Blott On The Landscape (13 page)

“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.

Lord Leakham’s announcement that he was recommending the Ottertown route provoked mixed reactions. In Worford there was open rejoicing and the Handyman pubs dispensed free beer. In Ottertown the Member of Parliament, Francis Puckerington, was inundated with telephone calls and protest letters and suffered a relapse as a result. In London the Prime Minister, relieved that there hadn’t been another riot in Worford, congratulated the Minister of the Environment on the adroit way his department had handled the matter, and the Minister congratulated Mr Rees on his choice of a trouble-shooter. No one in the Ministry shared his enthusiasm.

“That bloody idiot Dundridge has dropped us in it this time,” said Mr Joynson. “I knew it was a mistake to send him up there. The Ottertown route is going to cost an extra ten million.”

“In for a penny in for a pound,” said Rees. “At least we’ve got rid of him.”

“Got rid of him? He’ll be back tomorrow crowing about his success as a negotiator.”

“He won’t you know,” Rees told him. “He got us into this mess, he can damned well get us out. The Minister has approved his appointment as Controller Motorways Midlands.”

“Controller Motorways Midlands? I didn’t know there was such a post.”

“There wasn’t. It’s been specially created for him. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that Dundridge has found favour with one or two influential people in South Worfordshire. Wheels within wheels,” said Mr Rees.

In Worford Dundridge greeted the news of his appointment with consternation. He had spent an anxious weekend confined to his room at the Handyman Arms partly because he was afraid of missing the telephone call from Miss Boles and partly because he had no intention of leaving the money he had received from Sir Giles in his suitcase or of carrying it around on his person. But there had been no phone call. To add to his troubles, there was the knowledge that he had accepted a bribe. He tried to persuade himself that he had merely taken a bet on, but it was no use.

“I could get three years for this,” he said to himself, and seriously considered handing the money back. He was deterred by the photographs. He couldn’t imagine how many years he could get for doing what they suggested he had done.

By the time the Enquiry re-opened on Monday, Dundridge’s nerves were frayed to breaking point. He had taken his seat inconspicuously at the back of the courtroom and had hardly listened to the evidence. The presence of a large number of policemen, brought in to ensure that there was no further outbreak of violence, had done nothing to reassure him. Dundridge had misconstrued their role and had finally left the courtroom before Lord Leakham announced his decision. He was standing in the hall downstairs when a burst of cheering indicated that the Enquiry was over.

Sir Giles and Lady Maud were the first to congratulate him. They issued from the courtroom and down the stairs followed by General Burnett and Mr and Mrs Bullett-Finch.

“Spendid news,” said Sir Giles. Lady Maud seized Dundridge’s hand.

“I feel we owe you a great debt of gratitude,” she said staring into his face significantly.

“It was nothing,” murmured Dundridge modestly.

“Nonsense,” said Lady Maud, “you have made me very happy. You must come and see us before you leave.”

Sir Giles had winked prodigiously – Dundridge had come to loathe that wink – and had whispered something about a bet being a bet and Hoskins had insisted on their going to have a drink together to celebrate. Dundridge couldn’t see anything to celebrate about.

“You’ve got friends at court,” Hoskins explained.

“Friends at court?” said Dundridge. “What on earth do you mean?”

“A little bird has told me that someone has put in a good word for you. You wait and see.”

Dundridge had waited in the hope (though that was hardly the right word) that Miss Boles would call but instead of a demand for a thousand pounds he had received a letter of appointment. “Controller Motorways Midlands with responsibility for co-ordinating … Good God!” he muttered. He made a number of frantic phone calls to the Ministry threatening to resign unless he was brought back to London, but the enthusiasm with which Mr Rees endorsed his decision was enough to make him retract it.

Even Hoskins, who might have been expected to resent Dundridge’s appointment as his superior, seemed relieved. “What did I tell you, old boy,” he said when Dundridge told him the news. “Friends at court. Friends at court.”

“But I don’t know anything about motorway construction. I’m an administrator not an engineer.”

“All you have to do is see that the contractors keep to schedule,” Hoskins explained. “Nothing to it. You leave all the rest of it to me. Basically yours is a public-relations role.”

“But I’m responsible for co-ordinating construction work. It says so here,” Dundridge protested, waving his letter of appointment, “‘and in particular problems relating to environmental factors and human ecology’. I suppose that means dealing with the tenants of those council houses in Ottertown.”

“That sort of thing,” said Hoskins. “I shouldn’t worry about that too much. Cross your bridges when you come to them is my motto.”

“Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to get used to the idea.”

“I’ll fix you up an office here. You’d better set about finding somewhere to live.”

