Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

That night Blott visited the Royal George at Guildstead Carbonell for the first time in several weeks.

Mrs Wynn greeted him enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, “I thought you’d given me up for good.”

Blott said he had been busy. “Busy?” said Mrs Wynn. “You’re one to talk. I’ve been rushed off my feet with all the men from the motorway. They come in here at lunch and they’re back at night. I tell you, I can’t remember anything like it.”

Blott looked round the bar and could see what she meant. The pub was filled with construction workers. He helped himself to a pint of Handyman Brown and went to a table in the corner. An hour later he was deep in conversation with the driver of a bulldozer.

“Must be interesting work knocking things down,” said Blott.

“The pay’s good,” said the driver.

“I imagine you’ve got to be a real expert to demolish a big building like Handyman Hall.”

“I don’t know. The bigger they is the harder they falls is what I say,” said the driver, flattered by Blott’s interest.

“Let me get you another pint,” said Blott.

Three pints later the driver was explaining the niceties of demolition to a fascinated Blott.

“It’s a question of hitting the corner stone,” he said. “Find that, swing the ball back and let it go and Bob’s your uncle, the whole house is down like a pack of cards. I tell you I’ve done that more times than you’ve had hot dinners.”

Blott said he could well believe it. By closing time he knew a great deal about demolition work and the driver said he looked forward to meeting him again. Blott helped Mrs Wynn with washing the glasses and then did his duty by her but his heart wasn’t in it. Mrs Wynn noticed it.

“You’re not your usual self tonight,” she said when they had finished. Blott grunted. “Mind you I can’t say I’m any great shakes myself. My legs are killing me. What I need is a holiday.”

“Why don’t you take a day off?” said Blott.

“How can I? Who would look after the customers?”

“I would,” said Blott.

At five he was up and cycling down the main street of Guildstead Carbonell towards Handyman Hall. At seven he had fed the lions and when Lady Maud came down to breakfast Blott was waiting for her.

“I’m taking the day off,” he announced.

“You’re what?” said Lady Maud. Blott didn’t take days off.

“Taking the day off. And I’ll need the Land-Rover.”

“What for?” said Lady Maud who wasn’t used to being told by her gardener that he needed her Land-Rover.

“Never you mind,” said Blott. “No names, no pack drill.”

“No names, no pack drill? Are you feeling all right?”

“And a note for Mr Wilkes at the Brewery to say he’s to give me Very Special Brew.”

Lady Maud sat down at the kitchen table and looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t like the sound of this, Blott. You’re up to something.”

“And I don’t like the sound of that,” said Blott as a dull thump came from the Gorge. Lady Maud nodded. She didn’t like the sound of it either.

“Has it got anything to do with that?” she asked. Blott nodded. “In that case you can have what you want but I don’t want you getting into any trouble on my account, you understand.”

She went through to the study and wrote a note to Mr Wilkes, the manager of the Handyman Brewery in Worford, telling him to give Blott whatever he asked for.

At ten Blott was in the manager’s office.

“Very Special?” said Mr Wilkes. “But Very Special is for special occasions. Coronations and suchlike.”

“This is a special occasion,” said Blott.

Mr Wilkes looked at the letter again. “If Lady Maud says so, I suppose I must, but it’s strictly against the law to sell Very Special. It’s twenty per cent proof.”

“And ten bottles of vodka,” said Blott. They went down to the cellar and loaded the Land-Rover.

“Forget you’ve seen me,” Blott said when they had finished.

“I’ll do my best,” said the manager, “this is all bloody irregular.”

Blott drove to the Royal George and saw Mrs Wynn on to the bus. Then he went back into the pub and set to work. By lunchtime he had emptied one barrel of Handyman Bitter down the drain and had refilled it with bottles of Very Special and five bottles of vodka. He tried it out on a couple of customers and was delighted with the result. During the afternoon he had a nap and then took a stroll through the village and up past the Bullett-Finches’ house. It was a large house in mock Tudor set back from the road and with a very fine garden. Outside the gates a sign announced that Finch Grove was For Sale. The Bullett-Finches didn’t fancy living within a hundred yards of a motorway. Blott didn’t blame them. Then he walked back through the village and looked at Miss Percival’s cottage. That wasn’t for sale. It was due for demolition and Miss Percival had already vacated it. A large crane with a steel ball on the end of its arm stood nearby. Blott climbed into the driver’s seat and played with the controls. Then he walked back to the pub and sat behind the bar, waiting for opening time.

Sir Giles busied himself in Mrs Forthby’s flat. He altered the date on the clock on the mantelpiece. He turned the pages of the Radio Times to the following day and hid the newspaper. Several times he asserted that today was Wednesday.

“That just goes to show what a muddlehead I am,” said Mrs Forthby, who was busy making supper in the kitchen, “I could have sworn it was Tuesday.”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” said Sir Giles.

“If you say so, dear,” said Mrs Forthby. “I’m sure I don’t know what day of the week it is. My memory is simply shocking.”

Sir Giles nodded approvingly. It was on Mrs Forthby’s appalling memory that his alibi depended, that and sleeping pills. “Silly old bitch won’t miss a day in her life,” he thought as he crunched six tablets up in the bottom of a glass with the handle of a toothbrush before adding a large tot of whisky. According to his doctor the lethal dose was twelve. “Six would probably put you out for twenty-four hours,” the doctor had told him and twenty-four hours was all Sir Giles needed. He went through to the kitchen and had supper.

“What about a nightcap?” he said when they had finished.

“You know I never drink,” said Mrs Forthby.

“You did the other night. You finished half a bottle of cooking brandy.”

“That was different. I wasn’t feeling myself.”

It was on the tip of Sir Giles’ tongue to tell her that she wouldn’t feel anything let alone herself by the time she had finished that little lot but he restrained himself. “Cheers,” he said, and finished his glass.

“Cheers,” said Mrs Forthby doubtfully and sipped her whisky.

Sir Giles poured himself another glass. “Down the hatch,” he said.

Mrs Forthby took another sip. “You know I could have sworn today was Tuesday,” she said.

Sir Giles could have sworn, period. “Today is Wednesday.”

“But I’ve got a hair appointment on Wednesday. If today is Wednesday I must have missed it.”

“You have,” said Sir Giles truthfully. Whatever happened, Mrs Forthby had missed her hair appointment. He raised his glass. “Mud in your eye.”

“Mud in your eye,” said Mrs Forthby and sipped again. “If today is Wednesday, tomorrow must be Thursday in which case I’ve got a pottery class in the afternoon.”

Sir Giles poured himself another whisky hurriedly. It was on just such insignificant details that the best plans foundered. “I was thinking of going down to Brighton for the weekend,” he improvised. “I thought you would like that.”