Blott on the Landscape

Chapter 27

By next morning Blott was famous. The news of the attack came too late to be carried by the early editions but the later ones all bore his name in their headlines. The BBC broadcast news of the atrocity and its legal implications were discussed on the Today programme. At one o’clock there were further developments when it was announced that twelve Marine Commandos were helping the police in their enquiries. During the afternoon questions were asked in the House and the Home Secretary promised a full Enquiry. And all day reporters and cameramen swarmed into the Gorge to interview Blott and Lady Maud and to photograph the damage. It was clearly visible and extensive. Bullet holes pockmarked the entire arch, suggesting that the army’s fire had been quite extraordinarily wild. The heads of several figures in the frieze were missing and the PIATs had torn gaping holes in the wall. Even hardened correspondents used to the tactics adopted against the urban guerrillas in Belfast were astonished by the extent of the damage.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the BBC correspondent told his audience from the top of a ladder before interviewing Blott at the window. “This might be Vietnam or the Lebanon but this is a quiet corner of rural England. I can only say that I am horrified that this could happen. And now Mr Blott, could you tell us first what you know about this attack?”

Blott looked out of the window into the camera.

“It must have been about one o’clock in the morning. I was asleep and I heard a noise outside. I got up and went to the window and looked out. There appeared to be men climbing up the wall. Well I didn’t want that so I poured oil down the wall.”

“You poured oil down the wall to stop them?”

“Yes,” said Blott, “olive oil. They slipped down and then the firing began.”

“The firing?”

“It sounded like machine-gun fire,” said Blott, “so I ran into the kitchen and lay on the floor. Then a minute or two later there was an explosion and things flew around the room and a few seconds afterwards there came another explosion. After that there was nothing.”

“I see,” said the interviewer. “Now at any time during the attack did you fire back? I understand you have a shotgun.”

Blott shook his head. “It all happened too suddenly,” he said. “I was all shook up.”

“Quite understandably. It must have been a terrifying experience for you. Just one more question. Was the oil you poured down the wall hot?”

“Hot?” said Blott. “How could it be hot? I poured it out of the can. I hadn’t got time to heat it up.”

“Well thank you very much,” said the interviewer and climbed down the ladder. “I think we’ll cut that last remark out,” he told the sound man. “It made him sound as if he would have liked to have poured hot oil on them.”

“I can’t say I blame him after what he’s been through,” said the sound man. “The buggers deserve boiling oil.”

It was an opinion shared by the Chief Constable.

“What do you mean, a police support role?” he shouted at the Colonel from the Commando Base who came up to explain that he had been ordered by the Ministry of Defence to send a team of rock-climbers to assist the police. “There weren’t any of my men within miles of the place. You send your killers in armed with rockets and machine-guns and blow hell out of…”

“My men were without any weapons,” said the Colonel.

The Chief Constable looked at him incredulously. “Your men were without weapons? You can stand there and tell me to my face that your men were unarmed when I’ve seen what they did to that building. You’ll be telling me next that they had nothing to do with the incident.”

“That’s what they say,” said the Colonel. “They all swear blue they had left and were on their way back to their transport when the firing occurred.”

“I’m not bloody surprised,” said the Chief Constable. “If I had just bombarded somebody’s private house in the middle of the night I’d say I hadn’t been near the place. That doesn’t mean anyone with any sense is going to believe them.”

“They weren’t carrying weapons when you arrested them.”

“Probably ditched the damned things,” said the Chief Constable. “And in any case for all I know there were others who got away before my men arrived.”

“I can assure you -” the Colonel began.

“Damn your assurances!” shouted the Chief Constable. “I don’t want assurances. I’ve got the evidence of the attack itself and I have twelve men trained in the use of the weapons needed for that attack who admit that they attempted to force an entry into the Lodge last night. What more do I need? They’ll appear before a magistrate in the morning.”

The Colonel had to admit that the circumstantial evidence…

“Circumstantial evidence, my foot,” snarled the Chief Constable, “they’re as guilty as hell and you know it.”

“I still think you ought to look into the business of the civil servant who gave them their instructions,” said the Colonel despondently as he left. “I believe his name is Dundridge.”

“I have already attended to that,” the Chief Constable told him. “He is in London at the moment but I have sent two officers down to bring him back for questioning.”

But Dundridge had already spent five hours being questioned by Mr Rees and Mr Joynson and finally by the Minister himself.

“All I did was tell them to climb into the arch and hold Blott till the police could come and evict him legally,” he explained over and over again. “I didn’t know they were going to use guns and things.”

Neither Mr Rees nor the Minister was impressed.

