Blott on the Landscape

Chapter 5

The Enquiry was held in the Old Courthouse in Worford. Everyone was there – everyone, that is, whose property stood on the proposed route through the Cleene Gorge. General Burnett, Mr and Mrs Bullett-Finch, Colonel and Mrs Chapman, Miss Percival, Mrs Thomas, the Dickinsons, all seven of them, and the Fullbrooks who rented a farm from the General. There were also a few other influential families who were quite unaffected by the motorway but who came to support Lady Maud. She sat in front with Sir Giles and Mr Turnbull and behind them the seats were all filled. Blott stood at the back. On the other side of the aisle the seats were empty except for a solicitor representing the Ottertown Town Council. It was quite clear that nobody seriously supposed that Lord Leakham would decide in favour of Ottertown. The thing was a foregone conclusion – or would have been but for the intervention of Lady Maud and the intransigence of Lord Leakham, whose previous career as a judge had been confined to criminal cases in the High Court. The choice of venue was unfortunate, too. The Old Courthouse resembled too closely the courtrooms of Lord Leakham’s youth for the old man to deal at all moderately with Lady Maud’s frequent interruption of the evidence.

“Madam, you are trying the court’s patience,” he told her when she rose to her feet for the tenth time to protest that the scheme as outlined by Mr Hoskins for the Planning Board was an invasion of individual liberty and the rights of property. Lady Maud bristled in tweeds.

“My family has held land in the Cleene Gorge since 1472,” she shouted. “It was entrusted to us by Edward the Fourth who designated the Handyman family custodians of the Gorge -”

“Whatever His Majesty Edward the Fourth may have done,” said Lord Leakham, “in 1472 has no relevance to the evidence being presented by Mr Hoskins. Be so good as to sit down.”

Lady Maud sat down. “Why don’t you two men do something?” she demanded loudly. Sir Giles and Mr Turnbull shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“You may continue, Mr Hoskins,” said the judge.

Mr Hoskins turned to a large relief model of the county which stood on a table. “As you can see from this model South Worfordshire is a particularly beautiful county,” he began.

“Any fool with eyes in his head can see that,” Lady Maud commented loudly. “It doesn’t require a damnfool model.”

“Continue, Mr Hoskins, continue,” Lord Leakham said with a restraint that suggested he had in mind giving Lady Maud rope to hang herself with.

“Bearing this in mind the Ministry has attempted to preserve the natural amenities of the area to the greatest possible extent -”

“My foot,” said Lady Maud.

“We have here,” Mr Hoskins went on, pointing to a ridge of hills that ran north and south of the Gorge, “the Cleene Forest, an area of designated natural beauty noted for its wildlife…”

“Why is it,” Lady Maud enquired of Mr Turnbull, “that the only species that doesn’t seem to be protected is the human?”

By the time the Enquiry adjourned for lunch Mr Hoskins had presented the case for the Ministry. As they went downstairs Mr Turnbull had to admit that he was not optimistic.

“The snag as I see it lies in those seventy-five council houses in Ottertown. If it weren’t for them I think we would stand a good chance, but quite frankly I can’t see the Enquiry deciding in favour of demolishing them. The cost would be enormous and in any case there is the additional ten miles to be taken into account. Frankly, I am not hopeful.”

It was market day in Worford and the town was full. Outside the courtroom two TV cameras had been set up.

“I have no intention of being evicted from my home,” Lady Maud told the interviewer from the BBC. “My family have lived in the Cleene Gorge for five hundred years and…”

Mr Turnbull turned away sadly. It was no good. Lady Maud might say what she liked, it would make no difference. The motorway would still come through the Gorge. In any case Lady Maud had made a bad impression on Lord Leakham. He waited for her to finish and then they made their way through the market stalls to the Handyman Arms.

“I wonder where Giles has got to,” she said as they entered the hotel.

“I think he’s gone over to the Four Feathers with Lord Leakham,” Mr Turnbull told her. “He said something about putting him in a more mellow mood.”

Lady Maud looked at him furiously. “Did he indeed? Well, I’ll see about that,” she snapped and leaving Mr Turnbull in the foyer she went into the manager’s office and phoned the Four Feathers. When she came out there was a new glint of malice in her eye.

They went into the dining-room and sat down.

At the Four Feathers Sir Giles ordered two large whiskies in the lounge before sending for the menu.

Lord Leakham took his whisky doubtfully.

“I really shouldn’t at this time of the day,” he said. “Peptic ulcer you know. Still, it’s been a tiring morning. Who was that ghastly woman in the front row who kept interrupting?”

“I think I’ll have prawns to start with,” said Sir Giles hurriedly.

