Blott on the Landscape

Chapter 13

At the Cottage Hospital Dundridge had some difficulty in finding Lord Leakham. He wasn’t in his room. “It’s very naughty of him to wander about like this,” said the Matron. “You’ll probably find him in the Abbey. He’s taken to going over there when he shouldn’t. Says he likes looking at the tombstones. Morbid, I call it.”

“You don’t think his mind has been affected, do you?” Dundridge asked hopefully.

“Not so’s you’d notice. All lords are potty in my experience,” the Matron told him.

In the end Dundridge found him in the garden discussing the merits of the cat o’nine tails with a retired vet who had the good fortune to be deaf.

“Well what do you want now?” Lord Leakham asked irritably when Dundridge interrupted.

“Just a word with you,” said Dundridge.

“Well, what is it?” said Lord Leakham.

“It’s about the motorway,” Dundridge explained.

“What about it? I’m re-opening the Enquiry on Monday. Can’t it wait till then?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Dundridge. “The thing is that as a result of an in-depth on-the-spot investigative study of the socio-environmental and geognostic ancillary factors…”

“Good God,” said Lord Leakham, “I thought you said you wanted a word…”

“It is our considered conclusion,” continued Dundridge, manfully devising a jargon to suit the occasion, “that given the -”

“Which is it to be? Ottertown or the Cleene Gorge? Spit it out, man.”

“Ottertown,” said Dundridge.

“Over my dead body,” said Lord Leakham.

“I trust not,” said Dundridge, disguising his true feelings. “There’s just one other thing I think you ought to know. As you are probably aware the Government is most anxious to avoid any further adverse publicity about the motorway…”

“You can’t expect to demolish seventy-five brand-new council houses without attracting adverse publicity,” Lord Leakham pointed out.

“And,” continued Dundridge, “the civil action for damages which Lady Lynchwood intends to institute against you is bound -”

“Against me?” shouted the Judge. “She intends to -”

“For unlawful arrest,” said Dundridge.

“That’s a police matter. If she has any complaints let her sue those responsible. In any case no sane judge would find for her.”

“I understand she intends to call some rather eminent people as witnesses,” said Dundridge. “Their testimony will be that you were drunk.”

Lord Leakham began to swell.

“And personally abusive,” said Dundridge gritting his teeth. “And disorderly. In fact that you were not in a fit state…”

“WHAT?” yelled the Judge, with a violence that sent several elderly patients scurrying for cover and a number of pigeons fluttering off the hospital roof.

“In short,” said Dundridge as the echo died away across the Abbey Close, “she intends to impugn your reputation. Naturally the Minister has to take all these things into account, you do see that?”

But it was doubtful if Lord Leakham could see anything. He had slumped on to a bench and was staring lividly at his bedroom slippers.

“Naturally too,” continued Dundridge, pursuing his advantage, “there is a fairly widespread feeling that you might be biased against her in the matter of the Gorge.”

“Biased?” Lord Leakham snuffled. “The Gorge is the logical route.”

“On the grounds of the civil action she intends to take. Now if you were to decide on Ottertown…” Dundridge left the consequences hanging in the air.

“You think she might reconsider her decision?”

“I feel sure she would,” said Dundridge. “In fact I’m positive she would.”

Dundridge walked back to the Handyman Arms rather pleased with his performance. Desperation had lent him a fluency he had never known before. In the morning he would go and see Sir Giles about a thousand pounds. He had an early dinner and went up to his room, locked the door and examined the photographs again. Then he turned out the light and considered several things he hadn’t done to Miss Sally Boles but which on reflection he wished he had. Strangled the bitch for one thing.

At Handyman Hall Sir Giles and Lady Maud dined alone. Their conversation seldom sparkled and was usually limited to an exchange of acrimonious opinions but for once they were both in a good mood at the same time. Dundridge was the cause of their good humour.

“Such a sensible young man,” Lady Maud said helping herself to asparagus. “I’m sure that tunnel is the right answer.”

