Blott on the Landscape

by Tom Sharpe

  At the other end of the line there was a choking sound. Mr Blodger was evidently having some difficulty coming to terms with Sir Giles’ orders. ‘I say, Lynchwood,’ he muttered, ‘are you all right?’

  ‘All right? What the devil do you mean? Of course I’m all right,’ snarled Blott.

  ‘It’s just that … well … I mean the market’s rock bottom just at the moment. Wouldn’t it be better to wait …’

  ‘Listen Blodger,’ said Blott, ‘I know what I’m doing and when I say sell I mean sell. And if you’ll take my advice you’ll get out now too.’

  ‘You really think …’ Mr Blodger began.

  ‘Think?’ said Blott. ‘I know. Now then see what you can get and call me back. I’ll be here at the flat for the next twenty minutes.’

  ‘Well if you say so,’ said Mr Blodger.

  Blott put the phone down.

  ‘Brilliant, Blott, absolutely brilliant. For a moment even I thought it was Giles talking,’ said Lady Maud. ‘Well that should put the cat among the pigeons. Or the bulls among the bears. Now, when he calls back give him the second list.’

  At the offices of Schaeffer, Blodger and Vaizey there was consternation. Blodger consulted Schaeffer and together they sent for Vaizey.

  ‘Either he’s gone out of his mind or he knows something!’ shouted Blodger. ‘He’s dropping eighty thousand on the President Rand.’

  ‘What about Rio Pinto?’ Schaeffer yelled. ‘He bought in at twenty-five and he’s selling at ten.’

  ‘He’s usually right,’ said Vaizey. ‘In all the years we’ve handled his account he hasn’t put a foot wrong.’

  ‘A foot! He’s putting his whole damned body wrong if you ask me.’

  ‘Unless he knows something,’ said Vaizey.

  They looked at one another. ‘He must know something,’ said Schaeffer.

  ‘Do you want to speak to him?’ asked Blodger.

  Schaeffer shook his head. ‘My nerves couldn’t stand it,’ he muttered.

  Blodger picked up the phone. ‘Get me Sir Giles Lynchwood,’ he told the girl on the switchboard. ‘No, come to think of it, don’t. I’ll use the outside line.’ He dialled Sir Giles’ number.

  Ten minutes later he staggered through to Schaeffer’s office whitefaced.

  ‘He wants out,’ he said and slumped into a chair.

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Everything. The whole damned lot. And today. He knows something all right.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lady Maud, ‘that’s taken care of that. We had better spend another hour or two here in case they phone back. It’s a great pity we can’t do the same thing with some of his property. Still, there’s no point in overdoing things.’

  At two o’clock Blodger phoned again to say that Sir Giles’ instructions had been carried out.

  ‘Good,’ said Blott. ‘Send the transfers round tomorrow. I’m going to Paris overnight. And by the way, I want the money transferred to my current account at Westlands in Worford.’

  Sir Giles returned from Plymouth the following afternoon by car. He was in a good humour. The conference had gone well and he was looking forward to an evening with Nanny Whip. He went to his flat, had a bath, dined in a restaurant and drove round to Elm Road to find Mrs Forthby already dressed for the part.

  ‘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.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ said Mrs Forthby. ‘But it’s very difficult. It’s not in my nature to be unkind.’

  ‘And before I forget, here’s a little honorarium for your assistance.’ Lady Maud produced a cheque from her bag but Mrs Forthby shook her head.

  ‘I may be a silly woman and not very nice but I do have my standards,’ she said. ‘And besides I’d probably forget to cash it.’ She went upstairs a little wistfully.

  *

  ‘That woman,’ said Lady Maud as they drove to Paddington to catch the train to Worford, ‘is far too good for Giles. She deserves something better.’ On the way they stopped to post the share transfers to Messrs Schaeffer, Blodger and Vaizey.

  20

  By the time they reached Handyman Hall it was two o’clock in the morning but the park was well lit. Under the floodlights men were busily engaged in erecting the fencing posts and already one side of the park was fenced in. Lady Maud drove round to have a look and congratulated Mr Firkin, the manager, on the progress.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay the bonus,’ he told her. ‘At this rate we’ll be finished in ten days.’

  ‘Make it a week,’ said Lady Maud. ‘Money’s no problem.’ She went into the house and up to bed well content. Money was no object now. In the morning she would withdraw every penny from their joint account at Westland Bank in Worford and deposit it in her own private account at the Northern. Sir Giles would scream blue murder but there was nothing he could do. He had signed the share transfer certificates if not of his own free will at least in circumstances which made it impossible for him to argue otherwise. And besides she still held one card up her sleeve, the photographs of Dundridge. She would call on the little goose and force him to admit that he had been blackmailed by Giles. Once she had proof of that there would be no question of the motorway continuing. She wouldn’t even have to bother with her own awful photographs. Giles would be in jail, his seat in Parliament empty, a by-election, and the whole wretched business finished.

