Blott On The Landscape (10 page)

“Yes, but …” Hoskins began but Dundridge had risen and with an airy remark about the need for vision had gone up to his room. Hoskins went back to the Regional Planning Board in a pensive mood. He had been wrong about Dundridge. The man wasn’t such a nincompoop after all. On the other hand he had found Lady Maud charming and delightful. “Bloody pervert,” Hoskins muttered as he picked up the phone. Sir Giles wasn’t going to like this.

Nor was Blott. He had had a relatively phone-free day in the kitchen garden. There had been Dundridge’s call in the morning but for the most part he had been left in peace. At half past four he had heard Sir Giles call Hoskins and tell him about the tunnel. At half past five he was watering the tomatoes when Hoskins called back to say that Dundridge was serious about the tunnel.

“He can’t be,” Sir Giles snarled. “It’s an outrageous idea. A gross waste of taxpayers’ money.”

Blott shook his head. The tunnel sounded a very good idea to him.

“You try telling him that,” said Hoskins.

“What about Leakham?” Sir Giles asked. “He’s not going to buy it, is he?”

“I wouldn’t like to say. Depends what sort of weight this fellow Dundridge carries in London. The Ministry may bring pressure to bear on Leakham.”

There was a silence while Sir Giles considered this. In the greenhouse Blott wrestled with the intricacies of the English language. Why should Lord Leakham buy the tunnel? How could Dundridge carry weight in London? And in any case why should Sir Giles dislike the idea of a tunnel? It was all very odd.

“I’ve got another bit of news for you,” Hoskins said finally. “He’s keen on your missus.”

There was a strangled sound from Sir Giles. “He’s what?” he shouted.

“He has taken a fancy to Maud,” Hoskins told him. “He said he found her charming and delightful.”

“Charming and delightful?” said Sir Giles. “Maud?”

“And comely.”

“Good God. No wonder she’s looking like the cat that’s swallowed the canary,” said Sir Giles.

“I just thought you ought to know,” said Hoskins. “It might give us some sort of lever.”

“Kinky?”

“Could be,” said Hoskins.

“Meet me at the Club at nine,” said Sir Giles, suddenly making up his mind. “This needs thinking about.” He rang off.

In the greenhouse Blott stared lividly into the geraniums. If Sir Giles had been surprised, Blott’s reaction was stronger still. The sudden discovery that he was in love with Lady Maud had coloured his day. The thought of Dundridge sharing his feelings for her infuriated him. Sir Giles he discounted. It was quite clear that Lady Maud despised her husband and from what she had said Blott had gathered that there was another woman in London. Dundridge was another matter. Blott left the greenhouse, tidied up and went home.

Home for Blott was the Lodge. The architect of the arch had managed to combine monumentality with utility and at one time the Lodge had housed several families of estate workers in rather cramped and insanitary conditions. Blott had the place to himself and found it quite adequate. The arch had its little inconveniences; the windows were extremely small and hidden among the decorations on the exterior; there was only one door so that to get from one side of the arch to the other one had to climb the staircase to the top and then cross over, but Blott had made himself very comfortable in a large room that spanned the arch. Through a circular window on one side he could keep an eye on the Hall and through another he could inspect visitors crossing the bridge. He had converted one small room into a bathroom and another into a kitchen, while he stored apples in some of the others so that the whole place had a pleasant smell to it. And finally there was Blott’s library filled with books that he had picked up on the market stalls in Worford or in the second-hand bookshop in Ferret Lane. There were no novels in Blott’s library, no light reading, only books on English history. In its way it was a scholar’s library born of an intense curiosity about the country of his adoption. If the secret of being an Englishman was to be found anywhere it was to be found, Blott thought, in the past. Through the long winter evenings he would sit in front of his fire absorbed in the romance of England. Certain figures loomed large in his imagination, Henry
VIII
, Drake, Cromwell, Edward I, and he tended to identify if not himself at least other people with the heroes and villains of history. Lady Maud in spite of her marriage, he saw as the Virgin Queen, while Sir Giles seemed to have the less savoury aspects of Sir Robert Walpole.