Dundridge had spent two days looking at flats in Worford before settling on an apartment overlooking Worford Castle. It wasn’t a prospect he found particularly pleasing, but the flat had the merit of being comparatively modern and was certainly better than some of the squalid rooms he had looked at elsewhere. And besides it had a telephone and was partly furnished. Dundridge placed particular emphasis upon the telephone. He didn’t want Miss Boles to get the false idea that he wasn’t prepared to pay a thousand pounds for the photographs and negatives. But as the days passed and there was still no demand from her he began to relax. Perhaps the whole thing had been some sort of filthy practical joke. He even asked Hoskins if he knew anything about the girl at the party but Hoskins said he couldn’t remember much about the evening and hadn’t known half the people who were there.

“My mind’s a blank on the whole evening, old chap,” he said. “Had a good time, though. I do remember that. Why? Are you thinking of looking her up again?”

“Just wondered who she was,” said Dundridge and went back to his office to draw up plans for the opening ceremony to mark the start of the construction of the motorway. It was going to be a grand affair, he had decided.

So had Lady Maud, though the affair she had in mind was of quite a different sort. She waited until Sir Giles said he was going to spend a fortnight in London before inviting Dundridge to dinner. She sent a formal invitation.

Dundridge hired a dinner-jacket and expected to find a number of other guests. He was extremely nervous and had fortified himself in advance with two stiff gins. In the event he need not have bothered. He arrived to find Lady Maud dressed, if not to kill, at least to seriously endanger anyone who came near her.

“I’m so glad you could come,” she said taking his arm almost as soon as he had entered the front door. “I’m afraid my husband has had to go to London on business. I hope you don’t mind having to put up with me.”

“Not at all,” said Dundridge, conscious once again of that weakness in his legs that Lady Maud’s presence seemed to induce in him. They went into the drawing-room and Lady Maud mixed drinks. “I did think of inviting General Burnett and the Bullett-Finches but the General does tend to monopolize the conversation and Ivy Bullett-Finch is a bit of a wet blanket.”

Dundridge sipped his drink and wondered what the hell she had put into it. It looked innocuous, but clearly wasn’t. Lady Maud’s dress, on the other hand, practised no such deception. A thing of silk designed to emphasize the curvature of the female form, it had evidently been created with someone more lissom in mind. It bulged where it should have hung and wheezed when it should have rustled. Above all it was so clearly breathtaking in its constriction that Dundridge found himself almost panting in empathy. Besides Lady Maud’s voice had undergone a strange alteration. It was curiously husky.

“How do you like your new flat?” she asked, sitting down beside him with a squeak of pre-stressed silk.

“Flat?” said Dundridge momentarily unable to make the transition between adjective and noun. “Oh, flat. Yes. Very pleasant.”

“You must let me come up and see it some time,” said Lady Maud. “Unless you feel I might be compromising you.” She sighed, and her great bosom heaved like an approaching breaker.

“Compromising?” said Dundridge, who couldn’t imagine that he was likely to be compromised by being alone in his flat with her any more than he was already by those beastly photographs. “I’d be delighted to have you.”

Lady Maud tittered coyly. “I’m afraid you’re going to miss the excitement of life in London,” she murmured. “We must do what we can to see that you don’t get bored.”

It seemed a remote prospect to Dundridge. He sat rigid on the sofa and tried to keep his eyes averted from the incomprehensible fascinations of her body.

“Let me get you another drink,” she breathed softly, and once again he was conscious of a feeling of being overcome. It was partly the drink, partly the waft of perfume, but it was mostly the strength of her self-assurance that held him fascinated. In spite of her size, in spite of her assertiveness, in spite of everything about her that conflicted with his idea of a beautiful woman, Lady Maud was wholly confident. And Dundridge, who wasn’t (or at best only partially and whose completeness, depending on achievement and money, lay in the future) was intoxicated by her presence. If the past could confer such assurance there was more to be said for it than Dundridge had previously admitted. Dundridge sipped his drink and smiled at her. Lady Maud smiled back.

By the time they went in to dinner, Dundridge was incongruously gay. He opened the door for her; he held her arm; he pulled back her chair and nudged it forward against her thighs meaningfully; he opened the champagne with a nonchalance that suggested he seldom drank anything else and laughed debonairly as the cork tinkled among the glass lustres of the chandelier. And through the meal, oysters followed by cold duck, Dundridge no longer cared what the world might think of him. Lady Maud’s appreciative smile, half yawn and half abyss, beckoned him on to be himself. And Dundridge was. For the first time in his life he lived up to his own expectations, up to and far beyond. The champagne cork flew a second time into the upper reaches of the room, the duck disappeared to be followed by strawberries and cream, and Dundridge lost the last vestiges of inhibition or even the apprehension that there was anything at all unusual about dining alone with a married woman whose husband was away on business. All such considerations vanished in the bubble of his gaiety and in the light of Lady Maud’s approval. Under the table her knee confirmed the implications of her smile; on top her hand lay heavily on his and traced the contours of his fingers; and when, their coffee finished, she took his arm and suggested that they dance Dundridge heard himself say he would be delighted to. Arm-in-arm they went down the passage to the ballroom with the sprung floor. Only then, with the chandeliers lighting the great room brilliantly and a record on the turntable, did he realize what he had let himself in for. Dundridge had never danced in his life.