Author: Raold Dahl
Dr and Mrs Bixby lived in a smallish apartment somewhere in New York City. Dr Bixby was a dentist who made an average income. Mrs Bixby was a big, vigorous woman with a wet mouth.
Once a month, always on Friday afternoons, Mrs Bixby would board the train at Pennsylvania Station and travel to Baltimore to visit her old aunt. She would spend the night with the aunt and return to New York on the following day in time to cook supper for her husband.
Dr Bixby accepted this arrangement good-naturedly.
He knew that Aunt Maude lived in Baltimore, and that his wife was very fond of the old lady, and certainly it would be unreasonable to deny either of them the pleasure of a monthly meeting.
‘Just so long as you don’t ever expect me to accompany you,’ Dr Bixby had said in the beginning.
‘Of course not, darling,’ Mrs Bixby had answered. ‘After all, she is not your aunt. She’s mine.’
So far so good. At it turned out, however, the aunt was little more than a convenient alibi for Mrs Bixby.
The dirty dog, in the shape of a gentleman known as the Colonel, was lurking slyly in the background, and our heroine spent the greater part of her Baltimore time in this scoundrel’s company. The Colonel was exceedingly wealthy. He lived in a charming house on the outskirts of the town.
No wife or family encumbered him, only a few discreet and loyal servants, and in Mrs Bixby’s absence he consoled himself by riding his horses and hunting the fox. Year after year, this pleasant alliance between Mrs Bixby and the Colonel continued without a hitch.
They met so seldom — 12 times a year is not much when you come to think of it — that there was little or no chance of their growing bored with one another. On the contrary, the long wait between meetings only made the heart grow fonder, and each separate occasion became an exciting reunion.
‘Tally-ho!’ the Colonel would cry each time he met her at the station in the big car. ‘My dear, I’d almost forgotten how ravishing you looked. Let’s go to earth.’
Eight years went by.
It was just before Christmas, and Mrs Bixby was standing on the station in Baltimore waiting for the train to take her back to New York. This particular visit which had just ended had been more than usually agreeable, and she was in a cheerful mood.
But then the Colonel’s company always did that to her these days.
The man had a way of making her feel that she was altogether a rather remarkable woman, a person of subtle and exotic talents, fascinating beyond measure; and what a very different thing that was from the dentist husband at home who never succeeded in making her feel that she was anything but a sort of eternal patient, someone who dwelt in the waiting-room, silent among the magazines, seldom if ever nowadays to be called in to suffer the finicky precise ministrations of those clean pink hands.
Brownstone facades & row houses in an iconic neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights in New York
‘The Colonel asked me to give you this,’ a voice beside her said.
She turned and saw Wilkins, the Colonel’s groom, a small wizened dwarf with grey skin, and he was pushing a large flattish cardboard box into her arms.
‘Good gracious me!’ she cried, all of a flutter. ‘My heavens, what an enormous box! What is it, Wilkins? Was there a message? Did he send me a message?’
‘No message,’ the groom said, and he walked away.
As soon as she was on the train, Mrs Bixby carried the box into the privacy of the Ladies’ Room and locked the door.
How exciting this was!
A Christmas present from the Colonel. She started to undo the string.
‘I’ll bet it’s a dress,’ she said aloud. ‘It might even be two dresses. Or it might be a whole lot of beautiful underclothes. I won’t look. I’ll just feel around and try to guess what it is. I’ll try to guess the colour as well, and exactly what it looks like. Also how much it cost.’
She shut her eyes tight and slowly lifted off the lid. Then she put one hand down into the box. There was some tissue paper on top; she could feel it and hear it rustling. There was also an envelope or a card of some sort. She ignored this and began burrowing underneath the tissue paper, the fingers reaching out delicately, like tendrils.
‘My God,’ she cried suddenly. ‘It can’t be true!’
Roald Dahl initially wrote Cruelty: Tales Of Malice And Greed in 1959
She opened her eyes wide and stared at the coat. Then she pounced on it and lifted it out of the box. Thick layers of fur made a lovely noise against the tissue paper as they unfolded, and when she held it up and saw it hanging to its full length, it was so beautiful it took her breath away.
