But there was no coat. There was only a ridiculous little fur neckpiece dangling from her husband’s hand.
‘Feast your eyes on that!’ he said, waving it in front of her face.
Mrs Bixby put a hand up to her mouth and started backing away. I’m going to scream, she told herself. I just know it. I’m going to scream.
‘What’s the matter, my dear? Don’t you like it?’ He stopped waving the fur and stood staring at her, waiting for her to say something.
‘Why yes,’ she stammered. ‘I … I … think it’s … it’s lovely … really lovely.’
‘Quite took your breath away for a moment there, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘Magnificent quality,’ he said. ‘Fine colour, too. You know something, my dear? I reckon a piece like this would cost you two or three hundred dollars at least if you had to buy it in a shop.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
There were two skins, two narrow mangy-looking skins with their heads still on them and glass beads in their eye sockets and little paws hanging down. One of them had the rear end of the other in its mouth, biting it.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try it on.’ He leaned forward and draped the thing round her neck, then stepped back to admire. ‘It’s perfect. It really suits you. It isn’t everyone who has mink, my dear.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Better leave it behind when you go shopping or they’ll all think we’re millionaires and start charging us double.’
‘I’ll try to remember that, Cyril.’
‘I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything else for Christmas. Fifty dollars was rather more than I was going to spend anyway.’
He turned away and went over to the basin and began washing his hands. ‘Run along now, my dear, and buy yourself a nice lunch. I’d take you out myself but I’ve got old man Gorman in the waiting-room with a broken clasp on his denture.’
Mrs Bixby moved towards the door.
I’m going to kill that pawnbroker, she told herself. I’m going right back there to the shop this very minute and I’m going to throw this filthy neckpiece right in his face and if he refuses to give me back my coat I’m going to kill him.
‘Did I tell you I was going to be late home tonight?’ Cyril Bixby said, still washing his hands.
‘No.’
‘It’ll probably be at least eight thirty the way things look at the moment. It may even be nine.’
‘Yes, all right. Good-bye.’ Mrs Bixby went out, slamming the door behind her.
At that precise moment, Miss Pulteney, the secretary-assistant, came sailing past her down the corridor on her way to lunch.
‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ Miss Pulteney said as she went by, flashing a smile. There was a lilt in her walk, a little whiff of perfume attending her, and she looked like a queen, just exactly like a queen in the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs Bixby.
Claud’s
Dog
First published in
Someone Like You
(1953)
Rummins
The sun was up over the hills now and the mist had cleared and it was wonderful to be striding along the road with the dog in the early morning, especially when it was autumn, with the leaves changing to gold and yellow and sometimes one of them breaking away and falling slowly, turning slowly over in the air, dropping noiselessly right in front of him on to the grass beside the road. There was a small wind up above, and he could hear the beeches rustling and murmuring like a crowd of people.
This was always the best time of the day for Claud Cubbage. He gazed approvingly at the rippling velvety hindquarters of the greyhound trotting in front of him.
‘Jackie,’ he called softly. ‘Hey, Jackson. How you feeling, boy?’
The dog half turned at the sound of its name and gave a quick acknowledging wag of the tail.
There would never be another dog like this Jackie, he told himself. How beautiful the slim streamlining, the small pointed head, the yellow eyes, the black mobile nose. Beautiful the long neck, the way the deep brisket curved back and up out of sight into no stomach at all. See how he walked upon his toes, noiselessly, hardly touching the surface of the road at all.
‘Jackson,’ he said. ‘Good old Jackson.’
In the distance, Claud could see Rummins’ farmhouse, small, narrow and ancient, standing back behind the hedge on the right-hand side.
I’ll turn round there, he decided. That’ll be enough for today.
Rummins, carrying a pail of milk across the yard, saw him coming down the road. He set the pail down slowly and came forward to the gate, leaning both arms on the topmost bar, waiting.
‘Morning, Mr Rummins,’ Claud said. It was necessary to be polite to Rummins because of eggs.
Rummins nodded and leaned over the gate, looking critically at the dog.
‘Looks well,’ he said.
‘He is well.’
‘When’s he running?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Rummins.’
‘Come on. When’s he running?’
‘He’s only ten months yet, Mr Rummins. He’s not even schooled properly, honest.’
The small beady eyes of Rummins peered suspiciously over the top of the gate. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting a couple of quid you’re having it off with him somewhere secret soon.’
Claud moved his feet uncomfortably on the black road surface. He disliked very much this man with the wide frog mouth, the broken teeth, the shifty eyes; and most of all he disliked having to be polite to him because of eggs.
‘That hayrick of yours opposite,’ he said, searching desperately for another subject. ‘It’s full of rats.’
‘All hayricks got rats.’
‘Not like this one. Matter of fact we’ve been having a touch of trouble with the authorities about that.’
Rummins glanced up sharply. He didn’t like trouble with the authorities. Any man who sells eggs blackmarket and kills pigs without a permit is wise to avoid contact with that sort of people.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘They sent the ratcatcher
