Question and story below. Any questions or concerns regarding assignment please ask.
What does the domestic setting contribute to this story? What, specifically, do you think is being said about men and women?
Find at least one quotation from the story that helps to support your answer and use proper MLA to cite it.
Title:
Lamb to the Slaughter
Short story, 1953
Author(s):
Roald Dahl
British Children’s writer ( 1916 – 1990 )
Source:
The World’s Best Short Stories: Anthology & Criticism
. Vol. 5:
Mystery and Detection
.
The World’s
Best Series
Great Neck, NY: Roth Publishing, Inc., p58.
Document Type:
Short story
Full Text:
COPYRIGHT 1991 Roth Publishing, Inc.
Original Language:
English
Text :
THE ROOM WAS WARM and clean, the curtains
drawn, the two table lamps alight — hers and the one by the empty chair opposite.
On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket. Mary Maloney was wai
ting
for her husband to come home from work. No
w and again she would glance up at the cloc
k, but without anxiety, merely to please
herself with the thought that each
minute gone by made it nearer
the time when he would come. Th
ere was a slow smiling air abou
t
her, and about everything she did. The drop o the head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil. Her skin — for this
was her
sixth month with child — had acquired a wonderful translucent qu
ality, the mouth was soft, and
the eyes, with their new placid
look,
seemed larger, darker than before. When th
e clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and few moments later, punctua
lly as
always, she heard the tires on the gravel
outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning
in the
lock. She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in. “Hullo darling,” she said. “Hullo,” he a
nswered.
She took his coat and hung it in the closet
. Then she walked over and
made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for
herself,
and soon she was back again in
her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both his h
ands,
rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side. For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn’t want
to speak
much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long
hours alone
in the house. She loved to luxuriate in th
e presence of this man, and to feel — almo
st as a sunbather feels the sun — that wa
rm male
glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together
. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the wa
y he
came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides.
She loved the intent, far look in
his eyes when they rested
on her,
the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remain
ed silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until t
he whiskey
had taken some of it away, “Tired, darling?” “Yes,” he said. “I’m
tired.” And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted h
is glass
and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it,
at least half of it left. She wasn’t really watching him, bu
t she knew
what he bad done because she heard the ice
cubes falling back against th
e bottom of the empty glass
when he lowered his arm. He
paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another. “I’ll get it!” she
cried,
j
umping up. “Sit down,” he said. When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whiskey i
n
it. “Darling, shall I get your slippers?” “No.” She watched him as
he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see lit
tle oily
swirls in the liquid because it was so str
ong. “I think it’s a shame,” she said, “that
when a policeman gets to be as senior as
you, they
keep him walking about on his feet all day long.” He didn’t answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; but
each
time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes cli
nking against the side of the
glass. “Darling,” she said. “Wou
ld you like
me to get you some cheese? I haven’t made any supper because it’s
Thursday.” “No,” he said. “If y
ou’re too tired to eat out,” s
he went
on, “it’s still not too late. There’s plenty
of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you
can have it right here and not even move
out of the
chair.” Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign. “Anyway,” she went on, “I’ll get you
some
cheese and crackers first.” “I don’t want it,” he said. She moved
uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face
. “But you
must
have supper. I can easily do it here. I’d like to do it. We can
have lamb chops. Or pork. Anything you want. Everything’s in t
he
freezer.” “Forget it,” he said. “But darling, you
must
eat! I’ll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like.” She stood up
and placed her sewing on the table by the la
mp. “Sit down,” he said. “Just for a minute,
sit down.” It wasn’t till then that sh
e began to
get frightened. “Go on,” he said. “Sit down.” She lowered herself
back slowly into the chair, wa
tching him all the time with th
ose
large, bewildered eyes. He had finished th
e second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning. “Listen,” he said. “I’v
e got
something to tell you.” “What is it, darling? What’s the matter?
” He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head
down so that the light from the lamp beside
him fell across the upper part of his face,
leaving the chin an
d mouth in shadow. S
he
noticed there was a little muscle moving near the comer of his left
eye. “This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I’m afra
id,” he said.
“But I’ve thought about it a good deal and I’ve decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won’t blame me
too
much.” And he told her. It didn’t take long, four or five mi
nutes at most, and she sat very still through it all, watching him
with a kind
of dazed horror as he went further and furt
her away from her with each wo
rd. “So there it is,” he adde
d. “And I know it’s kind
of a bad
time to be telling you, but there simply wasn’t any other way. Of
course I’ll give you money and see you’re looked after. But t
here
needn’t really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn’t be very good for my job.” Her first instinct was not to believe any
of it, to
reject it all. It occurred to her that pe
rhaps he hadn’t even spoken,
that she herself had imagined
the whole thing. Maybe, if
she went
about her business and acted as though she hadn’t been listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find no
ne of it
had ever happened. I “I’ll get the supper,” she managed to whispe
r, and this time he didn’t stop
her. When she walked across th
e room
she couldn’t feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn’t feel anything at all — except a slight nausea and a desire to vomi
t. Everything
was automatic now — down the steps to the
cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze,
the hand inside the cabinet taking hold o
f the first
object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.
