Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

“Well, if all she wants is a divorce…”

“A divorce? A divorce? If you think that’s all she wants…” He stopped again. Mrs Forthby mustn’t hear anything about those photographs. Nobody must hear about them. The moment that information got out he would be a ruined man and he had just three weeks to do something about them. He went back to his flat and sat there trying to think of some way of stopping the motorway. There wasn’t much he could do in London. His request to discuss the matter with the Minister of the Environment had been turned down, his demand for a further Enquiry denied. And his private source in the Ministry had been adamant that it was too late to do anything now.

“The thing is under construction already. Barring accidents nothing can stop it.”

Sir Giles put down the phone and thought about accidents, nasty accidents, like Maud falling downstairs and breaking her neck or having a fatal car crash. It didn’t seem very likely somehow. Finally he thought about Dundridge. If Maud had something on him, he had something on the Controller Motorways Midlands. He telephoned Hoskins at the Regional Planning Board.

“He’s out at SHMOCON,” said the girl on the switchboard.

“Shmocon?” said Sir Giles desperately trying to think of a village by that name in South Worfordshire.

“Supreme Headquarters Motorway Construction,” said the girl. “He’s Deputy Field Commander.”

“What?” said Sir Giles. “What the hell’s going on up there?”

“Don’t ask me,” said the girl, “I’m only a field telegraphist. Shall I put you through?”

“Yes,” said Sir Giles. “It sounds batty to me.”

“It is,” said the girl. “It’s a wonder I don’t have to use morse code.”

Certainly Hoskins sounded peculiar when Sir Giles finally got through to him. “Deputy Field -” he began but Sir Giles interrupted.

“Don’t give me that crap, Hoskins,” he shouted. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Some sort of war game?”

“Yes,” said Hoskins looking nervously out of the window. There was a deafening roar as a charge of dynamite went off.

“What the hell was that?” yelled Sir Giles.

“Just a near miss,” said Hoskins as small fragments of rock rattled on the roof of the caravan.

“You can cut the wisecracks,” said Sir Giles, “I didn’t call you to talk nonsense. There’s been a change of plan. The motorway has got to be stopped. I’ve decided…”

“Stopped?” Hoskins interrupted him. “You haven’t a celluloid rat’s hope in hell of stopping this little lot now. We’re advancing into the Gorge at the rate of a hundred yards a day.”

“Into the Gorge?”

“You heard me,” said Hoskins.

“Good God,” said Sir Giles. “What the hell’s been going on? Has Dundridge gone off his head or something?”

“You could put it like that,” said Hoskins hesitantly. The Controller Motorways Midlands had just come into the caravan covered in dust and was taking off his helmet.

“Well, stop him,” shouted Sir Giles.

“I’m afraid that is impossible, sir,” said Hoskins modulating his tone to indicate that he was no longer alone. “I will make a note of your complaint, and forward it to the appropriate authorities.”

“You’ll do more than that,” bawled Sir Giles, “you’ll use those photographs. You will -”

“I understand the police deal with these matters, sir,” said Hoskins. “As far as we are concerned I can only suggest that you use an incinerator.”

“An incinerator ? What the hell do I want with an incinerator?”

“I have found that the best method is to burn that sort of rubbish. The answer is in the negative.”

“In the negative?”

“Quite, sir,” said Hoskins. “I have found that it avoids the health risk to incinerate inflammable material. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have someone with me.” Hoskins rang off and Sir Giles sat back and deciphered his message.

“Incinerators. Police. Negative. Health risks.” These were the words Hoskins had emphasized and it dawned on Sir Giles that all hope of influencing Dundridge had gone up in flames. He was particularly alarmed by the mention of the police. “Good God, that little bastard Dundridge has been to the cops,” he muttered, and suddenly recalled that his safe at Handyman Hall contained evidence that hadn’t been incinerated. Maud was sitting on a safe containing photographs that could send him to prison. “Inflammable material. That bitch can get me five years,” he thought. “I’d like to incinerate her.” Incinerate her? Sir Giles stared into space. He had suddenly seen a way out of all his problems.

He picked up a pencil and detailed the advantages. Number One, he would destroy the evidence of his attempt to blackmail Dundridge. Number Two, he would get rid of those photographs Blott had taken of him in Mrs Forthby’s flat. Number Three, by acting before Maud could divorce him he would still be the owner of the ashes of Handyman Hall and liable for the insurance money and possibly the compensation from the motorway. Number Four, if Maud were to die… Number Four was a particularly attractive prospect and just the sort of accident he had been hoping for.

He picked up the sheet of paper and carried it across to the fireplace and lit a match. As the paper flared up Sir Giles watched it with immense satisfaction. There was nothing like a good fire for cleansing the past. All he needed now was a perfect alibi.

At Handyman Hall Lady Maud surveyed her handiwork with equal satisfaction. The fence had been finished in ten days, the lions, giraffes, and the rhinoceros had been installed and the ostriches were accommodated in the old tennis court. It was really very pleasant to wander round the house and watch the lions padding across the park or lying under the trees.

“It gives one a certain sense of security,” she told Blott, whose movements had been restricted to the kitchen garden and who complained that the rhinoceros was mucking up the lawn.

“It may give you a sense of security,” said Blott, “but the postman has other ideas. He won’t come further than the Lodge and the milkman won’t either.”

“What nonsense,” said Lady Maud. “The way to deal with lions is to put a bold front on and look them squarely in the eyes.”

“That’s as maybe,” said Blott, “but that rhino needs spectacles.”

“The thing with rhinos,” said Lady Maud, “is to move at right angles to their line of approach.”

“That didn’t work with the butcher’s van. You’ve no idea what it did to his back mudguard.”

“I have a very precise idea. Sixty pounds worth of damage but it didn’t charge the van.”

“No,” said Blott, “it just leant up against it and scratched its backside.”

“Well at least the giraffes are behaving themselves,” said Lady Maud.

“What’s left of them,” said Blott.

“What do you mean ‘What’s left of them’?”

“Well, there’s only two left.”

“Two? But there were four. Where have the other two got to?”

“You had better ask the lions about that,” Blott told her. “I have an idea they rather like giraffes for dinner.”

“In that case we had better order another hundredweight of meat from the butchers. We can’t have them eating one another.”

She strode off across the lawn imperiously, stopping to prod the rhinoceros with her shooting stick. “I won’t have you in the rockery,” she told it. Outside the kitchen door a lion was snoozing in the sun. “Be off with you, you lazy beast.” The lion got up and slunk away.

Blott watched with admiration and then shut the door of the kitchen garden. “What a woman,” he murmured and went back to the tomatoes. He was interrupted five minutes later by a dull thump from the Gorge. Blott looked up. They were getting nearer. It was about time he did something about that business. So far his efforts had been confined to moving Dundridge’s mobile headquarters about the countryside at night and altering the position of the pegs that marked the route so that had the motorway proceeded as the contractors desired it would have been several degrees off course. Unfortunately Dundridge’s insistence on random construction had defeated Blott’s efforts. His only success had been the felling of all the trees in Colonel Chapman’s orchard which was a quarter of a mile away from the supposed route of the motorway. Blott was rather proud of that. The Colonel had raised Cain with the authorities and had been promised additional compensation. A few more miscalculations like that and there would be a public outcry. Blott applied his mind to the problem.