Blott on the Landscape

Chapter 21

And Operation Overland continued. Day after day the silence of the Gorge was broken by the rumbling of bulldozers and the dull thump of explosions as the cliffs were blasted and the rocks cleared. Day after day the contractors complained to Hoskins that the way to build a motorway was to start at the beginning and go on to the end, or at least to stick to some sort of predetermined schedule and not go jumping all over the place digging up a field here and rooting out a wood there, starting a bridge and then abandoning construction to begin a flyover. And day after day Hoskins took their complaints and some of his own to Dundridge, and was overruled.

“The essential feature of Operation Overland lies in the random nature of our movements,” Dundridge explained. “The enemy never knows where we are going to be next.”

“Nor do I, come to that,” said Hoskins bitterly. “I had a job finding this place this morning. You might have warned me you were going to move it before I went home last night.”

Dundridge looked round the Mobile Headquarters. “That’s odd,” he said, “I thought you had it moved.”

“Me? Why should I do that?”

“I don’t know. To be nearer the front line I suppose.”

“Nearer the front line?” said Hoskins. “All I want is to be back in my bloody office, not traipsing round the countryside in a fucking caravan.”

“Well anyway, whoever had it moved had a good idea,” said Dundridge. “We are nearer the scene of action.”

Hoskins looked out of the window as a giant dumper rumbled past.

“Nearer?” he shouted above the din. “We’re bloody well in it if you ask me.” As if to confirm his words there was a deafening roar and two hundred yards away a portion of cliff collapsed. As the dust settled Dundridge surveyed the scene with satisfaction. This was nature as man, and in particular Dundridge, intended. Nature conquered, nature subdued, nature disciplined. This was progress, slow progress but inexorable. Behind them cuttings and embankments, concrete and steel, ahead the Gorge and Handyman Hall.

“By the way,” said Hoskins when he could hear himself speak, “we’ve had a complaint from General Burnett. He says one of our trucks damaged his garden wall.”

“So what?” said Dundridge. “He won’t have a garden or a wall in two months’ time. What’s he complaining about?”

“And Mr Bullett-Finch phoned to say -”

But Dundridge wasn’t interested. “File all complaints,” he said dismissively, “I haven’t got time for details.”

In London Sir Giles didn’t share his opinion. He was obsessed with details, particularly those concerned with the sale of his shares and what Lady Maud was going to do with those damned photographs.

“I lost half a million on those shares,” he yelled at Blodger. “Half a bleeding million.”

Blodger commiserated. “I said at the time I thought you were being a little hasty,” he said.

“You thought? You didn’t think at all,” Sir Giles screamed. “If you’d thought you would have known that wasn’t me on the phone.”

“But it sounded like you. And you asked me to call you back at your flat.”

“I did nothing of the sort. You don’t seriously imagine I would sell four thousand President Rand when the market was at rock bottom. I’m not fucking insane you know.”

Blodger looked at him appraisingly. The thought had crossed his mind. It was Schaeffer who brought the altercation to an end.

“If you must swear,” he said, “I can only suggest that you would do so more profitably before a Commissioner of Oaths.”

“And what would I want with a Commissioner of Fucking Oaths?”

“A sworn statement that the signatures on the share transfer certificates were forgeries,” said Schaeffer coldly.

Sir Giles picked up his hat. “Don’t think this is the end of the fucking matter,” he snarled. “You’ll be hearing from me again.” Schaeffer opened the door for him. “I can only hope fucking not,” he said.

But if his stockbrokers were not sympathetic, Mrs Forthby was.

“It’s all my fault,” she wailed squinting at him through the two black eyes he had given her for her pains. “If only I hadn’t gone out for those fish fingers this would never have happened.”

“Fish fucking…” he began and pulled himself up. He had to keep a grip on his sanity and Mrs Forthby’s self-denunciations didn’t help. “Never mind about that. I’ve got to think what to do. That bloody wife of mine isn’t going to get away with this if I can help it.”