“Let us just look at your record,” said the Minister as calmly as he could. “You were appointed Controller Motorways Midlands with specific instructions to insure that the construction of the M101 went through with the minimum of fuss and bother, that local opinion felt that local interests were being looked after and that the environment was being protected. Now can you honestly say that the terms of reference of your appointment have been fulfilled in any single particular?”

“Well…” said Dundridge.

“No you can’t,” snarled the Minister. “Since you went to Worford there have been a series of appalling disasters. A Rotarian has been beaten to a pulp in his own house by a demented demolition expert who claims he was incited…”

“I didn’t know Mr Bullett-Finch was a Rotarian,” said Dundridge desperately trying to divert the floodwaters of the Minister’s mounting fury.

“You didn’t know…” The Minister counted to ten and took a sip of water. “Next, an entire village has been wrecked…”

“Not an entire village,” said Dundridge. “It was only the High Street.”

The Minister stared at him maniacally. “Mr Dundridge,” he said finally, “you may be able to make these fine distinctions between Rotarians and human beings and entire villages which consist only of High Streets and the High Streets themselves but I am not prepared to. An entire village was wrecked, a pedestrian was incinerated and twenty persons injured, some of them seriously. And this village, mark you, was over a mile away from the route of the proposed motorway. A Member of Parliament has been devoured by lions…”

“That had absolutely nothing to do with me,” Dundridge protested. “I didn’t suggest he fill his ruddy garden with lions.”

“I wonder,” said the Minister, “I wonder. Still, I shall reserve judgment on that question until the full facts have been ascertained. And finally, at your instigation the army has been called in to evict an Italian gardener… No, don’t say it… an Italian gardener from his home by bombarding it with machine-guns and anti-tank weapons.”

“But I didn’t tell them -”

“Shut up,” roared the Minister. “You’re fired, you’re sacked…”

“You’re under arrest,” said the detective who was waiting outside Mr Rees’ office when Dundridge finally staggered out. Dundridge went down in the lift between two police officers.

Mr Rees sat down at his desk with a sigh.

“I told you that stupid bastard would hang himself,” he said with quiet satisfaction.

“What about the motorway?” asked Mr Hoskins.

“What about it?”

“Do you think we can continue with it?”

“God alone knows,” said Mr Rees, “but frankly I doubt it. You seem to forget there’s another bye-election due in South Worfordshire.”

It was not a point that had escaped Lady Maud’s attention. While the reporters and cameramen still swarmed about the Lodge, photographing it from all angles and interviewing Blott from the tops of ladders hired for the purpose, she had been applying her mind to the question of a successor to Sir Giles. A meeting of the Save the Gorge Committee was held at General Burnett’s house to discuss the next move.

“Stout fellow, Blott,” said the General, “for an Eyetie. Remarkable, standing up to a bombardment like that. They used to run like rabbits in the desert.”

“I think we all owe him a debt of gratitude for his sense of duty and self-sacrifice,” Colonel Chapman agreed. “Frankly I think this latest episode has put the kybosh on the motorway. They’ll never be able to carry on with it now. I hear there’s a proposal for a sit-in of conservationists, from all over the country outside the Lodge to see that there’s no repetition of this disgraceful action.”

“I must say I was most impressed by Mr Blott’s command of the English language on television the other night,” said Miss Percival. “He handled the interview quite wonderfully. I particularly liked what he had to say about English traditions.”

“That bit about an Englishman’s home being his castle. Couldn’t agree with him more,” the General said.

“I was thinking rather about what he said about England being the home of freedom and the need for Englishmen to stand up for their traditional values.”

Lady Maud looked at them all contemptuously. “I must say I think it is a poor show when we have to rely on Italians to look after our interests for us,” she said.

The General shifted in his seat. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” he murmured.

“I would,” said Lady Maud. “Without him we would have all lost our homes.”

“As it is Miss Percival’s lost hers already,” said Colonel Chapman.

“You can hardly blame Blott for that.”

Miss Percival took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “It was such a pretty cottage,” she sighed.

“The point I am trying to make,” Lady Maud continued, “is that I think the best way we can demonstrate our gratitude and support for Blott is by proposing him as the candidate for South Worfordshire in the forthcoming bye-election.”

The Committee stared at her in astonishment.

“An Italian standing for South Worfordshire?” said the General. “I hardly think…”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Lady Maud brusquely. “And Blott is not an Italian. He is a nationalized Englishman.”

“Surely you mean naturalized,” said Colonel Chapman. “Nationalized means state-controlled. I would have thought he was the exact opposite.”

“I stand corrected,” said Lady Maud magnanimously. “Then we are agreed that Blott should represent the party at the bye-election?”

She looked round the table. Miss Percival was the first to agree. “I second the proposal,” she murmured.

“Motion,” Lady Maud corrected her, “the motion. The proposal comes later. All those in favour.”