  Whatever happened now she was safe and so was the Hall. ‘Fight fire with fire,’ she thought and lay in bed considering the strange set of circumstances that had turned her from a plain, simple home-loving woman, a Justice of the Peace and a respectable member of the community, into a blackmailer dealing in obscene photographs and extorting signatures under threat of torture. Evidently the blood of her ancestors who had held the Gorge (by fair means and foul) against all comers still ran in her veins.

  ‘You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,’ she murmured, and fell asleep.

  In Mrs Forthby’s flat one of the eggs in question lay in his frilly bonnet desperately trying to think of some way out of both his predicaments and promising himself that he would murder Nanny Fucking Whip as soon as he got free. Not that there seemed much chance of that before morning. Nanny Whip was snoring loudly on the sofa in the sitting-room. One look at Sir Giles’ suffused face had been enough to persuade her that Naughty Boy’s naughtiness had not diminished during her absence. A policy of continued restraint seemed called for. Nanny Whip went into the kitchen and hit the bottle of cooking brandy. ‘A drop will give me some Dutch courage,’ she thought and poured herself a large glass. By the time she had finished it she had forgotten what she had been taking it for. ‘A little of what you fancy does you good,’ she murmured, and collapsed on to the sofa.

  A little of what Sir Giles fancied wasn’t doing him any good at all. Besides, eight hours wasn’t a little. As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hours Sir Giles’ thoughts turned from murder to the more lurid forms of slow torture and in between he tried to think what the hell to do about Maud. There didn’t seem anything he could do short of applying for the Chiltern Hundreds, resigning from all his clubs, realizing his assets and taking a quick trip to Brazil where the extradition laws didn’t apply. And even then he wasn’t sure he had any assets to realize. At about four in the morning it dawned on him that some of those pieces of paper he had signed had looked remarkably like share transfer certificates. At the time he hadn’t been in any shape to consider them at all carefully. Not that he was in any better shape now but at least the threat of following Edward the Second to an agonizing death had been removed. Finally exhausted by his ordeal he fell into a semi-coma, waking every now and then to consider new and more awful fates for that absent-minded old sot in the next room.

  Mrs Forthby woke with a hangover. She staggered off the sofa and ran a bath and it was only whan she was drying herself that she remembered Sir Giles.

  ‘Oh dear, he will be cross,’ she thought, and went through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She carried the tray through to the bedroom and put it down on the bedside table. ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine,’ she said cheerfully and untied the straps. Sir Giles spat the dummy out of his mouth. This was the moment he had been waiting twelve hours for but there was no rising and shining for Sir Giles. He slithered sideways off the bed and crawled towards Mrs Forthby like a crab with rheu
matoid arthritis.

  ‘No, no, you naughty boy,’ said Mrs Forthby horrified at his colour. She rushed out of the room and locked herself in the bathroom. There was no need to hurry. Behind her Sir Giles was stuck in the bedroom door and one of his legs had attached itself inextricably to a standard lamp.

  In his office at the Regional Planning Board the Controller Motorways Midlands was having second thoughts about his plan for proving that Lady Maud was a blackmailer. The wretched woman had phoned the switchboard to say that she was coming in to Worford and wanted a word in private with him. Dundridge could well understand her desire for privacy but he did not share it. He had seen more than enough of Lady Maud in private and he had no intention of seeing any more. On the other hand she was hardly likely to threaten him with blackmail in front of a large audience. Dundridge paced up and down his office trying to find some way out of the quandary. In the end he decided to use Hoskins as a bodyguard. He sent for him.

  ‘We’ve flushed the old cow out with that dynamiting,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve done what?’ said Hoskins.

  ‘She’s coming to see me this morning. I want you to be present.’

  Hoskins had his doubts. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he muttered. ‘And anyway, we haven’t started dynamiting yet.’

  ‘But the task force has moved in, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, though I do wish you wouldn’t call it a task force. All this military jargon is getting on my nerves.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Dundridge. ‘The point is that she’s coming. I want you to conceal yourself somewhere where you can hear what she has to say and make an appearance if she turns nasty.’

  ‘Turns nasty?’ said Hoskins. ‘The bloody woman is nasty. She doesn’t have to turn it.’

  ‘I mean if she becomes violent,’ Dundridge explained. ‘Now then, we’ve got to find somewhere for you to hide.’ He looked hopefully at a filing cabinet but Hoskins was adamant.