“Well, if all she wants is a divorce…”

“A divorce? A divorce? If you think that’s all she wants…” He stopped again. Mrs Forthby mustn’t hear anything about those photographs. Nobody must hear about them. The moment that information got out he would be a ruined man and he had just three weeks to do something about them. He went back to his flat and sat there trying to think of some way of stopping the motorway. There wasn’t much he could do in London. His request to discuss the matter with the Minister of the Environment had been turned down, his demand for a further Enquiry denied. And his private source in the Ministry had been adamant that it was too late to do anything now.

“The thing is under construction already. Barring accidents nothing can stop it.”

Sir Giles put down the phone and thought about accidents, nasty accidents, like Maud falling downstairs and breaking her neck or having a fatal car crash. It didn’t seem very likely somehow. Finally he thought about Dundridge. If Maud had something on him, he had something on the Controller Motorways Midlands. He telephoned Hoskins at the Regional Planning Board.

“He’s out at SHMOCON,” said the girl on the switchboard.

“Shmocon?” said Sir Giles desperately trying to think of a village by that name in South Worfordshire.

“Supreme Headquarters Motorway Construction,” said the girl. “He’s Deputy Field Commander.”

“What?” said Sir Giles. “What the hell’s going on up there?”

“Don’t ask me,” said the girl, “I’m only a field telegraphist. Shall I put you through?”

“Yes,” said Sir Giles. “It sounds batty to me.”

“It is,” said the girl. “It’s a wonder I don’t have to use morse code.”

Certainly Hoskins sounded peculiar when Sir Giles finally got through to him. “Deputy Field -” he began but Sir Giles interrupted.

“Don’t give me that crap, Hoskins,” he shouted. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Some sort of war game?”

“Yes,” said Hoskins looking nervously out of the window. There was a deafening roar as a charge of dynamite went off.

“What the hell was that?” yelled Sir Giles.

“Just a near miss,” said Hoskins as small fragments of rock rattled on the roof of the caravan.

“You can cut the wisecracks,” said Sir Giles, “I didn’t call you to talk nonsense. There’s been a change of plan. The motorway has got to be stopped. I’ve decided…”

“Stopped?” Hoskins interrupted him. “You haven’t a celluloid rat’s hope in hell of stopping this little lot now. We’re advancing into the Gorge at the rate of a hundred yards a day.”

“Into the Gorge?”

“You heard me,” said Hoskins.

“Good God,” said Sir Giles. “What the hell’s been going on? Has Dundridge gone off his head or something?”

“You could put it like that,” said Hoskins hesitantly. The Controller Motorways Midlands had just come into the caravan covered in dust and was taking off his helmet.

“Well, stop him,” shouted Sir Giles.

“I’m afraid that is impossible, sir,” said Hoskins modulating his tone to indicate that he was no longer alone. “I will make a note of your complaint, and forward it to the appropriate authorities.”

“You’ll do more than that,” bawled Sir Giles, “you’ll use those photographs. You will -”

“I understand the police deal with these matters, sir,” said Hoskins. “As far as we are concerned I can only suggest that you use an incinerator.”

“An incinerator? What the hell do I want with an incinerator?”

“I have found that the best method is to burn that sort of rubbish. The answer is in the negative.”

“In the negative?”

“Quite, sir,” said Hoskins. “I have found that it avoids the health risk to incinerate inflammable material. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have someone with me.” Hoskins rang off and Sir Giles sat back and deciphered his message.

“Incinerators. Police. Negative. Health risks.” These were the words Hoskins had emphasized and it dawned on Sir Giles that all hope of influencing Dundridge had gone up in flames. He was particularly alarmed by the mention of the police. “Good God, that little bastard Dundridge has been to the cops,” he muttered, and suddenly recalled that his safe at Handyman Hall contained evidence that hadn’t been incinerated. Maud was sitting on a safe containing photographs that could send him to prison. “Inflammable material. That bitch can get me five years,” he thought. “I’d like to incinerate her.” Incinerate her? Sir Giles stared into space. He had suddenly seen a way out of all his problems.

