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trees! Now—from Kyoto up on North Cliff—on a clear day you can see halfway across to 3 2
    R E G I N A L D H I L L
    Holland—& when Im working out ideas for the development scheme I dont need to sit at my drawing board—I just go into my garden & look down & there it all is at my feet—as it were!—
    —did you design Kyoto yourself?—I asked.
    —naturally!—marvelous
    feeling—not having anyone looking over your shoulder at the drawing board—do you follow? The opportunity afforded me by the consortium—of getting involved in planning & building on a large scale—was not the least of its attractions. Its going to be something new—I promise you—nothing piecemeal or accidental—every step carefully thought out—every detail pertinent & planned!—& a carbon footprint no bigger than a cats!—
    The quality of light ahead was now giving promise of the sea. Against the intense blue sky I could see the rather sinister silhouette of a large house—more than a house—a mansion—with enough towers & turrets to give the impression it had had youthful ambitions to grow into a castle!
    —Denham Park—said Tom.
    —where Lady Denham lives?—I guessed.
    —oh no. She lives at Sandytown
    Hall—he
    replied—which her first
    husband—Hollis—acquired—along with the Lordship of the Sandytown Hundreds—an ancient traditional
    rank—acquired by
    purchase—unlike her
    subsequent title—
    It sounded to me like shed got that by purchase too—& I think I detected a little twitch from Mary. Us psychologists are v sensitive to twitches!
    —the Denham property—Tom went on—& the baronetcy of course—went to her nephew- in- law—Edward—
    Here our conversation was interrupted—wed been driving with the sunroof
    open—to get the full benefit of the invigorating Sandytown air I presume—& suddenly—in an instant—the car filled with the most disgusting smell imaginable.
    Pig shit!—on a huge scale—it made our slurry lagoon seem like a rose bowl!
    Mary hit the button to close the sunroof—apologizing profusely.
    —the Hollis pig farm—she said—except calling it a farm is an insult to real farmers!—

    T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 3 3
    —now now my dear—said Tom
    mildly—its a natural smell—& nothing
    natural is harmful to man—
    —nothing natural about the way they keep those poor animals—said
    Mary.
    —intensive farming is the price we pay for not wanting to pay the price we would have to pay without it—said Tom—& its very rare that the wind is in a quarter which wafts the aroma into Sandytown—
    —indeed no!—said Mary—which is why Daphne Brereton spent most of her time at her first husbands house—even after shed married her second!—
    Yes—I know—mysterious!—but all will be explained later. Meanwhile we drove for a mile or more alongside a high wired fence through which I could see rows & rows of concrete buildings with all the charm of a concentration camp. Finally we reached the main entrance to the site—with a huge double gate—& a sign reading HOLLIS’S HAM—THE TASTE OF YORKSHIRE—except that someone had been at work with a spray can—& it now read—THE TASTE OF
    DEATH.
    There was a man up a ladder with a bucket & scrubbing brush. He paused in his work as we passed & gave a wave. Tom wound down the window & called—Morning Ollie! More trouble, eh?—but Mary didnt slow down enough to give the man time to reply—& Tom closed the window again but not before wed got another near fatal dose of the porky pong!
    A few minutes later Mary signaled to turn seaward as we approached a sign saying SANDYTOWN VIA NORTH CLIFF.
    Tom
    said—my
    dear—why dont you take us round by South
    Cliff—&
    through the town—so Charlotte can give us her reactions—fi rst impressions are so important—
    Obediently Mary switched off the signal & drove on.
    I didnt correct Tom about first impressions. Diplomatically I hadnt mentioned the famous excursion. Now I