“Reminded me of the assizes in Newbury in ’28,” Lord Leakham continued. “Had a lot of trouble with a woman there. Kept getting up in the dock and shouting. Now what was her name?” He scratched his head with a mottled hand.

“Lady Maud is rather outspoken,” Sir Giles agreed. “She has something of a reputation in this part of the world.”

“I can well believe it,” said the Judge.

“She’s a Handyman, you know.”

“Really?” said Lord Leakham indifferently. “I should have thought she could have afforded to employ one.”

“The Handyman family have always been very influential,” Sir Giles explained. “They own the brewery and a number of licensed premises. This is a Handyman House, as a matter of fact.”

“Elsie Watson,” said Lord Leakham abruptly. “That’s the name.” Sir Giles looked doubtful.

“Poisoned her husband. Kept shouting abuse from the dock. Didn’t make the slightest difference. Hanged her just the same.” He smiled at the recollection. Sir Giles studied the menu wistfully and tried to think what to recommend for someone with a peptic ulcer. Oxtail a la Handyman or consommé? On the other hand, he was delighted at the way things had gone at the Enquiry. Maud’s display had clinched the matter. Finally he ordered Tournedos Handyman for himself, and Lord Leakham ordered fish.

“Fish is off,” said the head waiter.

“Off?” said Sir Giles irritably.

“Not on, sir,” the man explained.

“What on earth is Bal de Boeuf Handyman?” asked the judge.

“Faggot.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Meatball.”

“And Brandade de Handyman?” Lord Leakham enquired.

“Cod balls.”

“Cod? That sounds all right. Yes I think I’ll have that.”

“Cod’s off,” said the waiter.

Lord Leakham looked desperately at the menu. “Is anything on?”

“I can recommend the Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth,” said Sir Giles.

“Very appropriate,” said Lord Leakham grimly. “Oh well I suppose I’d better have it.”

“And a bottle of Chambertin,” Sir Giles said indistinctly. He wasn’t very happy with his French.

“Extraordinary way to run an hotel,” said Lord Leakham. Sir Giles ordered two more whiskies to hide his irritation.

In the kitchen the chef took their order. “You can forget the chicken,” he said. “He can have Lancashire hotpot or faggots à la me.”

“But it’s Lord Leakham and he ordered chicken,” the waiter protested. “Can’t you do something?”

The chef took a bottle of chilli powder off the shelf. “I’ll fix something,” he said.

The wine waiter meanwhile was having difficulty finding a Chambertin. In the end he took the oldest bottle he could find. “Are you sure you want me to serve him this?” he asked the manager, holding up a bottle filled with a purple cloudy fluid that looked like a post-mortem specimen.

“That’s what her ladyship instructed,” said the manager. “Just change the label.”

“It seems a bloody peculiar thing to do.”

The manager sighed. “Don’t blame me,” he muttered. “If she wants to poison the old bugger that’s her affair. I’m just paid to do what she tells me. What is it anyway?”

The wine waiter wiped the bottle. “It says it’s crusted port,” he said doubtfully.

“Crusted’s about the word,” said the manager and went back to the kitchen, where the chef was crumbling some leftover faggots on to half a fried chicken. “For God’s sake don’t let anyone else have a taste of that stuff,” he told the chef.

“Serve him right for poking his nose into our affairs,” said the chef, and poured sauce from the Lancashire hotpot on to the dish. The manager went upstairs and signalled to the head waiter. Sir Giles and Lord Leakham finished their whiskies and went through into the dining-room.

At the Handyman Arms Lady Maud finished her lunch and ordered coffee. “One can place too much reliance on the law,” she said. “My family didn’t get where they did by appealing to the courts.”

“My dear Lady Maud,” said Mr Turnbull, “I implore you not to do anything foolish. The situation is already fraught with difficulty and quite frankly your interruptions this morning didn’t help. I’m afraid Lord Leakham may have been prejudiced against us.”

Lady Maud snorted. “If he isn’t he soon will be,” she said. “You don’t seriously suppose that I intend to accept his judgment? The man is a buffoon.”

“He is also a retired judge of considerable reputation,” said Mr Turnbull doubtfully.

“His reputation is only just beginning,” Lady Maud replied. “It has been perfectly obvious from the beginning that he was going to decide to recommend that the motorway be put through the Gorge. The Ottertown route is not an alternative. It’s a red herring. Well, I for one am not going to put up with that.”

“I don’t really see what you can do.”

“That, Henry Turnbull, is because you are a lawyer and hold the law in high regard. I don’t. And since the law is an ass I intend to see that everyone is aware of the fact.”

“I wish I could see some way out of the situation,” said Mr Turnbull sadly.