But that was for winter. During the summer he was out and about. Twice a week he cycled over to Guildstead Carbonell to the Royal George and sat in the bar until it was time for bed, the bed in question belonging to Mrs Wynn who ran the pub and whose husband had obligingly left her a widow as a result of enemy action on D-Day. Mrs Wynn was the last of Blott’s wartime customers and the affair had lingered on owing more to habit than to affection. Mrs Wynn found Blott useful, he dried glasses and carried bottles, and Blott found Mrs Wynn comfortable, undemanding and accommodating in the matter of beer. He had a weakness for Handyman Brown.

But now as he washed his neck – it was Friday night and Mrs Wynn was expecting him – he was conscious that he no longer felt the same way about her. Not that he had ever felt very much, but that little had been swept aside by his sudden surge of feeling for Maud. He was sensible enough not to entertain any expectations of being able to do anything about it. It just didn’t seem right to go off to Mrs Wynn any more. In any case it was all most peculiar. He had always had a soft spot for Lady Maud but this was different and it occurred to him that he might be sickening for something. He stuck out his tongue and studied it in the bathroom mirror but it looked all right. It might be the weather. He had once heard someone say something about spring and young men’s fancies but Blott wasn’t a young man. He was fifty. Fifty and in love. Daft.

He went downstairs and got on his bicycle and cycled off across the bridge towards Guildstead Carbonell. He had just reached the crossroads when he heard a car coming up fast behind him. He got off the bike to let it go by. It was Sir Giles in the Bentley. “Going to the Golf Club to see Hoskins,” he thought, and looked after the car suspiciously. “He’s up to something.” He got back on to his bike and freewheeled reluctantly down the hill towards the Royal George and Mrs Wynn. Perhaps he ought to tell Maud what he had heard. It didn’t seem a good idea and in any case he wasn’t going to let her know that Dundridge fancied her. “He can sow his own row,” he said to himself and was pleased at his command of the idiom.

In the Worford Golf Club, Sir Giles and Hoskins discussed tactics.

“He’s got to have a weakness,” said Sir Giles. “Every man has his price.”

“Maud?” said Hoskins.

“Be your age,” said Sir Giles. “She isn’t going to fartarse around with some tinpot civil servant with that reversionary clause in the contract at stake. Besides, I don’t believe it.”

“I distinctly heard him say he found her charming. And comely.”

“All right, so he likes fat women. What else does he like? Money?”

Hoskins shrugged. “Hard to tell. You need time to find that out.”

“Time is what we haven’t got. He’s only got to start blabbing about that bleeding tunnel and the fat’s in the fire. No, we’ve got to act fast.”

Hoskins looked at him suspiciously. “What’s all this ‘We’ business?” he asked. “It’s your problem, not mine.”

Sir Giles gnawed a fingernail thoughtfully. “How much?”

“Five thousand.”

“For what?”

“Whatever you decide.”

“Make it five per cent of the compensation. When it’s paid.”

Hoskins did a quick calculation and made it twelve and a half thousand. “Cash on the nail,” he said.

“You’re a hard man, Hoskins, a hard man,” Sir Giles said sorrowfully.

“Anyway what do you want me to do? Sound him out?”

Sir Giles shook his head. His little eyes glittered. “Kinky,” he said. “Kinky. What made you say that?”

“I don’t know. Just wondered,” said Hoskins.

“Boys, do you think?”

“Difficult to know,” said Hoskins. “These things take time to find out.”

“Drink, drugs, boys, women, money. There’s got to be some damned thing he’s itching for.”

“Of course, we could frame him,” said Hoskins. “It’s been done before.”

Sir Giles nodded. “The unsolicited gift. The anonymous donor. It’s been done before all right. But it’s too risky. What if he goes to the police?”

“Nothing ventured nothing gained,” said Hoskins. “In any case there would be no indication where it came from. My bet is he’d take the bait.”

“If he didn’t we would have lost him. No, it’s got to be something foolproof.”

They sat in silence and considered a suitably compromising future for Dundridge.

“Ambitious would you say?” Sir Giles asked finally. Hoskins nodded.

“Very.”

“Know any queers?”

“In Worford? You’ve got to be joking,” said Hoskins.

“Anywhere.”

Hoskins shook his head. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking …”

“I am.”

“Photos?”

“Photos,” Sir Giles agreed. “Nice compromising photos.”

Hoskins gave the matter some thought. “There’s Bessie Williams,” he said. “Used to be a model, if you know what I mean. Married a photographer in Bridgeminster. She’d do it if the money was right.” He smiled reminiscently. “I can have a word with her.”