A leg of lamb.
All right then, they would have lamb for s
upper. She carried it upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands,
and as she
went through the living-room, she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped. “For God’s sake,”
he
said, hearing her, but not turning round. “Don’t make supper for me. I’m going out.” At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked
up
behind him and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could
on the
back of his head. She might just as well ha
ve hit him with a steel club. She stepped
back a pace, waiting,
and the funny thing
was that
he remained standing there for at least four
or five seconds, gently swaying. Then
he crashed to the carpet. The violence of th
e crash,
the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of
the shock. She came out slowly, f
eeling cold and surprised, and
she
stood for a while blinking at the body, stil
l holding the ridiculous piece of meat tigh
t with both hands. A
ll right, she told h
erself. So
I’ve killed him. It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind b
ecame all of a sudden. She began thinking very fast. As the wif
e of a
detective, she knew quite well what the pe
nalty would be. That was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a r
elief. On
the other hand, what about the child? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill them both — mothe
r
and child? Or did they wait until the tenth month? What did they do? Mary Maloney didn’t know. And she certainly wasn’t prepare
d to
take a chance. She carried the meat into th
e kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the
oven on high, and shoved it inside. Then s
he washed
her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before th
e mirror, tidied her hair, touche
d up her lips and face. She t
ried a
smile. It came out rather peculiar. She tr
ied again. “Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, aloud. The voice sounded peculiar too. “I
want some
potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can
of peas.” That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now
. She
rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the back door, down the garden, into the stre
et. It
wasn’t six o’clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocer
y shop. “Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, smiling at the man beh
ind the
counter. “Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How’re
you
?” “I want some potatoes please, Sam.
Yes, and I think a can of peas.” The
man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas. “Patrick’s decided he’s tired and doesn’t want to eat out tonig
ht,” she
told him. “We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now he’s
caught me without any vegetables in the house.” “Then how about
meat, Mrs. Maloney?” “No, I’ve got meat, thanks. I got a nice le
g of lamb from the freezer.” “Oh.
” “I don’t much like cooking i
t frozen,
Sam, but I’m taking a chance on it this time. You think it’ll be
all right?” “Personally,” the grocer said, “I don’t believe it
makes any
difference. You want these Idaho
potatoes?” “Oh yes, that’ll be fine. Two of those.” “Anything else?” The grocer cocked his hea
d on
one side, looking at her pleasantly. “How about afterwards? What you going to give him for afterwards?” “Well — what would you
suggest, Sam?” The man glanced around his sh
op. “How about a nice big slice of cheesecake?
I know he likes that.” “Perfect,” sh
e
said. “He loves it.” And when it was all wrapped and she had pa
id, she put on her brightest smile and said, “Thank you, Sam.
Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney. And thank
you
.” And now, she told herself as she hur
ried back, all she was doing now, she
was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supp
er; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possibl
e
because the poor man was tired;
and if, when she entered the house, she happened
to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrib
le, then
naturally it would be a shock and she’d become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn’t
expecting
to find anything. She was
just going home with the vegetables. Mrs. Pa
trick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for
her husband. That’s the way, she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep things absolutely natural and there’ll be
no need
for any acting at all. Therefore, when she entered the kitchen
by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and s
miling.
“Patrick!” she called. “How are you, darlin
g?” She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room; and
when
she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rathe
r a
shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her,
and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to
cry her
heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary. A few minutes late
r she got up and went to the pho
ne. She knew the number of t
he
police station, and when
the man at the other end answered, she cried to hi
m, “Quick! Come quick! Patrick’s dead!” “Who’s
speaking?” “Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney.” “You mean Patric
k Maloney’s dead?” “I think so,”
she sobbed. “He’s lying on th
e
floor and I think he’s dead. ” “Be right over,” the man said. The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, tw
o
policemen walked in. She knew th
em both — she knew nearly all t me
n at that precinct — and she fe
ll right into Jack Noonan’s
arms,
weeping hysterically. He put her gently into a chair, then went
over join the other one, who was called O’Malley, kneeling by t
he body.
“Is he dead?” she cried. “I’m afraid he is
. What happened?” Briefly, she told her st
ory about going out to the grocer and comin
g back to
find him on the floor. While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dea
d
man’s head. He showed it to O’Malley, who got up at once and hurried to the phone. Soon, other men began to come into the house
.
First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she knew by na
me. Later, a police photographer
arrived and took pictures, and
a man
who knew about fingerprints. There was a great
deal of whispering and muttering beside
the corpse, and the detectives kept aski
ng her
a lot of questions. But they always treated her kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patr
ick had
come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn’t wanted to go out for supper. She told how she’d put the meat
in the
oven — “it’s there now, cooking” — and how she’d slipped out to the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on
the
floor. “Which grocer?” one of the detectives
asked. She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective,
who
immediately went outside into the street. In
fifteen minutes he was back with a page
of notes, and there wa
s more whispering, a
nd
through her sobbing she heard a few of the wh
ispered phrases-“…acted quite normal …
very cheerful … wanted to give him a
good
supper … peas … cheesecake …
impossible that she…
” After a while, the photographer and
the doctor departed and, two oth
er men
came in and took the corpse away on a stretc
her. Then the fingerprint man went away.
