Blott On The Landscape Read Free Page A

have been in March 1936. Let’s see, she died in June of that year so it must have been in March. Insisted on my inserting the fact that her son. Busby, was of partially royal parentage. I did point out that in that case he was not entitled to inherit but she was adamant. ‘Royal Blood,’ she kept saying. In the end I got her to sign several copies of the will but it was only in the top one that any mention was made of the royal bastardy.”
    “Good Lord,” said Mr Turnbull, “do you think there was anything in it?”
    Mr Ganglion looked over the top of his glasses at him. “Between ourselves, I must admit it was not outside the bounds of possibility. The dates did match. Busby was born in 1905 and the Royal visit took place in ‘04. Edward the Seventh had quite a reputation for that sort of thing.”
    “It certainly goes some way to explain Lady Maud’s looks,” Mr Turnbull admitted. “And her arrogance, come to that.”
    “These things are best forgotten,” said Mr Ganglion sadly. “What did she want to see you about?”
    “She’s seeking a divorce. I dissuaded her, at least temporarily. Seems that Lynchwood has a taste for flagellation.”
    “Extraordinary what some fellows like,” said Mr Ganglion. “It’s not as though he went to a public school either. Most peculiar. Still, I should have thought Maud could have satisfied him if anyone could. She’s got a forearm like a navvy.”
    “I got the impression that she had rather overdone it,” Mr Turnbull explained.
    “Splendid. Splendid.”
    “The main trouble seems to be non-consummation. She wants an heir before it’s too late.”
    “The perennial obsession of these old families. What did you advise? Artificial insemination?”
    Mr Turnbull finished his drink. “Certainly not,” he muttered. “Apparently she’s still a virgin.”
    Mr Ganglion sniggered. “There was an old virgin of forty. Whose habits were fearfully naughty. She owned a giraffe whose terrible laugh … or was it distaff? I forget now.”
    They went into lunch.
    Blott finished his lunch in the greenhouse at the end of the kitchen garden. Around him early geraniums and chrysanthemums, pink and red, matched the colour of his complexion. This was the inner sanctum of Blott’s world where he could sit surrounded by flowers whose beauty was proof to him that life was not entirely without meaning. Through the glass windows he could look down the kitchen garden at the lettuces, the peas and beans, the redcurrant bushes and the gooseberries of which he was so proud. And all around the old brick walls cut out the world he mistrusted. Blott emptied his thermos flask and stood up. Above his head he could see the telephone wires stretching from the house. He went outside and fetched a ladder and presently was busily engaged in attaching his wires to the line above. He was still there when Sir Giles left in the Bentley. Blott watched him pass without interest. He disliked Sir Giles intensely and it was one of the advantages of working in the kitchen garden that they seldom came into contact. He finished his work and fitted the headphones and bell. Then he went into the house. He found Lady Maud washing up in the kitchen.
    “It’s ready,” he said, “we can test it.”
    Lady Maud dried her hands. “What do I do?”
    “When the bell rings put the headphones on,” Blott explained.
    “You go into the study and ring a number and I’ll listen,” said Lady Maud. Blott went into the study and sat behind the desk. He picked up the phone and tried to think of someone to call. There wasn’t anyone he knew to call. Finally his eye fell on a number written in pencil on the pad in front of him. Beside it there were some doodles and a drawing of a cat. Blott dialled the number. It was rather a long one and began with 01 and he had to wait some time for an answer.
    “Hullo, Felicia Forthby speaking,” said a woman’s voice.
    Blott tried to think of something to say. “This is Blott,” he