Blott On The Landscape

To Geoff Millard

Sir Giles Lynchwood, Member of Parliament for South Worfordshire, sat in his study and lit a cigar. Outside his window tulips and primroses bloomed, a thrush pecked at the lawn and the sun shone down out of a cloudless sky. In the distance he could see the cliffs of the Cleene Gorge rising above the river.

But Sir Giles had no thoughts for the beauties of the landscape. His mind was occupied with other things; with money and Mrs Forthby and the disparity between things as they were and things as they might have been. Not that the view from his window was one of uninterrupted beauty. It held Lady Maud, and whatever else she might be, nobody in his right mind would ever have described her as beautiful. She was large and ponderous and possessed a shape that someone had once aptly called Rodinesque – certainly Sir Giles, viewing her as dispassionately as six years of marriage allowed, found her monumentally unattractive. Sir Giles was not particularly fussy about external appearances. His fortune had been made by recognizing potential advantage in unprepossessing properties and he could justly claim to have evicted more impecunious tenants than any other anonymous landlord in London. Maud’s appearance was the least of his marital problems. It was rather the cast of her mind, her outspoken self-assurance, that infuriated him. That, and the fact that for once in his life he was lumbered with a wife he could not leave and a house he could not sell.

Maud was a Handyman and Handyman Hall had always been her family home. A vast rambling building with twenty bedrooms, a ballroom with a sprung floor, a plumbing system that held fascinations for industrial archaeologists but which kept Sir Giles awake at night, and a central heating system that had been designed to consume coke by the ton, and now seemed to gulp oil by the megagallon, Handyman Hall had been built in 1899 to make manifest in bricks, mortar and the more hideous furnishings of the period the fact that the Handyman family had arrived. Theirs had been a brief social season. Edward the Seventh had twice paid visits to the house, on each occasion seducing Mrs Handyman in the mistaken belief that she was a chambermaid (a result of the diffidence which left her speechless in the presence of Royalty). In recompense for this royal gaffe, and for services rendered, her husband Bulstrode was raised to the Peerage. From that brief moment of social acceptance the Handymans had sunk to their present obscurity. Borne to prominence on a tide of ale – Handyman Pale, Handyman Triple
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, and Handyman West Country had been famous in their time – they had succumbed to a taste for brandy. The first Earl of Handyman had died, a suspicious husband and an understandably ardent republican, in time to achieve posthumous fame as the first cadaver to incur Lloyd George’s exorbitant death duties. He had been followed almost immediately by his eldest son Bartholomew, whose reaction to the taxman’s summons had been to drink himself to death on two bottles of his father’s Trois Six de Montpellier.

The outbreak of the First World War had completed the decline in the family fortunes. Boothroyd, the second son, had returned from France with his taste buds so irreparably impaired by taking a swig from a bottle of battery acid to steady his nerves before going over the top that his efforts to restore Handyman Ale to its pre-war quality and popularity had quite the contrary effect. For the first time the title “Brewers Extraordinary to his Majesty the King” accurately reflected the character of the beer dispensed by the Handyman Brewery. During the twenties and thirties sales dropped until they were confined to a dozen tied houses in Worfordshire whose patrons were forced to consume Boothroyd’s appalling concoctions out of a sense of loyalty to the family and by the refusal of the local magistrates (Boothroyd among them) to grant licences to sell spirituous liquors to anyone else. By that time the Handymans had been reduced to living in one wing of the great house and had celebrated the outbreak of the Second World War by offering the rest of their home to the War Office. Boothroyd had died on Home Guard duty to be succeeded by his brother Busby, Maud’s father, and the Hall had served first as a home for General de Gaulle’s chief of staff and the entire Free French Army of that time and later as an Italian prisoner-of-war camp. The fourth Earl had done what he could to restore Handyman Ale to its previous popularity by reverting to the original recipe, and to restore the family fortune by using his influence to see that the War Office paid a quite disproportionately high rent for a building they didn’t want.

It had been that influence, the Handyman influence, which had persuaded Sir Giles that he could do worse than marry Lady Maud and through her acquire a seat in Parliament. Looking back over the years Sir Giles was inclined to think that he had paid too high a price for the Hall and social acceptance. A marriage of convenience he had called it at the time, but the term had proved singularly inappropriate. Nothing about Maud’s appearance had suggested an unduly fastidious attitude to sex and Sir Giles had been surprised, not to say pained, by her too literal interpretation of his suggestion on their honeymoon that she should tie him to the bed and beat him. Sir Giles’ screams had been audible a quarter of a mile along the Costa Brava and had led to an embarrassing interview with the hotel manager. Sir Giles had stood all the way home and ever since had sought refuge in a separate bedroom and in Mrs Forthby, in whose flat in St John’s Wood he could at least be assured of moderation. To make matters worse there was no possibility of a divorce. Their marriage settlement included a reversionary clause whereby the Hall and the Estate, for which he had had to pay one hundred thousand pounds to Maud, would revert to her in the event of his death without heirs or of misconduct on his part leading to a divorce case. Sir Giles was a rich man but one hundred thousand pounds was too high a price to pay for freedom.

He sighed and glanced out of the window. Lady Maud had disappeared but the scene was no pleasanter for her going. Her place had been taken by Blott, the gardener, who was plodding across the lawn towards the kitchen garden. Sir Giles studied the squat figure with distaste. For a gardener, for an Italian gardener and an ex PoW, Blott had an air of contentment that grated on Sir Giles’ nerves. He liked his servants to be obsequious and there was nothing obsequious about Blott. The wretched fellow seemed to think he owned the place. Sir Giles watched him disappear through the door in the wall of the kitchen garden and considered ways and means of getting rid of Blott, Lady Maud and Handyman Hall. He had just had an idea.