“You do that,” said Sir Giles. “I’ll pay up to five hundred for a decent set of photos.”

“Leave it to me,” Hoskins told him. “Now then, about the cash.”

By the time Sir Giles left the Golf Club the matter was fixed. He drove home in a haze of whisky. “The stick first and then the carrot,” he muttered. Tomorrow he would go to London and visit Mrs Forthby. It was just as well to be out of the way when things happened.

Dundridge spent the following morning at the Regional Planning Board with Hoskins poring over maps and discussing the tunnel. He was rather surprised to find that Hoskins had undergone a change of heart about the project and seemed to favour it. “It’s a brilliant idea. Pity we didn’t think of it before. Would have saved no end of trouble,” he said, and while Dundridge was flattered he wasn’t so sure. He had begun to have doubts about the feasibility of a tunnel. The Ministry wouldn’t exactly like the cost, the delay would be considerable and there was still Lord Leakham to be persuaded. “You don’t think we could find an alternative route,” he asked but Hoskins shook his head.

“It’s either the Cleene Gorge or Ottertown or your tunnel.” Dundridge, studying the maps, had to concede that there wasn’t any other route. The Cleene Hills stretched unbroken save for the Gorge from Worford to Ottertown.

“Ridiculous fuss people make about a bit of forest,” Dundridge complained. “Just trees. What’s so special about trees?”

They had lunch at a restaurant in River Street. At the next table a couple in their thirties seemed to find Dundridge quite fascinating and more than once Dundridge looked up to find the woman looking at him with a quiet smile. She was rather attractive, with almond eyes.

In the afternoon Hoskins took him on a tour of the proposed route through Ottertown. They drove over and inspected the council houses and returned through Guildstead Carbonell, Hoskins stopping the car every now and again and insisting that they climb to the top of some hill to get a better view of the proposed route. By the time they got back to Worford Dundridge was exhausted. He was also rather drunk. They had stopped at several pubs along the way and, thanks to Hoskins’ insistence that pints were for men and that only boys drank halves – he put rather a nasty inflection on boys – Dundridge had consumed rather more Handyman Triple
XXX
than he was used to.

“We’re having a little celebration party at the Golf Club tonight,” Hoskins said as they drove through the town gate. “If you’d care to come over …”

“I think I’ll get an early night,” said Dundridge.

“Pity,” Hoskins said. “You’d meet a number of influential local people. Doesn’t do to give the locals the idea you’re hoity-toity.”

“Oh all right,” said Dundridge grudgingly. “I’ll have a bath and something to eat and see how I feel.”

“See you later, old boy,” said Hoskins as Dundridge got out of the car and went up to his room in the Handyman Arms. A bath and a meal and he’d probably feel all right. He fetched a towel and went down the passage to the bathroom. When he returned having immersed himself briefly in a lukewarm bath – the geyser still refused to operate at all efficiently – he was feeling better. He had dinner and decided that Hoskins was probably right. It might be useful to meet some of the more influential local people. Dundridge went out to his car and drove over to the Golf Club.

“Delighted you could make it,” said Hoskins when Dundridge made his way through the crush to him. “What’s your poison?”

Dundridge said he’d have a gin and tonic. He’d had enough beer for one day. Around him large men shouted about doglegs on the third and water hazards on the fifth. Dundridge felt out of it. Hoskins brought him his drink and introduced him to a Mr Snell. “Glad to meet you, squire,” said Mr Snell heartily from behind a large moustache. “What’s your handicap?” Suppressing his immediate reaction to tell him to mind his own damned business, Dundridge said that as far as he knew he didn’t have one. “A Beginner, eh? Well, never mind. Give it time. We’ve all got to start somewhere.” He drifted away and Dundridge wandered in the opposite direction. Looking round the room at the veined faces of the men and the hennaed hair of the women Dundridge cursed himself for coming. If this was Hoskins’ idea of local influence he could keep it. Presently he went out on to the terrace and stared resentfully down the eighteenth. He’d finish his drink and then go home. He drained his glass and was about to go inside when a voice at his elbow said, “If you’re going to the bar, you could get me another one.” It was a soft seductive voice. Dundridge turned and looked into a pair of almond eyes. Dundridge changed his mind about leaving. He went through to the bar and got two more drinks.