Blott on the Landscape

Chapter 11

Dundridge spent the following morning at the Regional Planning Board with Hoskins poring over maps and discussing the tunnel. He was rather surprised to find that Hoskins had undergone a change of heart about the project and seemed to favour it. “It’s a brilliant idea. Pity we didn’t think of it before. Would have saved no end of trouble,” he said, and while Dundridge was flattered he wasn’t so sure. He had begun to have doubts about the feasibility of a tunnel. The Ministry wouldn’t exactly like the cost, the delay would be considerable and there was still Lord Leakham to be persuaded. “You don’t think we could find an alternative route,” he asked but Hoskins shook his head.

“It’s either the Cleene Gorge or Ottertown or your tunnel.” Dundridge, studying the maps, had to concede that there wasn’t any other route. The Cleene Hills stretched unbroken save for the Gorge from Worford to Ottertown.

“Ridiculous fuss people make about a bit of forest,” Dundridge complained. “Just trees. What’s so special about trees?”

They had lunch at a restaurant in River Street. At the next table a couple in their thirties seemed to find Dundridge quite fascinating and more than once Dundridge looked up to find the woman looking at him with a quiet smile. She was rather attractive, with almond eyes.

In the afternoon Hoskins took him on a tour of the proposed route through Ottertown. They drove over and inspected the council houses and returned through Guildstead Carbonell, Hoskins stopping the car every now and again and insisting that they climb to the top of some hill to get a better view of the proposed route. By the time they got back to Worford Dundridge was exhausted. He was also rather drunk. They had stopped at several pubs along the way and, thanks to Hoskins’ insistence that pints were for men and that only boys drank halves – he put rather a nasty inflection on boys – Dundridge had consumed rather more Handyman Triple XXX than he was used to.

“We’re having a little celebration party at the Golf Club tonight,” Hoskins said as they drove through the town gate. “If you’d care to come over…”

“I think I’ll get an early night,” said Dundridge.

“Pity,” Hoskins said. “You’d meet a number of influential local people. Doesn’t do to give the locals the idea you’re hoity-toity.”

“Oh all right,” said Dundridge grudgingly. “I’ll have a bath and something to eat and see how I feel.”

“See you later, old boy,” said Hoskins as Dundridge got out of the car and went up to his room in the Handyman Arms. A bath and a meal and he’d probably feel all right. He fetched a towel and went down the passage to the bathroom. When he returned having immersed himself briefly in a lukewarm bath – the geyser still refused to operate at all efficiently – he was feeling better. He had dinner and decided that Hoskins was probably right. It might be useful to meet some of the more influential local people. Dundridge went out to his car and drove over to the Golf Club.

“Delighted you could make it,” said Hoskins when Dundridge made his way through the crush to him. “What’s your poison?”

Dundridge said he’d have a gin and tonic. He’d had enough beer for one day. Around him large men shouted about doglegs on the third and water hazards on the fifth. Dundridge felt out of it. Hoskins brought him his drink and introduced him to a Mr Snell. “Glad to meet you, squire,” said Mr Snell heartily from behind a large moustache. “What’s your handicap?” Suppressing his immediate reaction to tell him to mind his own damned business, Dundridge said that as far as he knew he didn’t have one. “A Beginner, eh? Well, never mind. Give it time. We’ve all got to start somewhere.” He drifted away and Dundridge wandered in the opposite direction. Looking round the room at the veined faces of the men and the hennaed hair of the women Dundridge cursed himself for coming. If this was Hoskins’ idea of local influence he could keep it. Presently he went out on to the terrace and stared resentfully down the eighteenth. He’d finish his drink and then go home. He drained his glass and was about to go inside when a voice at his elbow said, “If you’re going to the bar, you could get me another one.” It was a soft seductive voice. Dundridge turned and looked into a pair of almond eyes. Dundridge changed his mind about leaving. He went through to the bar and got two more drinks.

“These affairs are such a bore,” said the girl. “Are you a great golfer?”

Dundridge said he wasn’t a golfer at all.

“Nor am I. Such a boring game.” She sat down and crossed her legs. They were really very nice legs. “And anyway I don’t like sporty types. I prefer intellectuals.” She smiled at Dundridge. “My name is Sally Boles. What’s yours?”

“Dundridge,” said Dundridge and sat down where he could see more of her legs. Ten minutes later he got another two drinks. Twenty minutes later two more. He was enjoying himself at last.

Miss Boles, he learnt, was visiting her uncle. She came from London too. She worked for a firm of beauty consultants. Dundridge said he could well believe it. She found the country so boring. Dundridge said he did too. He waxed lyrical about the joys of living in London and all the time Miss Boles’ almond eyes smiled seductively at him and her legs crossed and recrossed in the gathering dusk. When Dundridge suggested another drink Miss Boles insisted on getting it.

“It’s my turn,” she said, “and besides I want to powder my nose.” She left Dundridge sitting alone on the terrace in a happy stupor. When she returned with the drinks she was looking thoughtful.

“My uncle’s gone without me,” she said, “I suppose he thought I had gone home already. Would it be too much for you to give me a lift?”

“Of course not. I’d be delighted,” said Dundridge and sipped his drink. It tasted extraordinarily bitter.

“I’m so sorry, I got Campari,” Miss Boles said by way of explanation. Dundridge said it was quite all right. He finished his drink and they wandered off the terrace towards the car park. “It’s been such a lovely evening,” Miss Boles said as she climbed into Dundridge’s car. “You must look me up in London.”

