Read Online Blott On The Landscape by Tom Sharpe - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Sharpe
Tags: Humor
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calls from conservationists from all over the country, all supporting our stand. It’s bloody infuriating. Why can’t they mind their own confounded business?”
Hoskins lit his pipe moodily. “That’s not all,” he said, “they’re sending some bigwig up from the Ministry to take charge of the negotiations.”
“That’s all we need, some damned bureaucrat to come poking his nose into our affairs.”
“Quite,” said Hoskins, “so from now on no more phone calls to me here. I can’t afford to be connected with you.”
“Do you think he’s going to choose the Ottertown route?”
Hoskins shrugged. “I’ve no idea. All I do know is that if I were in his shoes I’m damned if I’d recommend the Gorge.”
“Let me know what the blighter suggests,” said Sir Giles and went out to his car.
Chapter 7
To Dundridge, travelling up the M1, the underlying complexities of the situation in South Worfordshire were quite unknown. For the first time in his life he was armed with authority and he intended to put it to good use. He would make a name for himself. The years of frustration were over. He would return to London with his reputation for swift, decisive action firmly established.
At Warwick he stopped for lunch, and while he ate he studied the file on the motorway. There was a map of the district, the outline of the alternative routes, and a list of those people through whose property the motorway would run and the sums they would receive as compensation. Dundridge concentrated his attention on the latter. A single glance was enough to explain the urgency of his appointment and the difficulty of his mission. The list read like a roll-call of the upper class in the county. Sir Giles Lynchwood, General Burnett, Colonel Chapman, Mr Bullett-Finch, Miss Percival. Dundridge peered uncomfortably at the names and incredulously at the sums they were being offered. A quarter of a million pounds for Sir Giles. One hundred and fifty thousand to General Burnett. One hundred and twenty thousand to Colonel Chapman. Even Miss Percival whose occupation was listed as schoolteacher was offered fifty-five thousand. Dundridge compared these sums with his own income and felt a surge of envy. There was no justice in the world and Dundridge (whose socialism was embodied in the maxim “To each according to his abilities, from each according to his needs,” the “his” in both cases referring to Dundridge himself) found his thoughts wandering in the direction of money. It had been Dundridge’s mother who had instilled in him the saying “Don’t marry money, go where money is” and since this had been easier said than done, Dundridge’s sex life had been largely confined to his imagination. There, safe from the disagreeable complexities of real life, he had indulged his various passions. In his imagination Dundridge was rich, Dundridge was powerful and Dundridge was the possessor of an entourage of immaculate women – or to be precise of one woman, a composite creature made up of bits and pieces of real women who had once partially attracted him but without any of their concomitant disadvantages. Now for the first time he was going where money was. It was an alluring prospect. He finished his lunch and drove on.
And as he drove he became increasingly aware that the countryside had changed. He had left the motorway and was on a minor road that twisted and turned. The hedgerows grew taller and more rank. Hills rose up and fell away into empty valleys and woods took on a rougher, less domesticated air. Even the houses had lost the comfortable homogeneous look of the North London suburbs. They were either large and isolated, standing in their own grounds, or stone-built farmhouses surrounded by dark corrugated iron sheds and barns. Every now and again he passed through villages, strange conglomerations of cottages and shops, buildings that loomed mis-shapenly over the road or retreated behind hedges with an eccentricity of
Hoskins lit his pipe moodily. “That’s not all,” he said, “they’re sending some bigwig up from the Ministry to take charge of the negotiations.”
“That’s all we need, some damned bureaucrat to come poking his nose into our affairs.”
“Quite,” said Hoskins, “so from now on no more phone calls to me here. I can’t afford to be connected with you.”
“Do you think he’s going to choose the Ottertown route?”
Hoskins shrugged. “I’ve no idea. All I do know is that if I were in his shoes I’m damned if I’d recommend the Gorge.”
“Let me know what the blighter suggests,” said Sir Giles and went out to his car.
Chapter 7
To Dundridge, travelling up the M1, the underlying complexities of the situation in South Worfordshire were quite unknown. For the first time in his life he was armed with authority and he intended to put it to good use. He would make a name for himself. The years of frustration were over. He would return to London with his reputation for swift, decisive action firmly established.
At Warwick he stopped for lunch, and while he ate he studied the file on the motorway. There was a map of the district, the outline of the alternative routes, and a list of those people through whose property the motorway would run and the sums they would receive as compensation. Dundridge concentrated his attention on the latter. A single glance was enough to explain the urgency of his appointment and the difficulty of his mission. The list read like a roll-call of the upper class in the county. Sir Giles Lynchwood, General Burnett, Colonel Chapman, Mr Bullett-Finch, Miss Percival. Dundridge peered uncomfortably at the names and incredulously at the sums they were being offered. A quarter of a million pounds for Sir Giles. One hundred and fifty thousand to General Burnett. One hundred and twenty thousand to Colonel Chapman. Even Miss Percival whose occupation was listed as schoolteacher was offered fifty-five thousand. Dundridge compared these sums with his own income and felt a surge of envy. There was no justice in the world and Dundridge (whose socialism was embodied in the maxim “To each according to his abilities, from each according to his needs,” the “his” in both cases referring to Dundridge himself) found his thoughts wandering in the direction of money. It had been Dundridge’s mother who had instilled in him the saying “Don’t marry money, go where money is” and since this had been easier said than done, Dundridge’s sex life had been largely confined to his imagination. There, safe from the disagreeable complexities of real life, he had indulged his various passions. In his imagination Dundridge was rich, Dundridge was powerful and Dundridge was the possessor of an entourage of immaculate women – or to be precise of one woman, a composite creature made up of bits and pieces of real women who had once partially attracted him but without any of their concomitant disadvantages. Now for the first time he was going where money was. It was an alluring prospect. He finished his lunch and drove on.
And as he drove he became increasingly aware that the countryside had changed. He had left the motorway and was on a minor road that twisted and turned. The hedgerows grew taller and more rank. Hills rose up and fell away into empty valleys and woods took on a rougher, less domesticated air. Even the houses had lost the comfortable homogeneous look of the North London suburbs. They were either large and isolated, standing in their own grounds, or stone-built farmhouses surrounded by dark corrugated iron sheds and barns. Every now and again he passed through villages, strange conglomerations of cottages and shops, buildings that loomed mis-shapenly over the road or retreated behind hedges with an eccentricity of
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