Never had she seen mink like this before. It was mink, wasn’t it? Yes, of course it was. But what a glorious colour! The fur was almost pure black. At first she thought it was black; but when she held it closer to the window she saw that there was a touch of blue in it as well, a deep rich blue, like cobalt.
Quickly she looked at the label. It said simply, wild labrador mink. There was nothing else, no sign of where it had been bought or anything. But that, she told herself, was probably the Colonel’s doing.
The wily old fox was making darn sure he didn’t leave any tracks. Good for him. But what in the world could it have cost? She hardly dared to think. Four, five, six thousand dollars? Possibly more.
She just couldn’t take her eyes off it. Nor, for that matter, could she wait to try it on. Quickly she slipped off her own plain red coat. She was panting a little now, she couldn’t help it, and her eyes were stretched very wide.
But oh God, the feel of that fur! And those huge wide sleeves with their thick turned-up cuffs! Who was it had once told her that they always used female skins for the arms and male skins for the rest of the coat?
Someone had told her that. Joan Rutfield, probably; though how Joan would know anything about mink she couldn’t imagine.
The great, black coat seemed to slide on to her almost of its own accord, like a second skin. Oh boy! It was the queerest feeling! She glanced into the mirror. It was fantastic. Her whole personality had suddenly changed completely.
She looked dazzling, radiant, rich, brilliant, voluptuous, all at the same time. And the sense of power that it gave her! In this coat she could walk into any place she wanted and people would come scurrying around her like rabbits. The whole thing was just too wonderful for words!
Mrs Bixby picked up the envelope that was still lying in the box. She opened it and pulled out the Colonel’s letter: I once heard you saying you were fond of mink so I got you this. I’m told it’s a good one. Please accept it with my sincere good wishes as a parting gift. For my own personal reasons I shall not be able to see you any more. Goodbye and good luck.
Well! Imagine that!
Right out of the blue, just when she was feeling so happy. No more Colonel. What a dreadful shock. She would miss him enormously.
Slowly, Mrs Bixby began stroking the lovely soft black fur of the coat. What you lose on the swings you get back on the roundabouts. She smiled and folded the letter, meaning to tear it up and throw it out the window, but in folding it she noticed that there was something written on the other side: P.S. Just tell them that nice generous aunt of yours gave it to you for Christmas.
A pawnbroker shop sign with three the tradition three golden balls
Mrs Bixby’s mouth, at that moment stretched wide in a silky smile, snapped back like a piece of elastic.
‘The man must be mad!’ she cried. ‘Aunt Maude doesn’t have that sort of money. She couldn’t possibly give me this.’
But if Aunt Maude didn’t give it to her, then who did? Oh God! In the excitement of finding the coat and trying it on, she had completely overlooked this vital aspect. In a couple of hours she would be in New York.
Ten minutes after that she would be home, and the husband would be there to greet her; and even a man like Cyril, dwelling as he did in a dark phlegmy world of root canals, bicuspids and caries, would start asking a few questions if his wife suddenly waltzed in from a week-end wearing a six-thousand-dollar mink coat.
You know what I think, she told herself. I think that goddamn Colonel has done this on purpose just to torture me. He knew perfectly well Aunt Maude didn’t have enough money to buy this. He knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it. But the thought of parting with it now was more than Mrs Bixby could bear.
‘I’ve got to have this coat!’ she said aloud. ‘I’ve got to have this coat! I’ve got to have this coat!’
Very well, my dear. You shall have the coat. But don’t panic. Sit still and keep calm and start thinking. You’re a clever girl, aren’t you? You’ve fooled him before. The man never has been able to see much further than the end of his own probe, you know that. So just sit absolutely still and think.
There’s lots of time. Two and a half hours later, Mrs Bixby stepped off the train at Pennsylvania Station and walked quickly to the exit. She was wearing her old red coat again now and carrying the cardboard box in her arms. She signalled for a taxi.
‘Driver,’ she said, ‘would you know of a pawnbroker that’s still open around here?’ The man behind the wheel raised his brows and looked back at her, amused.
‘Plenty along Sixth Avenue,’ he answered. ‘Stop at the first one you see, then, will you please?’ She got in and was driven away.
Soon the taxi pulled up outside a shop that had three brass balls hanging over the entrance.
‘Wait for me, please,’ Mrs Bixby said to the driver, and she got out of the taxi and entered the shop.