“I’d like to,” said Dundridge. “I’d like to see a lot more of you.”

“That’s a promise,” said Miss Boles.

“You really mean that?”

“Call me Sally,” said Miss Boles and leant against him.

“Oh Sally…” Dundridge began, and suddenly felt quite extraordinarily tired, “… I do want to see so much more of you.”

“You will, my pet, you will,” said Miss Boles and took the car keys out of his inert fingers. Dundridge had passed out.

In London Sir Giles lay back supine on the bed while Mrs Forthby tightened the straps. Occasionally he struggled briefly for the look of the thing and whimpered hoarsely but Mrs Forthby was, at least superficially, implacable. The scenario of Sir Giles’ fantasy called for a brutal implacability and Mrs Forthby did her best. She wasn’t very good, being a kind-hearted soul and not given to tying people up and whipping them, and as a matter of fact she disapproved of corporal punishment on principle. It was largely because she was so progressive that she was prepared to indulge Sir Giles in the first place. “If it gives the poor man pleasure who am I to say him nay,” she told herself. Certainly she had to say nay a great many times to Sir Giles in the throes of his ritual. But if Mrs Forthby wasn’t naturally brutal, with the lights down low it was possible to imagine that she was and she had the merit of being strong and of wearing her costume – there were several – most convincingly. Tonight she was Cat Woman, Miss Dracula, the Cruel Mistress Experimenting On Her Helpless Victim.

“No, no,” whimpered Sir Giles.

“Yes, yes,” insisted Mrs Forthby.

“No, no.”

“Yes, yes.”

Mrs Forthby’s fingers forced his mouth open and inserted the gag. “No…” It was too late. Mrs Forthby inflated the gag and smiled maliciously down at him. Her breasts loomed above him, heavy with menace. Her gloved hands…

Mrs Forthby went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. While she waited for the kettle to boil she nibbled a digestive biscuit thoughtfully. There were times when she tired of Sir Giles’ desultory attachment and longed for a more permanent arrangement. She would have to speak to him about it. She warmed the teapot, put in two teabags and then a third for the pot and poured the boiling water in. After all she was getting on and she rather fancied the idea of being Lady Lynchwood. She looked round the kitchen. Now where had she put the lid of the teapot?

On the bed Sir Giles struggled with his bonds and was still. He lay back happily exhausted and waited for his cruel mistress. He had to wait a long time. In between spasms of excitement his mind went back to Dundridge. He hoped Hoskins hadn’t made a bloody mess of things. That was the trouble with subordinates, you couldn’t trust them. Sir Giles preferred to attend to matters himself but he had too much to lose to be closely involved in the actual details of this particular operation. First the stick and then the carrot. He wondered how much the carrot would have to be. Two, three, four thousand pounds? Expensive. Add Hoskins’ five thousand. Still, it was worth it. A profit of £150,000 was worth it. So was the prospect of Maud’s fury when she realized that the motorway was coming through the Gorge. Teach the stupid bitch. But where was Mrs Forthby? Why didn’t she come back?

Mrs Forthby finished her cup of tea and poured another. She was getting rather hot in her tight costume. Perhaps she would go and have a bath. She got up and went into the bathroom and turned on the tap before remembering that there was something she still had to do. “Silly old me, talk about forgetful,” she said to herself and picked up the thin cane. The Cruel Mistress Miss Dracula, went through to the bedroom and closed the door.

In his library in the Lodge Blott sat reading Sir Arthur Bryant, but his mind wasn’t on the Age of Elegance. It kept slipping away to Maud, Mrs Wynn, Dundridge, Sir Giles. Besides, he didn’t much care for the Prince Regent. Nasty piece of goods in Blott’s opinion. But then Blott had no time for any of the Georges. His sympathies were all with the Jacobites. The lost cause and Bonnie Prince Charlie. In his present mood of romantic devotion he felt a longing to kneel before Lady Maud and confess his love. It was an absurd notion. She would be furious with him. Worse still, she might laugh. The thought of her contemptuous laughter made him put the book down and go downstairs. It was a lovely evening. The sun had set over the hills to the west but the sky was still bright. Blott felt like a beer. He wasn’t going over to Guildstead Carbonell for one. Mrs Wynn would expect him to spend the night and Blott didn’t feel like another night with her. He had spent the previous evening wrestling with his conscience and trying to make up his mind to tell her it was all over between them. In the end his sense of realism had prevailed. Lady Maud wasn’t for the likes of Blott. He would just have to dream about her. He had done so while making love to Mrs Wynn, who had been amazed at his renewed fervour. “Just like the old days,” she had said wistfully as Blott got dressed to cycle back to the Lodge. No, he definitely didn’t feel like another night at the Royal George. He would go for a walk. There were some rabbits over by the pinetum. Blott fetched his shotgun and set off across the Park. Beside him the river murmured gently and there was a smell of summer in the air. A blackbird called from a bush. Blott ignored his surroundings. He was dreaming of changed circumstances, of Lady Maud in peril, an act of heroism on his part that would reveal his true feelings for her and bring them together in love and happiness. By the time he reached the pinetum it was too dark to see any rabbits. But Blott wasn’t interested in rabbits any more. A light had come on in Lady Maud’s bedroom. Blott crept across the lawn and stood looking up at it until it went out. Then he walked home and went to bed.