Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

By the time they went in to dinner, Dundridge was incongruously gay. He opened the door for her; he held her arm; he pulled back her chair and nudged it forward against her thighs meaningfully; he opened the champagne with a nonchalance that suggested he seldom drank anything else and laughed debonairly as the cork tinkled among the glass lustres of the chandelier. And through the meal, oysters followed by cold duck, Dundridge no longer cared what the world might think of him. Lady Maud’s appreciative smile, half yawn and half abyss, beckoned him on to be himself. And Dundridge was. For the first time in his life he lived up to his own expectations, up to and far beyond. The champagne cork flew a second time into the upper reaches of the room, the duck disappeared to be followed by strawberries and cream, and Dundridge lost the last vestiges of inhibition or even the apprehension that there was anything at all unusual about dining alone with a married woman whose husband was away on business. All such considerations vanished in the bubble of his gaiety and in the light of Lady Maud’s approval. Under the table her knee confirmed the implications of her smile; on top her hand lay heavily on his and traced the contours of his fingers; and when, their coffee finished, she took his arm and suggested that they dance Dundridge heard himself say he would be delighted to. Arm-in-arm they went down the passage to the ballroom with the sprung floor. Only then, with the chandeliers lighting the great room brilliantly and a record on the turntable, did he realize what he had let himself in for. Dundridge had never danced in his life.

Blott walked down the hill from Wilfrid’s Castle. For a week he had been avoiding the Royal George in Guildstead Carbonell and Mrs Wynn’s favours. He had taken to going over to a small pub on the lane leading from the church to the Ottertown Road. It wasn’t up to the standard of the Royal George, merely a room with benches round the walls and a barrel of Handyman beer in one corner, but its dismal atmosphere suited Blott’s mood. By the time he had silently consumed eight pints he was ready for bed. He wobbled up the hill past the church and stood gazing down at the Hall in amazement. The great ballroom lights were on. Blott couldn’t remember when he had last seen them on, certainly not since Lady Maud’s marriage. They cast yellow rectangles on to the lawn, and the conservatory which opened out of the ballroom glowed green with ferns and palms. He stumbled down the path and across the bridge into the pinetum. Here it was pitch-dark but Blott knew his way instinctively. He came out at the gate and crossed the lawn to the terrace. Music, old-fashioned music, floated out towards him. Blott went round the corner and peered through the window.

Inside Lady Maud was dancing. Or learning to dance. Or teaching someone to dance. Blott found difficulty in making up his mind. Under the great chandeliers she moved with a tender gracelessness that took his breath away. Up and down, round and about, in great sweeps and double turns she went, the floor moving visibly beneath her, and in her arms she held a small thin man with an expression of intense concentration on his face. Blott recognized him. He was the man from the Ministry who had stayed to lunch the previous week. Blott hadn’t liked the look of him then and he liked it even less now. And Sir Giles was away. Sick with disgust Blott blundered off the flower bed and away from the window. He had half a mind to go in and say what he thought. It wouldn’t do any good. He walked unsteadily round the front of the house. There was a car standing there. He peered at it. The man’s car. Serve him right if he had to walk home, the bastard. Blott knelt by the front tyre and undid the valve. Then he went round to the boot and let the air out of the spare tyre. That would teach the swine to come messing about with other people’s wives. Blott staggered off down the drive to the Lodge and climbed into bed. Through the circular window he could see the lights of the Hall. They were still on when he fell asleep and through the night air there came the faint sound of trombones.

What drinks, dinner and Lady Maud’s assiduous coquetry had done for Dundridge, dancing had undone. In particular her interpretation of the hesitation waltz – Dundridge considered the probability of a slipped disc – while her tango had threatened hernia. All his attempts to get her to do something a little less complicated had been ignored.

“You’re doing splendidly,” she said treading on his toes. “All you need is a little practice.”

“What about something modern?” said Dundridge.

“Modern dancing is so unromantic,” said Maud, changing the record to a quickstep. “There’s no intimacy in it.”

Intimacy was not what Dundridge had in mind. “I think I’ll sit this one out,” he said limping to a chair. But Lady Maud wouldn’t hear of it. She whirled him on to the floor and strode off through a series of half-turns clasping him to her bosom with a grip that brooked no argument. When the record stopped Dundridge put his foot down politely.

“I really think it is time I was off,” he said.

“What? So early? Just one more teeny weeny glass of champers,” said Lady Maud, relapsing rather prematurely into the language of the nursery.

“Oh all right,” said Dundridge choosing the devil of drink to the deep blue sea of the dance floor. They took their glasses through to the conservatory and stood for a moment among the ferns.

“What a wonderful night. Let’s go out on the terrace,” said Lady Maud and took his arm. They leant on the stone balustrade and looked into the darkness of the pinetum.

“All we need now is a lovers’ moon,” Lady Maud murmured and turned to face him. Dundridge looked up into the night sky. It was long past his bedtime and besides not even the champagne could disguise the fact that he was in an ambiguous situation. He had had enough of ambiguous situations lately to last him a lifetime and he certainly didn’t relish the thought of Sir Giles returning home unexpectedly to find him on the terrace drinking champagne with his wife at one o’clock in the morning.

“It looks as if it’s going to rain,” he said to change the topic from lovers’ moons.

“Silly boy,” cooed Lady Maud. “It’s a lovely starlit night.”

“Yes. Well, I really do think I must be getting along,” Dundridge insisted. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

“Oh well if you must go…” They went indoors again.

“Just one more glass…?” Lady Maud said but Dundridge shook his head and limped on down the passage.

“You must look me up again,” said Lady Maud as he climbed into his car. “The sooner the better. It’s been ages since I had so much fun.” She waved goodbye and Dundridge drove off down the drive. He didn’t get very far. There was something dreadfully wrong with the steering. The car seemed to veer to the left all the time and there was a thumping sound. Dundridge stopped and got out and went round to the front.

“Damn,” said Dundridge feeling the flat tyre. He went to the boot and got the jack out. By the time he had jacked the car up and taken the left front wheel off, the lights in the Hall had gone out. He fetched the spare wheel from the boot and bolted it into place. He let the jack down and stowed it away. Then he got back into the car and started the engine and drove off. There was a thumping noise and the car pulled to the left. Dundridge stopped with a curse.

“I must have put the flat tyre on again,” he muttered and got out the jack.

In the Hall Lady Maud switched off the ballroom lights sadly. She had enjoyed the evening and was sorry it had ended so tamely. There had been a moment earlier in the evening when she had thought Dundridge was going to prove amenable to her few charms.