The two detectives remained, and so did th
e two
policemen. They were exceptionally
nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she woul
dn’t rather go somewhere else, to her sister’s
house
perhaps, or to his own wife, who would take care of her and put her up for the night. No, she said. She didn’t feel she could m
ove even
a yard at the moment. Would they mind awfully if she stayed just where she was until she felt better? She didn’t feel too good
at the
moment, she really didn’t. Then hadn’t she better lie down on the
bed? Jack Noonan asked. No, sh
e said. She’d like to stay righ
t where
she was, in this chair. A little later perhaps, when she felt be
tter, she would move. So they le
ft her there while they went ab
out their
business, searching the house. Occasionally one of the detectives
asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at he
r
gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been kille
d by a blow on the back of the
head administered with a heavy b
lunt
instrument, almost certainly a large piece of
metal. They were looking for the weapon
. The murderer may have taken it with him,
but
on the other hand he may’ve thrown it away or hidden it somewher
e on the premises. “It’s the old
story,” he said. “Get the weap
on, and
you’ve got the man.” Later, one of the det
ectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house
that
could’ve been used as the weapon? Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing — a very big spanner, for
example, or a heavy metal vase. They didn’t have any heavy meta
l vases, she said. “Or a big spanner?” She didn’t think they had
a big
spanner. But there might be some things like that in the garage
. The search went on. She knew th
at there were other policemen i
n the
garden all around the house. She
could hear their footsteps on the
gravel outside, and sometimes
she saw the flash of a torch t
hrough a
chink in the curtains, It began to get late, nearly nine she no
ticed by the clock on the mantle
. The four men searching the roo
ms
seemed to be growing weary, a
trifle exasperated. I “Jack,” she said, the next time Sergeant Noonan went by. “Would you mind gi
ving
me a drink?” “Sure I’ll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey?” “Yes please. But just a small one. It might make me feel bett
er.” He
banded her the glass. “Why don’t you have one yourself,” she said, “You must be awfully tired. Please do. You’ve been very good
to
me.” “Well,” he answered. “It’s not strictly
allowed, but I might take just a drop to
keep me going.” One by one the others cam
e in and
were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey. They stood aroun
d rather awkwardly with the dri
nks in their hands, uncomfortabl
e in
her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, came out quickly and said, “Loo
k,
Mrs. Maloney. You know that oven of yours
is still on, and the meat still inside.” “Oh
dear
me!” she cried. “So it is!” “I better turn it
off for you, hadn’t I?” “Will you do that, Jack? Thank you so much
.” When the sergeant returned th
e second time, she looked at
him
with her large, dark, tearful eyes. “Jack Noonan,” she said. “Yes
?” “Would you do me a small fa
vor — you and these others?” “W
e can
try, Mrs. Maloney.” “Well,” she said. “Here
you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick’s too, and helping to catch the man w
ho killed
him. You must be terribly hu
ngry by now because it’s long past
your suppertime, and
I know Patrick would never forgive me, God
bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain
in his house without offering you decent
hospitality. Why don’t you eat up that lamb
that’s in
the oven? It’ll be cooked just right by now.” “Wouldn’t dream
of it,” Sergeant Noonan said. “Pl
ease,” she begged. “Please eat i
t.
Personally I couldn’t touch a thing, certainly not what’s been in the house when he was here. But it’s all right for you. It’d
be a favor to
me if you’d eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards.” There was a good deal of hesitating among the four
policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and
in the end they were persuaded to go into
the kitchen and help themselves. The wom
an
stayed where she was, listening to them th
rough the open door, and she could hear th
em speaking among themselves, their voices
thick
and sloppy because their mouths were
full of meat. “Have some more, Charlie?”
“No. Better not finish it.” “She
wants
us to finish it.
She said so. Be doing her a favor.” “Okay then. Give me some more.” “That’s a hell of a big club the guy must’ve used to hit po
or
Patrick,” one of them was saying. “The doc
says his skull was smashed all to pieces just
like from a sledgehammer.” “That’s why
it
ought to be easy to find.” “Exactly what I say.” “Whoever done it, they’re not going to be carrying a thing like that around wi
th them
longer than they need.” One of them belche
d. “Personally, I think it’s right here on
the premises.” “Probably right under our v
ery
noses. What you think, Jack?” And in the other room, Mary Ma
loney began to giggle. Copyright (c) 1953 by Roald Dahl. Reprinted
from
Someone Like You
by Roald Dahl. Used by permission of David Higham Associates.
RELATED INFORMATION
Biography:
Roald Dahl
Explanation of:
“Lamb to the Slaughter” by Roald Dahl
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