Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

“Stout fellow, Blott,” said the General, “for an Eyetie. Remarkable, standing up to a bombardment like that. They used to run like rabbits in the desert.”

“I think we all owe him a debt of gratitude for his sense of duty and self-sacrifice,” Colonel Chapman agreed. “Frankly I think this latest episode has put the kybosh on the motorway. They’ll never be able to carry on with it now. I hear there’s a proposal for a sit-in of conservationists, from all over the country outside the Lodge to see that there’s no repetition of this disgraceful action.”

“I must say I was most impressed by Mr Blott’s command of the English language on television the other night,” said Miss Percival. “He handled the interview quite wonderfully. I particularly liked what he had to say about English traditions.”

“That bit about an Englishman’s home being his castle. Couldn’t agree with him more,” the General said.

“I was thinking rather about what he said about England being the home of freedom and the need for Englishmen to stand up for their traditional values.”

Lady Maud looked at them all contemptuously. “I must say I think it is a poor show when we have to rely on Italians to look after our interests for us,” she said.

The General shifted in his seat. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” he murmured.

“I would,” said Lady Maud. “Without him we would have all lost our homes.”

“As it is Miss Percival’s lost hers already,” said Colonel Chapman.

“You can hardly blame Blott for that.”

Miss Percival took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “It was such a pretty cottage,” she sighed.

“The point I am trying to make,” Lady Maud continued, “is that I think the best way we can demonstrate our gratitude and support for Blott is by proposing him as the candidate for South Worfordshire in the forthcoming bye-election.”

The Committee stared at her in astonishment.

“An Italian standing for South Worfordshire?” said the General. “I hardly think…”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Lady Maud brusquely. “And Blott is not an Italian. He is a nationalized Englishman.”

“Surely you mean naturalized,” said Colonel Chapman. “Nationalized means state-controlled. I would have thought he was the exact opposite.”

“I stand corrected,” said Lady Maud magnanimously. “Then we are agreed that Blott should represent the party at the bye-election?”

She looked round the table. Miss Percival was the first to agree. “I second the proposal,” she murmured.

“Motion,” Lady Maud corrected her, “the motion. The proposal comes later. All those in favour.”

The General and Colonel Chapman raised their hands in surrender, and since the Save the Gorge Committee was the party in South Worfordshire Blott’s candidacy was ensured.

Lady Maud announced their decision to the press outside the Lodge. As the newsmen dispersed to their cars she climbed the ladder to the window in the Lodge.

“Blott,” she called through the broken panes, “I have something to tell you.”

Blott opened the window and leant out. “Yes,” he said.

“I want you to prepare yourself for a shock,” she told him. Blott looked at her uncertainly. He had been prepared for a shock for some time. The British army didn’t use 303 ammunition nowadays and PIATs had been scrapped years ago. It was a point he had overlooked at the time.

“I have decided that you are to succeed Sir Giles,” said Lady Maud gazing into his face.

Blott gaped at her. “Succeed Sir Giles? Gott in Himmel,” he muttered.

“I very much doubt it,” said Lady Maud.

“You mean…”

“Yes,” said Lady Maud, “from now on you will be the master of Handyman Hall. You can come out now.”

“But…” Blott began.

“If you’ll hand me the machine-gun and whatever else it was you used I’ll take them down with me and we’ll bury them in the pinetum.”

As they walked back up the drive with the PIAT and the Bren gun, Blott’s mind was in a state of confusion. “How did you know?” he asked.

“How did I know? I telephoned you of course as soon as I heard the firing,” said Lady Maud with a smile. “I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking.”

“Meine Liebling,” said Blott and took what he could of her in his arms.

At Worford magistrates court Dundridge was charged with being party to a conspiracy to commit a breach of the peace, attempted murder, malicious damage to property, and obstruction of the police in the course of their duty.

It was the last charge that particularly infuriated him.

“Obstruction?” he shouted at the bench. “Obstruction? Who’s talking about obstruction?”

“Remanded in custody for a week,” said Colonel Chapman. Dundridge was still shouting abuse as he was dragged out to the Black Maria. In the cells he was interviewed by Mr Ganglion, who had been appointed by the court to conduct his defence.

“I should plead guilty to all charges,” he advised him.

“Guilty? I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all a pack of lies!” Dundridge shouted.

“I understand how you feel,” Mr Ganglion said, “but I understand the police are considering additional charges.”

“Additional charges? But they’ve charged me with everything under the sun already.”

“There’s just that little business of blackmail to be attended to. Now I know you wouldn’t want those photographs to be produced in court. You could get life for that, you know.”

Dundridge stared at him despairingly. “For blackmail?” he asked. “But I was the one being blackmailed.”

“For what you were doing in those photographs.”

Dundridge considered the prospect and shook his head. Life for something that had been done to him. He had been blackmailed, obstructed, shot at and here he was being charged with these offences. If there was any conspiracy it was directed against him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled. “Just stick to ‘Guilty’,” Mr Ganglion advised. “It will save a lot of time and the court will appreciate it.”

“Time?” said Dundridge. “How long do you think I’ll get?”

“Difficult to say really. Seven or eight years I should imagine, but you’ll probably be out in five.”

He gathered up his papers and left the cell. As he walked back to his chambers he smiled to himself. It was always nice to combine business with pleasure. He found Lady Maud and Blott waiting for him to discuss the marriage settlement.

“My fiancé has decided to change his name,” Lady Maud announced. “From now on he wants to be known as Handyman. I want you to make the necessary arrangements.”

“I see,” said Mr Ganglion. “Well there shouldn’t be any difficulties. And what Christian name would he like?”

“I think we’ll just stick to Blott. I’m used to it and all the men in the family have been Bs.”

“True,” said Mr Ganglion, with the private thought that some of the women had been too. “And when is the happy day?”

“We are going to wait until after the election. I wouldn’t want it to be thought that I was trying to influence the outcome.”

Mr Ganglion went out to lunch with Mr Turnbull.

“Amazing woman, Maud Lynchwood,” he said as they walked across to the Handyman Arms. “I wouldn’t put anything past her. Marrying her damned gardener and putting him up for Parliament.”

They went into the bar.

“What’ll you have?” said Mr Turnbull.

“I feel like a large whisky,” said Mr Ganglion. “I know it’s prohibitively expensive but I need it.”

“Haven’t you heard, sir?” said the barman. “There’s fivepence off a tot of whisky and tuppence off a pint of beer. Lady Maud’s instructions. Seems she can afford to be generous now.”