There was an enormous cat crouching on the counter, eating fish-heads out of a white saucer. The animal looked up at Mrs Bixby with bright yellow eyes, then looked away again and went on eating.
Mrs Bixby stood by the counter, as far away from the cat as possible, waiting for someone to come, staring at the watches, the shoe buckles, the enamel brooches, the old binoculars, the broken spectacles, the false teeth.
Why did they always pawn their teeth, she wondered. ‘Yes?’ the proprietor said, emerging from a dark place in the back of the shop.
‘Oh, good evening,’ Mrs Bixby said. She began to untie the string round the box. The man went up to the cat and started stroking it along the top of its back, and the cat went on eating the fish-heads.
‘Isn’t it silly of me?’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘I’ve gone and lost my pocketbook, and this being Saturday, the banks are all closed until Monday and I’ve simply got to have some money for the weekend. This is quite a valuable coat, but I’m not asking much. I only want to borrow enough on it to tide me over till Monday. Then I’ll come back and redeem it.’
The man waited, and said nothing. But when she pulled out the mink and allowed the beautiful thick fur to fall over the counter, his eyebrows went up and he drew his hand away from the cat and came over to look at it.
He picked it up and held it out in front of him.
‘If only I had a watch on me or a ring,’ Mrs Bixby said, ‘I’d give you that instead. But the fact is I don’t have a thing with me other than this coat.’
She spread out her fingers for him to see.
‘It looks new,’ the man said, fondling the soft fur.
‘Oh yes, it is. But, as I said, I only want to borrow enough to tide me over till Monday. How about 50 dollars?’
‘I’ll loan you 50 dollars.’
‘It’s worth a hundred times more than that, but I know you’ll take good care of it until I return.’ T
he man went over to a drawer and fetched a ticket and placed it on the counter. The ticket looked like one of those labels you tie on to the handle of your suitcase, the same shape and size exactly, and the same stiff brownish paper.
But it was perforated across the middle so that you could tear it in two, and both halves were identical.
‘Name?’ he asked. ‘Leave that out. And the address.’ She saw the man pause, and she saw the nib of the pen hovering over the dotted line, waiting.
‘You don’t have to put the name and address, do you?’ The man shrugged and shook his head and the pen-nib moved on down to the next line.
‘It’s just that I’d rather not,’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘It’s purely personal.’
‘You’d better not lose this ticket, then.’
‘I won’t lose it.’
‘You realise that anyone who gets hold of it can come in and claim the article?’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Simply on the number.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘What do you want me to put for a description?’
‘No description either, thank you. It’s not necessary. Just put the amount I’m borrowing.’
The pen-nib hesitated again, hovering over the dotted line beside the word article.
‘I think you ought to put a description. A description is always a help if you want to sell the ticket. You never know, you might want to sell it sometime.’
‘I don’t want to sell it.’
‘You might have to. Lots of people do.’
‘Look,’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘I’m not broke, if that’s what you mean. I simply lost my purse. Don’t you understand?’
‘You have it your own way then,’ the man said. ‘It’s your coat.’
At this point an unpleasant thought struck Mrs Bixby.
‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘If I don’t have a description on my ticket, how can I be sure you’ll give me back the coat and not something else when I return?’
‘It goes in the books.’
‘But all I’ve got is a number. So actually you could hand me any old thing you wanted, isn’t that so?’
‘Do you want a description or don’t you?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I trust you.’
The man wrote ‘fifty dollars’ opposite the word value on both sections of the ticket, then he tore it in half along the perforations and slid the lower portion across the counter. He took a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted five ten-dollar bills.
‘The interest is three per cent a month,’ he said.
‘Yes, all right. And thank you. You’ll take good care of it, won’t you?’
The man nodded but said nothing.
‘Shall I put it back in the box for you?’
‘No,’ the man said.
Mrs Bixby turned and went out of the shop on to the street where the taxi was waiting.
Ten minutes later, she was home…
Mrs Bixby And The Colonel’s Coat was first published in 1959 and is taken from Cruelty: Tales Of Malice And Greed, by Roald Dahl, published by Penguin and available in paperback at £8.99, ebook and audiobook.
© The Roald Dahl Story Company Ltd