He picked up a pencil and detailed the advantages. Number One, he would destroy the evidence of his attempt to blackmail Dundridge. Number Two, he would get rid of those photographs Blott had taken of him in Mrs Forthby’s flat. Number Three, by acting before Maud could divorce him he would still be the owner of the ashes of Handyman Hall and liable for the insurance money and possibly the compensation from the motorway. Number Four, if Maud were to die… Number Four was a particularly attractive prospect and just the sort of accident he had been hoping for.

He picked up the sheet of paper and carried it across to the fireplace and lit a match. As the paper flared up Sir Giles watched it with immense satisfaction. There was nothing like a good fire for cleansing the past. All he needed now was a perfect alibi.

At Handyman Hall Lady Maud surveyed her handiwork with equal satisfaction. The fence had been finished in ten days, the lions, giraffes, and the rhinoceros had been installed and the ostriches were accommodated in the old tennis court. It was really very pleasant to wander round the house and watch the lions padding across the park or lying under the trees.

“It gives one a certain sense of security,” she told Blott, whose movements had been restricted to the kitchen garden and who complained that the rhinoceros was mucking up the lawn.

“It may give you a sense of security,” said Blott, “but the postman has other ideas. He won’t come further than the Lodge and the milkman won’t either.”

“What nonsense,” said Lady Maud. “The way to deal with lions is to put a bold front on and look them squarely in the eyes.”

“That’s as maybe,” said Blott, “but that rhino needs spectacles.”

“The thing with rhinos,” said Lady Maud, “is to move at right angles to their line of approach.”

“That didn’t work with the butcher’s van. You’ve no idea what it did to his back mudguard.”

“I have a very precise idea. Sixty pounds worth of damage but it didn’t charge the van.”

“No,” said Blott, “it just leant up against it and scratched its backside.”

“Well at least the giraffes are behaving themselves,” said Lady Maud.

“What’s left of them,” said Blott.

“What do you mean ‘What’s left of them’?”

“Well, there’s only two left.”

“Two? But there were four. Where have the other two got to?”

“You had better ask the lions about that,” Blott told her. “I have an idea they rather like giraffes for dinner.”

“In that case we had better order another hundredweight of meat from the butchers. We can’t have them eating one another.”

She strode off across the lawn imperiously, stopping to prod the rhinoceros with her shooting stick. “I won’t have you in the rockery,” she told it. Outside the kitchen door a lion was snoozing in the sun. “Be off with you, you lazy beast.” The lion got up and slunk away.

Blott watched with admiration and then shut the door of the kitchen garden. “What a woman,” he murmured and went back to the tomatoes. He was interrupted five minutes later by a dull thump from the Gorge. Blott looked up. They were getting nearer. It was about time he did something about that business. So far his efforts had been confined to moving Dundridge’s mobile headquarters about the countryside at night and altering the position of the pegs that marked the route so that had the motorway proceeded as the contractors desired it would have been several degrees off course. Unfortunately Dundridge’s insistence on random construction had defeated Blott’s efforts. His only success had been the felling of all the trees in Colonel Chapman’s orchard which was a quarter of a mile away from the supposed route of the motorway. Blott was rather proud of that. The Colonel had raised Cain with the authorities and had been promised additional compensation. A few more miscalculations like that and there would be a public outcry. Blott applied his mind to the problem.

That night Blott visited the Royal George at Guildstead Carbonell for the first time in several weeks.

Mrs Wynn greeted him enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, “I thought you’d given me up for good.”

Blott said he had been busy. “Busy?” said Mrs Wynn. “You’re one to talk. I’ve been rushed off my feet with all the men from the motorway. They come in here at lunch and they’re back at night. I tell you, I can’t remember anything like it.”

Blott looked round the bar and could see what she meant. The pub was filled with construction workers. He helped himself to a pint of Handyman Brown and went to a table in the corner. An hour later he was deep in conversation with the driver of a bulldozer.