So had Lady Maud. As she lumbered about the garden, uprooting here a dandelion and there a chickweed, her mind was occupied with thoughts of maternity.

“It’s now or never,” she murmured as she squashed a slug. Between her legs she could see Sir Giles in his study and wondered once again why it was that she should have married a man with so little sense of duty. In her view there was no higher virtue. It was out of duty to her family that she had married him. Left to herself she would have chosen a younger, more attractive man, but young attractive men with fortunes were in short supply in Worfordshire and Maud too plain to seek them out in London.

“Coming out?” she had shouted at her mother when Lady Handyman had suggested she should be presented at court. “Coming out? But I’ve already been.”

And it was true. Lady Maud’s moment of beauty had been premature. At fifteen she had been lovely. At twenty-one the Handyman features, the prominent nose in particular, had made themselves and her plain. At thirty-five she was a Handyman all over and only acceptable to someone with Sir Giles’ depraved taste and eye for hidden advantage. She had accepted his proposal without illusions, only to discover too late that his long bachelorhood had left him with a set of habits and fantasies which made it impossible for him to fulfil his part of the bargain. Whatever else Sir Giles was cut out for it was not paternity. After the unfortunate experience of their honeymoon, Maud had attempted a reconciliation, but without result. She had resorted to drink, to spicy foods, to oysters and champagne, to hard-boiled eggs, but Sir Giles had remained obdurately impotent. Now on this bright spring day when everything about her was breaking out or sprouting or proclaiming the joys of parenthood from every corner of the estate. Lady Maud felt distinctly wanton. She would make one more effort to make Sir Giles see reason. Straightening her back she marched across the lawn to the house and went down the passage.

“Giles,” she said entering the study without knocking, “it’s time we had this thing out.”

Sir Giles looked up from his Times. “What thing?” he asked in some alarm.

“You know very well what I’m talking about. There’s no need to beat about the bush.”

Sir Giles folded the paper. “Bush, dear?” he said doubtfully.

“Don’t prevaricate,” said Lady Maud.

“I’m not prevaricating,” Sir Giles protested, “I simply don’t know what you are talking about.”

Lady Maud put her hands on the desk and leant forward menacingly. “Sex,” she snarled.

Sir Giles curdled in his chair. “Oh that,” he murmured. “What about it?”

“I’m not getting any younger.”

Sir Giles nodded sympathetically. It was one of the few things he was grateful for.

“In another year or two it will be too late.”

Thank God, thought Sir Giles, but the words remained unspoken. Instead he selected a Ramon Allones from his cigar-box. It was an unfortunate move. Lady Maud leant forward and twitched it from his fingers.

“Now you listen to me, Giles Lynchwood,” she said, “I didn’t marry you to be left a childless widow.”

“Widow?” said Sir Giles flinching.

“The operative word is childless. Whether you live or die is of no great moment to me. What is important is that I have an heir. When I married you it was on the clear understanding that you would be a father to my children. We have been married six years now. It is time for you to do your duty.”

Sir Giles crossed his legs defiantly. “We’ve been through all this before,” he muttered.

“We have never been through it at all. That is precisely what I am complaining about. You have steadfastly refused to act like a normal husband. You have -“

“We all have our little problems, dear,” Sir Giles said.

“Quite,” said Lady Maud, “so we do. Unfortunately my problem is rather more pressing than yours. I am over forty and as I have already pointed out, in a year or two I will be past the childbearing age. My family has lived in the Gorge for five hundred years and I do not intend to go to my grave with the knowledge that I am the last of the Handymans.”

“I don’t really see how you can avoid that whatever happens,” said Sir Giles. “After all, in the unlikely event of our having any children, their name would be Lynchwood.”

“I have always intended,” said Lady Maud, “changing the name by deed poll.”

“Have you indeed? Well then let me inform you that there will be no need,” said Sir Giles. “There will be no children by our marriage and that’s final.”

“In that case,” said Lady Maud, “I shall take steps to get a divorce. You will be hearing from my solicitors.”

She left the room and slammed the door. Behind her Sir Giles sat in his chair shaken but content. The years of his misery were over. He would get his divorce and keep the Hall. He had nothing more to worry about. He reached for another cigar and lit it. Upstairs he could hear his wife’s heavy movements in her bedroom. She was no doubt going out to see Mr Turnbull of Ganglion, Turnbull and Shrine, the family solicitors in Worford. Sir Giles unfolded The Times and read the letter about the cuckoo once again.

Mr Turnbull of Ganglion, Turnbull and Shrine was sympathetic but unhelpful. “If you initiate proceedings on grounds as evidently insubstantial as those you have so vividly outlined,” he told Lady Maud, “the reversionary clause becomes null and void. You might well end up losing the Hall and the Estate.”

“Do you mean to sit there and tell me that I cannot divorce my husband without losing my family home?” Lady Maud demanded.

Mr Turnbull nodded. “Sir Giles has only to deny your allegations,” he explained, “and frankly I can hardly see a man in his position admitting them. I’m afraid the Court would find for him. The difficulty about this sort of case is that you can’t produce convincing proof.”

“I should have thought my virginity was proof enough,” Lady Maud told him bluntly. Mr Turnbull suppressed a shudder. The notion of Lady Maud presenting her maidenhead as Exhibit A was not one that appealed to him.

“I think we should need something a little more orthodox than that. After all, Sir Giles could claim that you had refused him his conjugal rights. It would simply be his word against yours. Of course, you could still get your divorce, but the Hall would remain legally his.”

“There must be something I can do,” Lady Maud protested. Looking at her, Mr Turnbull rather doubted it but he was tactful enough not to say so.

“And you say you have attempted a reconciliation?”

“I have told Giles that he must do his duty by me.”