The General and Colonel Chapman raised their hands in surrender, and since the Save the Gorge Committee was the party in South Worfordshire Blott’s candidacy was ensured.

Lady Maud announced their decision to the press outside the Lodge. As the newsmen dispersed to their cars she climbed the ladder to the window in the Lodge.

“Blott,” she called through the broken panes, “I have something to tell you.”

Blott opened the window and leant out. “Yes,” he said.

“I want you to prepare yourself for a shock,” she told him. Blott looked at her uncertainly. He had been prepared for a shock for some time. The British army didn’t use 303 ammunition nowadays and PIATs had been scrapped years ago. It was a point he had overlooked at the time.

“I have decided that you are to succeed Sir Giles,” said Lady Maud gazing into his face.

Blott gaped at her. “Succeed Sir Giles? Gott in Himmel,” he muttered.

“I very much doubt it,” said Lady Maud.

“You mean…”

“Yes,” said Lady Maud, “from now on you will be the master of Handyman Hall. You can come out now.”

“But…” Blott began.

“If you’ll hand me the machine-gun and whatever else it was you used I’ll take them down with me and we’ll bury them in the pinetum.”

As they walked back up the drive with the PIAT and the Bren gun, Blott’s mind was in a state of confusion. “How did you know?” he asked.

“How did I know? I telephoned you of course as soon as I heard the firing,” said Lady Maud with a smile. “I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking.”

“Meine Liebling,” said Blott and took what he could of her in his arms.

At Worford magistrates court Dundridge was charged with being party to a conspiracy to commit a breach of the peace, attempted murder, malicious damage to property, and obstruction of the police in the course of their duty.

It was the last charge that particularly infuriated him.

“Obstruction?” he shouted at the bench. “Obstruction? Who’s talking about obstruction?”

“Remanded in custody for a week,” said Colonel Chapman. Dundridge was still shouting abuse as he was dragged out to the Black Maria. In the cells he was interviewed by Mr Ganglion, who had been appointed by the court to conduct his defence.

“I should plead guilty to all charges,” he advised him.

“Guilty? I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s all a pack of lies!” Dundridge shouted.

“I understand how you feel,” Mr Ganglion said, “but I understand the police are considering additional charges.”

“Additional charges? But they’ve charged me with everything under the sun already.”

“There’s just that little business of blackmail to be attended to. Now I know you wouldn’t want those photographs to be produced in court. You could get life for that, you know.”

Dundridge stared at him despairingly. “For blackmail?” he asked. “But I was the one being blackmailed.”

“For what you were doing in those photographs.”

Dundridge considered the prospect and shook his head. Life for something that had been done to him. He had been blackmailed, obstructed, shot at and here he was being charged with these offences. If there was any conspiracy it was directed against him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled. “Just stick to ‘Guilty’,” Mr Ganglion advised. “It will save a lot of time and the court will appreciate it.”

“Time?” said Dundridge. “How long do you think I’ll get?”

“Difficult to say really. Seven or eight years I should imagine, but you’ll probably be out in five.”

He gathered up his papers and left the cell. As he walked back to his chambers he smiled to himself. It was always nice to combine business with pleasure. He found Lady Maud and Blott waiting for him to discuss the marriage settlement.

“My fiancé has decided to change his name,” Lady Maud announced. “From now on he wants to be known as Handyman. I want you to make the necessary arrangements.”

“I see,” said Mr Ganglion. “Well there shouldn’t be any difficulties. And what Christian name would he like?”

“I think we’ll just stick to Blott. I’m used to it and all the men in the family have been Bs.”

“True,” said Mr Ganglion, with the private thought that some of the women had been too. “And when is the happy day?”

“We are going to wait until after the election. I wouldn’t want it to be thought that I was trying to influence the outcome.”

Mr Ganglion went out to lunch with Mr Turnbull.

“Amazing woman, Maud Lynchwood,” he said as they walked across to the Handyman Arms. “I wouldn’t put anything past her. Marrying her damned gardener and putting him up for Parliament.”

They went into the bar.

“What’ll you have?” said Mr Turnbull.

“I feel like a large whisky,” said Mr Ganglion. “I know it’s prohibitively expensive but I need it.”

“Haven’t you heard, sir?” said the barman. “There’s fivepence off a tot of whisky and tuppence off a pint of beer. Lady Maud’s instructions. Seems she can afford to be generous now.”

“Good Lord,” said Mr Turnbull, “you don’t think it has anything to do with this election, do you?”

But Mr Ganglion wasn’t listening. He was thinking how little things had changed since he was a boy. What was it his father had said? Something about Mr Gladstone being swept out of office on a tide of ale. And that was in ’74.