“Must be interesting work knocking things down,” said Blott.

“The pay’s good,” said the driver.

“I imagine you’ve got to be a real expert to demolish a big building like Handyman Hall.”

“I don’t know. The bigger they is the harder they falls is what I say,” said the driver, flattered by Blott’s interest.

“Let me get you another pint,” said Blott.

Three pints later the driver was explaining the niceties of demolition to a fascinated Blott.

“It’s a question of hitting the corner stone,” he said. “Find that, swing the ball back and let it go and Bob’s your uncle, the whole house is down like a pack of cards. I tell you I’ve done that more times than you’ve had hot dinners.”

Blott said he could well believe it. By closing time he knew a great deal about demolition work and the driver said he looked forward to meeting him again. Blott helped Mrs Wynn with washing the glasses and then did his duty by her but his heart wasn’t in it. Mrs Wynn noticed it.

“You’re not your usual self tonight,” she said when they had finished. Blott grunted. “Mind you I can’t say I’m any great shakes myself. My legs are killing me. What I need is a holiday.”

“Why don’t you take a day off?” said Blott.

“How can I? Who would look after the customers?”

“I would,” said Blott.

At five he was up and cycling down the main street of Guildstead Carbonell towards Handyman Hall. At seven he had fed the lions and when Lady Maud came down to breakfast Blott was waiting for her.

“I’m taking the day off,” he announced.

“You’re what?” said Lady Maud. Blott didn’t take days off.

“Taking the day off. And I’ll need the Land-Rover.”

“What for?” said Lady Maud who wasn’t used to being told by her gardener that he needed her Land-Rover.

“Never you mind,” said Blott. “No names, no pack drill.”

“No names, no pack drill? Are you feeling all right?”

“And a note for Mr Wilkes at the Brewery to say he’s to give me Very Special Brew.”

Lady Maud sat down at the kitchen table and looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t like the sound of this, Blott. You’re up to something.”

“And I don’t like the sound of that,” said Blott as a dull thump came from the Gorge. Lady Maud nodded. She didn’t like the sound of it either.

“Has it got anything to do with that?” she asked. Blott nodded. “In that case you can have what you want but I don’t want you getting into any trouble on my account, you understand.”

She went through to the study and wrote a note to Mr Wilkes, the manager of the Handyman Brewery in Worford, telling him to give Blott whatever he asked for.

At ten Blott was in the manager’s office.

“Very Special?” said Mr Wilkes. “But Very Special is for special occasions. Coronations and suchlike.”

“This is a special occasion,” said Blott.

Mr Wilkes looked at the letter again. “If Lady Maud says so, I suppose I must, but it’s strictly against the law to sell Very Special. It’s twenty per cent proof.”

“And ten bottles of vodka,” said Blott. They went down to the cellar and loaded the Land-Rover.

“Forget you’ve seen me,” Blott said when they had finished.

“I’ll do my best,” said the manager, “this is all bloody irregular.”

Blott drove to the Royal George and saw Mrs Wynn on to the bus. Then he went back into the pub and set to work. By lunchtime he had emptied one barrel of Handyman Bitter down the drain and had refilled it with bottles of Very Special and five bottles of vodka. He tried it out on a couple of customers and was delighted with the result. During the afternoon he had a nap and then took a stroll through the village and up past the Bullett-Finches’ house. It was a large house in mock Tudor set back from the road and with a very fine garden. Outside the gates a sign announced that Finch Grove was For Sale. The Bullett-Finches didn’t fancy living within a hundred yards of a motorway. Blott didn’t blame them. Then he walked back through the village and looked at Miss Percival’s cottage. That wasn’t for sale. It was due for demolition and Miss Percival had already vacated it. A large crane with a steel ball on the end of its arm stood nearby. Blott climbed into the driver’s seat and played with the controls. Then he walked back to the pub and sat behind the bar, waiting for opening time.