Lady Maud stood up. “You will, Henry, you will,” she said. “There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream.” And leaving Mr Turnbull to meditate on the implications of this remark she stalked out of the dining-room.

At the Four Feathers Lord Leakham would have understood at once, though given the choice he would have chosen cream every time. The prawn cocktail which he had not ordered but which had been thrust on him by the head waiter appeared to have been marinated in tabasco, but it was as nothing to the Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth. His first mouthful left him speechless and with the absolute conviction that he had swallowed some appalling corrosive substance like caustic soda.

“That chicken looks good,” said Sir Giles as the judge struggled to get his breath. “It’s a speciality of the maison, you know.”

Lord Leakham didn’t know. With starting eyes he reached for his glass of wine and took a large swig. For a moment he cherished the illusion that the wine would help. His hope was short-lived. His palate, in spite of being cauterized by the Poule au Pot, was still sufficiently sensitive to recognize that whatever it was he was in the process of swallowing it most certainly wasn’t Chambertin ’64. For one thing it appeared to be filled with some sort of gravel which put him in mind of ground glass and for another what he could taste of the muck seemed to be nauseatingly sweet. Stifling the impulse to vomit he held the glass up to the light and stared into its opaque depths.

“Anything the matter?” asked Sir Giles.

“What did you say this was?” asked the Judge.

Sir Giles looked at the label on the bottle. “Chambertin ’64.” he muttered. “Is it corked or something?”

“It’s certainly something,” said Lord Leakham who wished the stuff had never been bottled, let alone corked.

“I’ll get another bottle,” said Sir Giles and signalled to the wine waiter.

“Not on my account I beg you.”

But it was too late. As the wine waiter hurried away Lord Leakham, distracted by the strange residue under his upper dentures, absent-mindedly took another mouthful of Poule au Pot.

“I thought it looked a bit dark myself,” said Sir Giles ignoring the desperate look in Lord Leakham’s bloodshot eyes. “Mind you I have to admit I’m not a connoisseur of wines.”

Still gasping for air, Lord Leakham pushed his plate away. For a moment he resisted the temptation to quench the flames with crusted port but the certain knowledge that unless he did something he would never speak again swept aside all considerations of taste. Lord Leakham drained his glass.

In the public bar of the Handyman Arms Lady Maud announced that drinks were on the house. Then she crossed the Market Square to the Goat and Goblet and repeated the order before making her way to the Red Cow. Behind her the bars filled with thirsty farmers and by two o’clock all Worford was drinking Lady Maud’s health and damnation to the motorway. Outside the Old Courthouse she stopped to chat with the TV men. A crowd had assembled and Lady Maud was cheered as she went inside.

“I must say we do seem to have the public on our side,” said General Burnett as they went upstairs. “Mind you I thought things looked pretty grim this morning.”

Lady Maud smiled to herself. “I think you will find they liven up this afternoon,” she said and swept majestically into the courtroom where Colonel and Mrs Chapman were chatting with the Bullett-Finches.

“Leakham has a fine record as a judge,” Colonel Chapman was saying. “I think we can rely on him to see our point of view.”

By the time he had finished his lunch Lord Leakham was incapable of seeing anyone’s point of view but his own. What prawns tabasco and Poule au Pot had begun, the Chambertin ’64 and its successor, a refined vinegar that Sir Giles chose to imagine was a Chablis, had completed. That and the Pêche Maud with which Lord Leakham had attempted to soothe the spasms of his peptic ulcer. The tinned peaches had been all right but the ice cream had been larded with a mixture of cloves and nutmeg, and as for the coffee…

As he hobbled down the steps of the Four Feathers in the vain hope of finding his car waiting for him – it had been moved on by a traffic warden – as he limped up Ferret Lane and across Abbey Close accompanied by his loathsome host, Lord Leakham’s internal organs sounded the death knell of what little restraint he had shown before lunch. By the time he reached the Old Courthouse to be booed by a large crowd of farmers and their wives he was less a retired judge than an active incendiary device.

“Have those damned oafs moved on,” he snarled at Sir Giles. “I will not be subject to hooliganism.”

Sir Giles phoned the police station and asked them to send some men over to the Courthouse. As he took his seat beside Lady Maud it was clear that things were not proceeding as he had expected. Lord Leakham’s complexion was horribly mottled and his hand shook as he rapped the gavel on the bench.

“The hearing will resume,” he said huskily. “Silence in court.” The courtroom was crowded and the Judge had to use his gavel a second time before the talking stopped. “Next witness.”

Lady Maud rose to her feet. “I wish to make a statement,” she said. Lord Leakham looked at her reluctantly. Lady Maud was not a sight for sore stomachs. She was large and her manner suggested something indigestible.

“We are here to take evidence,” said the Judge, “not to listen to statements of opinion.”

