Roald Dahl: The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl, Volume 2

Dear Lady Leishman,

It is with very great regret that I trouble you at this tragic time of your bereavement, but regretfully I am left with no alternative in the circumstances.

I had the pleasure of serving your late husband over a number of years and my invoices were always sent to him care of White's Club, as indeed were many of the little parcels of books that he collected with such enthusiasm.

He was always a prompt settler and a very pleasant gentleman to deal with. I am listing below his more recent purchases, those which, alas, he had ordered in more recent times before he passed away and which were delivered to him in the usual manner.

Perhaps I should explain to you that publications of this nature are often very rare and can therefore be rather costly. Some are privately printed, some are actually banned in this country and those are more costly still.

Rest assured, dear madam, that I always conduct business in the strictest confidence. My own reputation over many years in the trade is the best guarantee of my discretion. When the bill is paid, that is the last you will hear of the matter, unless of course you happen to be able to lay hands on your late husband's collection of erotica, in which case I should be happy to make you an offer for it.

The Books: THE COMPLEAT ANGLER, Isaak Walton, First Edition. Good clean copy. Some rubbing of edges. Rare. Ј420 LOVE IN FURS, Leopold von Sacher Masoch, 1920 edition. Slip cover. Ј75 SEXUAL SECRETS, Translation from Danish. Ј40 HOW TO PLEASURE YOUNG GIRLS WHEN YOU ARE OVER SIXTY, llustrations. Private printing from Paris. Ј95 THE ART OF PUNISHMENT—THE CANE, THE WHIP AND THE LASH, Translated from German. Banned in U.K. Ј115 THREE NAUGHTY NUNS, Good clean edition. Ј60 RESTRAINT—SHACKLES AND SILKEN CORDS, Illustrations.Ј80 WHY TEENAGERS PREFER OLD MEN, Illustrations. American.Ј90 THE LONDON DIRECTORY OF ESCORTS AND HOSTESSES, Current edition. Ј20 Total now due: Ј995 Yours faithfully, William Buggage "Right," Miss Tottle said, running the notepaper out of her typewriter. "Done that one. But you realize I don't have my 'Bible' here, so I'll have to check the names when I get home before posting the letters."

"You do that," Mr Buggage said.

Miss Tottle's Bible was a massive index-card file in which were recorded the names and addresses of every client they had written to since the beginning of the business. The purpose of this was to try as nearly as possible to ensure that no two members of the same family received a Buggage invoice. If this were to happen, there would always be the danger that they might compare notes. It also served to guard against a case where a widow who had received one invoice upon the death of her first husband might be sent another invoice on the death of the second husband. That, of course, would let the cat right out of the bag. There was no guaranteed way of avoiding this perilous mistake because the widow would have changed her name when she remarried, but Miss Tottle had developed an instinct for sniffing out such pitfalls, and the Bible helped her to do it.

"What's next?" Miss Tottle asked.

"The next is Major General Lionel Anstruther. Here 'ee is. Got about six inches in 'Oo's 'Oo. Clubs, Army and Navy. Recreations, Ridin' to 'Ounds."

"I suppose he fell off a horse and broke his flipping neck," Miss Tottle said. "I'll start with Memoirs of a Foxh un ting Man, first edition, right?"

"Right. Two 'undred and twenty quid," Mr Buggage said. "And make it between five and six 'undred altogether."

"Okay."

"And put in The Sting of the Ridin' Crop.

Whips seem to come natural to these foxhuntin' folk."

And so it went on.

The holiday in Marrakech continued pleasantly enough and nine days later Mr Buggage and Miss Tottle were back in the office in Charing Cross Road, both with sun-scorched skins as red as the shells of the many lobsters they had eaten. They quickly settled down again into their normal and stimulating routine. Day after day the letters went out and the cheques came in. It was remarkable how smoothly the business ran. The psychology behind it was, of course, very sound. Strike a widow at the height of her grief, strike her with something that is unbearably awful, something she wants to forget about and put behind her, something she wants nobody else to discover. What's more, the funeral is imminent. So she pays up fast to get the sordid little business out of the way. Mr Buggage knew his onions. In all the years he had been operating, he had never once had a protest or an angry reply. Just a cheque in an envelope. Now and again, but not often, there was no reply at all. The disbelieving widow had been brave enough to sling his letter into the waste-paper basket and that was the end of it. None of them quite dared to challenge the invoice because they could never be absolutely positive that the late husband had been as pure as the wife believed and hoped. Men never are. In many cases, of course, the widow knew very well that her beloved had been a lecherous old bird and Mr Buggage's invoice came as no surprise. So she paid up even faster.

About a month after their return from Marrakech, on a wet and rainy afternoon in March, Mr Buggage was reclining comfortably in his office with his feet up on the top of his fine partner's desk, dictating to Miss Tottle some details about a deceased and distinguished admiral. "Recreations," he was saying, reading from Who's Who, "Gardening, sailing and stamp-collecting… " At that point, the door from the main shop opened and a young man came in with a book in his hand. "Mr Buggage?" he said.

Mr Buggage looked up. "Over there," he said, waving towards Miss Tottle. "She'll deal with you."

The young man stood still. His navy-blue overcoat was wet from the weather and droplets of water were dripping from his hair. He didn't look at Miss Tottle. He kept his eyes on Mr Buggage. "Don't you want the money?" he said, pleasantly enough.

"She'll take it."

"Why won't you take it?"

"Because she's the cashier," Mr Buggage said. "You want to buy a book, go ahead. She'll deal with you."

"I'd rather deal with you," the young man said.

Mr Buggage looked up at him. "Go on," he said. "Just do as you're told, there's a good lad."

"You are the proprietor?" the young man said. "You are Mr William Buggage?"

"What if I am," Mr Buggage said, his feet still up on the desk.

"Are you or aren't you?"

"What's it to you?" Mr Buggage said.

"So that's settled," the young man said. "How d'you do, Mr Buggage." There was a curious edge to his voice now, a mixture of scorn and mockery.

Mr Buggage took his feet down from the desk-top and sat up a trifle straighter. "You're a bit of a cheeky young bugger, aren't you," he said. "If you want that book, I suggest you just pay your money over there and then you can 'op it. Right?"

The young man turned towards the still open door that led to the front of the shop. Just the other side of the door there were a couple of the usual kind of customers, men in raincoats, pulling out books and examining them.

"Mother," the young man called softly. "You can come in, Mother. Mr Buggage is here."

A small woman of about sixty came in and stood beside the young man. She had a trim figure for her age and a face that must once have been ravishing, but now it showed traces of strain and exhaustion, and the pale blue eyes were dulled with grief. She was wearing a black coat and a simple black hat. She left the door open behind her.

"Mr Buggage," the young man said. "This is my mother, Mrs Northcote."

Miss Tottle, the rememberer of names, turned round quick and looked at Mr Buggage and made little warning movements with her mouth. Mr Buggage got the message and said as politely as he could, "And what can I do for you, madam?"