Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

“What did you say this was?” asked the Judge.

Sir Giles looked at the label on the bottle. “Chambertin ’64.” he muttered. “Is it corked or something?”

“It’s certainly something,” said Lord Leakham who wished the stuff had never been bottled, let alone corked.

“I’ll get another bottle,” said Sir Giles and signalled to the wine waiter.

“Not on my account I beg you.”

But it was too late. As the wine waiter hurried away Lord Leakham, distracted by the strange residue under his upper dentures, absent-mindedly took another mouthful of Poule au Pot.

“I thought it looked a bit dark myself,” said Sir Giles ignoring the desperate look in Lord Leakham’s bloodshot eyes. “Mind you I have to admit I’m not a connoisseur of wines.”

Still gasping for air, Lord Leakham pushed his plate away. For a moment he resisted the temptation to quench the flames with crusted port but the certain knowledge that unless he did something he would never speak again swept aside all considerations of taste. Lord Leakham drained his glass.

In the public bar of the Handyman Arms Lady Maud announced that drinks were on the house. Then she crossed the Market Square to the Goat and Goblet and repeated the order before making her way to the Red Cow. Behind her the bars filled with thirsty farmers and by two o’clock all Worford was drinking Lady Maud’s health and damnation to the motorway. Outside the Old Courthouse she stopped to chat with the TV men. A crowd had assembled and Lady Maud was cheered as she went inside.

“I must say we do seem to have the public on our side,” said General Burnett as they went upstairs. “Mind you I thought things looked pretty grim this morning.”

Lady Maud smiled to herself. “I think you will find they liven up this afternoon,” she said and swept majestically into the courtroom where Colonel and Mrs Chapman were chatting with the Bullett-Finches.

“Leakham has a fine record as a judge,” Colonel Chapman was saying. “I think we can rely on him to see our point of view.”

By the time he had finished his lunch Lord Leakham was incapable of seeing anyone’s point of view but his own. What prawns tabasco and Poule au Pot had begun, the Chambertin ’64 and its successor, a refined vinegar that Sir Giles chose to imagine was a Chablis, had completed. That and the Pêche Maud with which Lord Leakham had attempted to soothe the spasms of his peptic ulcer. The tinned peaches had been all right but the ice cream had been larded with a mixture of cloves and nutmeg, and as for the coffee…

As he hobbled down the steps of the Four Feathers in the vain hope of finding his car waiting for him – it had been moved on by a traffic warden – as he limped up Ferret Lane and across Abbey Close accompanied by his loathsome host, Lord Leakham’s internal organs sounded the death knell of what little restraint he had shown before lunch. By the time he reached the Old Courthouse to be booed by a large crowd of farmers and their wives he was less a retired judge than an active incendiary device.

“Have those damned oafs moved on,” he snarled at Sir Giles. “I will not be subject to hooliganism.”

Sir Giles phoned the police station and asked them to send some men over to the Courthouse. As he took his seat beside Lady Maud it was clear that things were not proceeding as he had expected. Lord Leakham’s complexion was horribly mottled and his hand shook as he rapped the gavel on the bench.

“The hearing will resume,” he said huskily. “Silence in court.” The courtroom was crowded and the Judge had to use his gavel a second time before the talking stopped. “Next witness.”

Lady Maud rose to her feet. “I wish to make a statement,” she said. Lord Leakham looked at her reluctantly. Lady Maud was not a sight for sore stomachs. She was large and her manner suggested something indigestible.

“We are here to take evidence,” said the Judge, “not to listen to statements of opinion.”

Mr Turnbull stood up. “My lord,” he said deferentially, “my client’s opinion is evidence before this Enquiry.”

“Opinion is not evidence,” said Lord Leakham. “Your client whoever she may be…”

“Lady Maud Lynchwood of Handyman Hall, my lord,” Mr Turnbull informed him.

“… is entitled to hold what opinions she may choose,” Lord Leakham continued, staring at the author of Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth with undisguised loathing, “but she may not express them in this court and expect them to be accepted as evidence. You should know the rules of evidence, sir.”

Mr Turnbull adjusted his glasses defiantly. “The rules of evidence do not, with due deference to your lordship’s opinion, apply in the present circumstances. My client is not under oath and -”

“Silence in court,” snarled the Judge, addressing himself to a drunken farmer from Guildstead Carbonell who was discussing swine fever with his neighbour. With a pathetic look at Lady Maud Mr Turnbull sat down.

“Next witness,” said Lord Leakham.

Lady Maud stood her ground. “I wish to protest,” she said with a ring of authority that brought a hush to the courtroom. “This Enquiry is a travesty…”

“Silence in court,” shouted the Judge.

“I will not be silenced,” Lady Maud shouted back. “This is not a courtroom -”

“It most certainly is,” snarled the Judge.

Lady Maud hesitated. The courtroom was obviously a courtroom. There was no denying the fact.

“What I meant to say…” she began.

“Silence in court,” screamed Lord Leakham whose peptic ulcer was in the throes of a new crisis.

Lady Maud echoed the Judge’s private thoughts. “You are not fit to conduct this Enquiry,” she shouted, and was supported by several members of the public. “You are a senile old fool. I have a right to be heard.”

In his chair Lord Leakham’s mottled head turned a plum colour and his hand reached for the gavel. “I hold you in contempt of court,” he shouted banging the gavel. Lady Maud lurched towards him menacingly. “Officer, arrest this woman.”

“My lord,” Mr Turnbull said, “I beg you to…” but it was too late. As Lady Maud advanced two constables, evidently acting on the assumption that an ex-judge of the High Court knew his law better than they did, seized her arms. It was a terrible mistake. Even Sir Giles could see that. Beside him Mr Turnbull was shouting that this was an unlawful act, and behind him pandemonium had broken out as members of the public rose in their seats and surged forward. As his wife was frog-marched, still shouting abuse, from the courtroom, as Lord Leakham bellowed in vain for the court to be cleared, as fighting broke out and windows were broken, Sir Giles sat slumped in his seat and contemplated the ruin of his plans.

Downstairs the TV cameramen, alerted by the shouts and the fragments of broken glass raining on their heads from the windows above, aimed their cameras on the courtroom door as Lady Maud emerged dishevelled and suddenly surprisingly demure between two large policemen. Somewhere between the courtroom and the cameras her twinset had been quite obscenely disarranged, a shoe had been discarded, her skirt was torn suggestively and she appeared to have lost two front teeth. With a brave attempt at a smile she collapsed on the pavement, and was filmed being dragged across the market square to the police station. “Help,” she screamed as the crowd parted. “Please help.” And help was forthcoming. A small dark figure hurtled out of the Courthouse and on to the larger of the two policemen. Inspired by Blott’s example several stallholders threw themselves into the fray. Hidden by the crowd from the cameras Lady Maud reasserted her authority. “Blott,” she said sternly, “let go of the constable’s ears.” Blott dropped to the ground and the stallholders fell back obediently. “Constables, do your duty,” said Lady Maud and led the way to the police station.