Mr Turnbull stood up. “My lord,” he said deferentially, “my client’s opinion is evidence before this Enquiry.”

“Opinion is not evidence,” said Lord Leakham. “Your client whoever she may be…”

“Lady Maud Lynchwood of Handyman Hall, my lord,” Mr Turnbull informed him.

“… is entitled to hold what opinions she may choose,” Lord Leakham continued, staring at the author of Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth with undisguised loathing, “but she may not express them in this court and expect them to be accepted as evidence. You should know the rules of evidence, sir.”

Mr Turnbull adjusted his glasses defiantly. “The rules of evidence do not, with due deference to your lordship’s opinion, apply in the present circumstances. My client is not under oath and -”

“Silence in court,” snarled the Judge, addressing himself to a drunken farmer from Guildstead Carbonell who was discussing swine fever with his neighbour. With a pathetic look at Lady Maud Mr Turnbull sat down.

“Next witness,” said Lord Leakham.

Lady Maud stood her ground. “I wish to protest,” she said with a ring of authority that brought a hush to the courtroom. “This Enquiry is a travesty…”

“Silence in court,” shouted the Judge.

“I will not be silenced,” Lady Maud shouted back. “This is not a courtroom -”

“It most certainly is,” snarled the Judge.

Lady Maud hesitated. The courtroom was obviously a courtroom. There was no denying the fact.

“What I meant to say…” she began.

“Silence in court,” screamed Lord Leakham whose peptic ulcer was in the throes of a new crisis.

Lady Maud echoed the Judge’s private thoughts. “You are not fit to conduct this Enquiry,” she shouted, and was supported by several members of the public. “You are a senile old fool. I have a right to be heard.”

In his chair Lord Leakham’s mottled head turned a plum colour and his hand reached for the gavel. “I hold you in contempt of court,” he shouted banging the gavel. Lady Maud lurched towards him menacingly. “Officer, arrest this woman.”

“My lord,” Mr Turnbull said, “I beg you to…” but it was too late. As Lady Maud advanced two constables, evidently acting on the assumption that an ex-judge of the High Court knew his law better than they did, seized her arms. It was a terrible mistake. Even Sir Giles could see that. Beside him Mr Turnbull was shouting that this was an unlawful act, and behind him pandemonium had broken out as members of the public rose in their seats and surged forward. As his wife was frog-marched, still shouting abuse, from the courtroom, as Lord Leakham bellowed in vain for the court to be cleared, as fighting broke out and windows were broken, Sir Giles sat slumped in his seat and contemplated the ruin of his plans.

Downstairs the TV cameramen, alerted by the shouts and the fragments of broken glass raining on their heads from the windows above, aimed their cameras on the courtroom door as Lady Maud emerged dishevelled and suddenly surprisingly demure between two large policemen. Somewhere between the courtroom and the cameras her twinset had been quite obscenely disarranged, a shoe had been discarded, her skirt was torn suggestively and she appeared to have lost two front teeth. With a brave attempt at a smile she collapsed on the pavement, and was filmed being dragged across the market square to the police station. “Help,” she screamed as the crowd parted. “Please help.” And help was forthcoming. A small dark figure hurtled out of the Courthouse and on to the larger of the two policemen. Inspired by Blott’s example several stallholders threw themselves into the fray. Hidden by the crowd from the cameras Lady Maud reasserted her authority. “Blott,” she said sternly, “let go of the constable’s ears.” Blott dropped to the ground and the stallholders fell back obediently. “Constables, do your duty,” said Lady Maud and led the way to the police station.

Behind her the crowd turned its attention to Lord Leakham’s Rolls-Royce. Apples and tomatoes rained on the Old Courthouse. To roars of approval from the onlookers Blott attempted single-handed to turn the car over and was immediately joined by several dozen farmers. When Lord Leakham, escorted by a posse of policemen, emerged from the Courthouse it was to find his Rolls on its side. It took several baton charges to clear a way through the crowd and all the time the cameras recorded faithfully the public response to the proposed motorway through the Cleene Gorge. In Ferret Lane shop windows were broken. Outside the Goat and Goblet Lord Leakham was drenched with a pail of cold water. In the Abbey Close he was concussed by a portion of broken tombstone, and when he finally reached the Four Feathers the Fire Brigade had to be called to use their hoses to disperse the crowd that besieged the hotel. By that time the Rolls-Royce was on fire and groups of drunken youths roamed the streets demonstrating their loyalty to the Handyman family by smashing street lamps.

In her cell in the police station Lady Maud removed her dentures from her pocket and smiled at the sounds of revelry. If the price of justice was eternal publicity she was assured of a fair trial. She had done what she had set out to do.