Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

“Now then you naughty boy,” she said with just that touch of benign menace he found most affecting, “off with your clothes.”

“No, no,” said Sir Giles.

“Yes, yes,” said Nanny Whip.

“No, no.”

“Yes, yes.”

Sir Giles succumbed to the allure of her apron. It smelt of childhood. Nanny Whip’s breath, on the other hand, suggested something more mature but Sir Giles was too intoxicated with her insistence that he behave himself while she fixed his nappy that he took no notice. It was only when he was finally strapped down and was having his bonnet adjusted that he caught a full whiff. It was brandy.

“You’ve been drinking,” he spluttered.

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Forthby and stuffed a dummy into his mouth. Sir Giles stared up at her incredulously. Mrs Forthby never drank. The bloody woman was a teetotaller. It was one of the things he liked about her. She didn’t cost much to entertain. She might be absent-minded but she was… My God, if she was absent-minded sober what the hell was she going to be like drunk? Sir Giles writhed on the bed and realized that he was tied down rather more firmly than he had expected. Nanny Whip had excelled herself. He could hardly move.

“I’m just going to pop downstairs for some fish fingers,” she said, “I won’t be a moment.”

Sir Giles stared lividly at her while she took off her cap and put on a coat over her costume. What in God’s name did the bloody woman want with fish fingers at this time of night? A moment? Sir Giles knew her moments. He was liable to be left strapped up in baby clothes and with a dummy in his mouth until the small hours while she went to some fucking concert. Sir Giles gnawed frantically at the dummy but the damned thing was tied on too tightly.

“Now you be a good boy while I’m away,” said Nanny Whip, “and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Ta, ta.”

She went out and shut the door. Sir Giles subsided. There was no point in worrying now. He might as well enjoy his impotence while he could. There would probably be plenty of time later on for genuine concern. With the necessarily silent prayer that she hadn’t been given tickets for the Ring Cycle he settled down to be Naughty Boy and he was just beginning to get into the role when the front doorbell rang. Sir Giles assumed an even greater rigidity. A moment later he was petrified.

“Is anyone at home?” a voice called. Sir Giles knew that voice. It was the voice of hell itself. It was Lady Maud.

“Oh well, the key’s in the door,” he heard her say, “so we might as well go in and wait.”

On the bed Sir Giles had palpitations. The thought of being discovered in this ghastly position by Lady Maud was bad enough but the fact that she had somebody with her was utterly appalling. He could hear them moving about the next room. If only they would stay there. And what the hell was Lady Maud doing there anyway? How on earth had she discovered about Mrs Forthby? And just at that moment the door opened and Lady Maud stood framed in it.

“Ah there you are,” she said cheerfully, “I had an idea we’d find you here. How very convenient.”

From under his frilled bonnet Sir Giles peered up at her venomously, his face the colour of the sheet on which he was lying and his legs jerking convulsively in the air. Convenient! Convenient! The fucking woman was out of her mind. The next moment he was certain of it.

“You can come in, Blott,” she said, “Giles won’t mind.” Blott came into the room. He was carrying a camera and a flash gun.

“And now,” said Lady Maud, “we’re going to have a little chat.”

“What about the pictures?” said Blott. “Shouldn’t we take them first?”

“Do you think he would prefer the pictures first?” she asked. Blott nodded his head vigorously while Sir Giles shook his. For the next five minutes Blott went round the room taking photographs from every conceivable angle. Then he changed the film and took some close-ups. “That will do for now,” he announced finally. “We should have enough.”

“I’m sure we have,” said Lady Maud and drew up a chair beside the bed. “Now then we are going to have our little chat about your future, my dear.” She bent over and took out the comforter.

“Don’t touch me,” squealed Sir Giles.

“I have no intention of touching you,” said Lady Maud with evident disgust. “It has been one of the few compensations for our wholly unsatisfactory marriage that I don’t have to. I am simply here to arrange terms.”

“Terms? What terms?” squawked Sir Giles. Lady Maud rummaged in her handbag.

“The terms of our divorce,” she said and produced a document. “You will simply append your signature here.”

Sir Giles stared up at it blankly. “I need my reading-glasses,” he muttered.

Lady Maud perched them on his nose. Sir Giles read the document. “You expect me to sign that?” he yelled. “You really think I’m going to -”

Lady Maud replaced the dummy. “You unspeakable creature,” she snarled, “you’ll sign this document if it’s the last thing you do. And this.” She waved another piece of paper in front of him. “And this.” Another. “And this.”

On the bed Sir Giles struggled with the straps convulsively. Nothing on God’s earth would make him sign a document that was an open confession that he had made a habit of deceiving his lawful wife, had denied her her conjugal rights, had committed adultery on countless occasions and had subjected her for six years to mental and physical cruelty. Lady Maud read his thoughts.

“In return for your signature I will not distribute copies of the photographs we have just taken to the Prime Minister, the Chief Whip, the members of your constituency party or the press. You will sign that document, Giles, and you will see that the motorway is stopped within a month. A month, do you hear me? Those are my terms. What do you say to that?” She removed the dummy.

“You filthy bitch.”

“Quite,” said Lady Maud, “so you agree to sign?”

“I do not,” screamed Sir Giles and was promptly silenced.

“I don’t know if you know your Shakespeare,” she said, “but in Edward the Second …”

Sir Giles didn’t know his Marlowe either but he did know about Edward the Second.

“Blott,” said Lady Maud, “go into the kitchen and see if you can find -”

But already Sir Giles was nodding his head. He would sign anything now.

While Blott untied his right hand Lady Maud took a fountain pen out of her handbag. “Here,” she said pointing to a dotted line. Sir Giles signed. “Here,” and “Here.” Sir Giles signed and signed. When he had finished Blott witnessed his signatures. Then he was tied down again.

“Good,” said Lady Maud, “I will institute proceedings for divorce at once and you will stop the motorway or face the consequences. And don’t you dare to set foot on my property again. I will have your things sent down to you.” She took out the dummy. “Have you anything to say?”

“If I do manage to stop the motorway will you guarantee to let me have the photographs and negatives back?”

“Of course,” said Lady Maud, “we Handymans may have our faults, but breaking our promises isn’t one of them.” She stuffed the dummy back into his mouth and tied it behind his head. Then, having removed his glasses, she adjusted his bonnet and left the room.

On the staircase they met Mrs Forthby in a dither. “You didn’t do anything horrid, did you?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Lady Maud assured her, “just got him to sign a document consenting to divorce.”

“Oh dear, I do hope he isn’t too cross. He gets into such terrible tantrums.”

“Come, come, Nanny Whip, be your true self,” said Lady Maud. “You must be firm.”