Sir Giles rather doubted it. “My bet is he’ll go for Ottertown,” he said.

Lady Maud said she hoped not. “It seems such a shame to turn those poor people out of their homes. I’m sure they would feel just as strongly as I do about the Hall.”

“They build them new houses,” said Sir Giles. “It’s not as if they turn them out into the street. Anyway, people who live on council estates deserve what they get. Sponging off public money.”

Lady Maud said some people couldn’t help being poor. They were just built that way like Blott. “Dear Blott,” she said. “You know he did such a strange thing this morning, he brought me a present, a little figure he had carved out of wood.”

But Sir Giles wasn’t listening. He was still thinking about people who lived in council houses. “What the man in the street doesn’t seem to be able to get into his thick head is that the world doesn’t owe him a living.”

“I thought it was rather sweet of him,” said Lady Maud.

Sir Giles helped himself to cheese souffle. “What people don’t understand is that we’re just animals,” he said. “The world is a bloody jungle. It’s dog eat dog in this life and no mistake.”

“Dog?” said Lady Maud, roused from her reverie by the word. “That reminds me. I suppose I’ll have to send all those Alsatians back now. Just when I was getting fond of them. You’re quite sure Mr Dundridge is going to advise Ottertown.”

“Positive,” said Sir Giles, “I’d stake my life on it.”

“Really,” said Lady Maud wistfully, “I don’t see how you can be so certain. Have you spoken to him?”

Sir Giles hesitated. “I have it on the best authority,” he said.

“Hoskins,” said Lady Maud, “that horrid man. I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw him. He’d say anything.”

“He also says that this fellow Dundridge has taken a fancy to you,” Sir Giles said. “It seems you had a considerable effect on him.”

Lady Maud considered the remark and found it intriguing. “I’m sure that can’t be true. Hoskins is making things up.”

“It might explain why he is in favour of the Ottertown route,” Sir Giles said. “You bowled him over with your charm.”

“Very funny,” said Lady Maud.

But afterwards as she washed up in the kitchen she found herself thinking about Dundridge, if not fondly, at least with a renewed interest. There was something rather appealing about the little man, a vulnerability that she found preferable to Sir Giles’ disgusting self-sufficiency… and Dundridge had taken a fancy to her. It was useful to know these things. She would have to cultivate him. She smiled to herself. If Sir Giles could have his little affairs in London, there was no reason why she shouldn’t avail herself of his absence for her own purposes. But above all there was an anonymity about Dundridge that appealed to her. “He’ll do,” she said to herself and dried her hands.

Next morning Dundridge went round to Sir Giles’ constituency office at eleven. “I’ve had a word with Lord Leakham and I think he’ll be amenable,” he said.

“Splendid, my dear fellow, splendid. Delighted to hear it. I knew you could do it. A great weight off my mind, I can tell you. Now then is there anything I can do for you?” Sir Giles leant back in his chair expansively. “After all, one good turn deserves another.”

Dundridge braced himself for the request. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said, and hesitated before going on.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Sir Giles coming to his rescue. “I don’t know if you’re a betting man but I am. I’ll bet you a thousand pounds to a penny that old Leakham says the motorway has to go through Ottertown. How about that? Couldn’t ask for anything fairer, eh?”

“A thousand pounds to a penny?” said Dundridge, hardly able to believe his ears.

“That’s right. A thousand pounds to a penny. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” said Dundridge.

“Good man. I thought you would,” said Sir Giles, “and just to show my good faith I’ll put the stake up now.” He reached down to a drawer in the desk and took out an envelope. “You can count it at your leisure.” He put the envelope on the desk. “No need for a receipt. Just don’t spend it until Leakham gives his decision.”

“Of course not,” said Dundridge. He put the envelope in his pocket.

“Nice meeting you,” said Sir Giles. Dundridge went out and down the stairs. He had accepted a bare-faced bribe. It was the first time in his life. Behind him Sir Giles switched off the tape recorder. It was just as well to have a receipt. Once the Enquiry was over he would burn the tape but in the meantime better safe than sorry.