Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

“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.

“These affairs are such a bore,” said the girl. “Are you a great golfer?”

Dundridge said he wasn’t a golfer at all.

“Nor am I. Such a boring game.” She sat down and crossed her legs. They were really very nice legs. “And anyway I don’t like sporty types. I prefer intellectuals.” She smiled at Dundridge. “My name is Sally Boles. What’s yours?”

“Dundridge,” said Dundridge and sat down where he could see more of her legs. Ten minutes later he got another two drinks. Twenty minutes later two more. He was enjoying himself at last.

Miss Boles, he learnt, was visiting her uncle. She came from London too. She worked for a firm of beauty consultants. Dundridge said he could well believe it. She found the country so boring. Dundridge said he did too. He waxed lyrical about the joys of living in London and all the time Miss Boles’ almond eyes smiled seductively at him and her legs crossed and recrossed in the gathering dusk. When Dundridge suggested another drink Miss Boles insisted on getting it.

“It’s my turn,” she said, “and besides I want to powder my nose.” She left Dundridge sitting alone on the terrace in a happy stupor. When she returned with the drinks she was looking thoughtful.

“My uncle’s gone without me,” she said, “I suppose he thought I had gone home already. Would it be too much for you to give me a lift?”

“Of course not. I’d be delighted,” said Dundridge and sipped his drink. It tasted extraordinarily bitter.

“I’m so sorry, I got Campari,” Miss Boles said by way of explanation. Dundridge said it was quite all right. He finished his drink and they wandered off the terrace towards the car park. “It’s been such a lovely evening,” Miss Boles said as she climbed into Dundridge’s car. “You must look me up in London.”

“I’d like to,” said Dundridge. “I’d like to see a lot more of you.”

“That’s a promise,” said Miss Boles.

“You really mean that?”

“Call me Sally,” said Miss Boles and leant against him.

“Oh Sally…” Dundridge began, and suddenly felt quite extraordinarily tired, “… I do want to see so much more of you.”

“You will, my pet, you will,” said Miss Boles and took the car keys out of his inert fingers. Dundridge had passed out.

In London Sir Giles lay back supine on the bed while Mrs Forthby tightened the straps. Occasionally he struggled briefly for the look of the thing and whimpered hoarsely but Mrs Forthby was, at least superficially, implacable. The scenario of Sir Giles’ fantasy called for a brutal implacability and Mrs Forthby did her best. She wasn’t very good, being a kind-hearted soul and not given to tying people up and whipping them, and as a matter of fact she disapproved of corporal punishment on principle. It was largely because she was so progressive that she was prepared to indulge Sir Giles in the first place. “If it gives the poor man pleasure who am I to say him nay,” she told herself. Certainly she had to say nay a great many times to Sir Giles in the throes of his ritual. But if Mrs Forthby wasn’t naturally brutal, with the lights down low it was possible to imagine that she was and she had the merit of being strong and of wearing her costume – there were several – most convincingly. Tonight she was Cat Woman, Miss Dracula, the Cruel Mistress Experimenting On Her Helpless Victim.