble is, ’ee’s lost the book. ’Ee’s lost both books, the one with my name in it and the one with yours.’

  In the long delicate fingers of his right hand, the man was holding up in triumph the two books he had taken from the policeman’s pockets. ‘Easiest job I ever done,’ he announced proudly.

  I nearly swerved the car into a milk-truck, I was so excited.

  ‘That copper’s got nothin’ on either of us now,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a genius!’ I cried.

  ‘’Ee’s got no names, no addresses, no car number, no nothin’,’ he said.

  ‘You’re brilliant!’

  ‘I think you’d better pull in off this main road as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Then we’d better build a little bonfire and burn these books.’

  ‘You’re a fantastic fellow,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Thank you, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘It’s always nice to be appreciated.’

  The Umbrella Man

  I’m going to tell you about a funny thing that happened to my mother and me yesterday evening. I am twelve years old and I’m a girl. My mother is thirty-four but I am nearly as tall as her already.

  Yesterday afternoon, my mother took me up to London to see the dentist. He found one hole. It was in a back tooth and he filled it without hurting me too much. After that, we went to a café. I had a banana split and my mother had a cup of coffee. By the time we got up to leave, it was about six o’clock.

  When we came out of the café it had started to rain. ‘We must get a taxi,’ my mother said. We were wearing ordinary hats and coats, and it was raining quite hard.

  ‘Why don’t we go back into the café and wait for it to stop?’ I said. I wanted another of those banana splits. They were gorgeous.

  ‘It isn’t going to stop,’ my mother said. ‘We must get home.’

  We stood on the pavement in the rain, looking for a taxi. Lots of them came by but they all had passen
gers inside them. ‘I wish we had a car with a chauffeur,’ my mother said.

  Just then, a man came up to us. He was a small man and he was pretty old, probably seventy or more. He raised his hat politely and said to my mother, ‘Excuse me. I do hope you will excuse me…’ He had a fine white moustache and bushy white eyebrows and a wrinkly pink face. He was sheltering under an umbrella which he held high over his head.

  ‘Yes?’ my mother said, very cool and distant.

  ‘I wonder if I could ask a small favour of you,’ he said. ‘It is only a very small favour.’

  I saw my mother looking at him suspiciously. She is a suspicious person, my mother. She is especially suspicious of two things – strange men and boiled eggs. When she cuts the top off a boiled egg, she pokes around inside it with her spoon as though expecting to find a mouse or something. With strange men, she has a golden rule which says, ‘The nicer the man seems to be, the more suspicious you must become.’ This little old man was particularly nice. He was polite. He was well-spoken. He was well-dressed. He was a real gentleman. The reason I knew he was a gentleman was because of his shoes. ‘You can always spot a gentleman by the shoes he wears,’ was another of my mother’s favourite sayings. This man had beautiful brown shoes.

  ‘The truth of the matter is,’ the little man was saying, ‘I’ve got myself into a bit of a scrape. I need some help. Not much, I assure you. It’s almost nothing, in fact, but I do need it. You see, madam, old people like me often become terribly forgetful…’

  My mother’s chin was up and she was staring down at him along the full length of her nose. It is a fearsome thing, this frosty-nosed stare of my mother’s. Most people go to pieces completely when she gives it to them. I once saw my own headmistress begin to stammer and simper like an idiot when my mother gave her a really foul frosty-noser. But the little man on the pavement with the umbrella over his head didn’t bat an eyelid. He gave a gentle smile and said, ‘I beg you to believe, madam, that I am not in the habit of stopping ladies in the street and telling them my troubles.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ my mother said.

  I felt quite embarrassed by my mother’s sharpness. I wanted to say to her, ‘Oh, mummy, for heaven’s sake, he’s a very very old man, and he’s sweet and polite, and he’s in some sort of trouble, so don’t be so beastly to him.’ But I didn’t say anything.