“I thought you had gone,” he said as he unlocked the car. “I looked all over for you.”
“Got kicked out,” she said, tossing her heavy, clinking bag in the boot on top of his clubs. “Some flunky in a bow tie suggested we wait by the servants’ entrance.”
“Oh dear, I’m sure he wasn’t trying to be offensive,” said the Major, who was sure of no such thing. “I’m so sorry you felt …” He searched for the right word; “excluded” and “unwelcome” were too accurate to provide the comfortable vagueness he sought. “… bad.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t have space in my head to put up with harmless old gits trying to make me feel bad,” said Amina, folding her arms. “I’ve learned to tell the difference between the people who can really hurt you and those who just want to look down their noses.”
“If they’re harmless, why confront them?” asked the Major, thinking again of the seething tea lady on the seafront.
“Because they’re bullies, and I’m teaching George not to put up with bullies—right, George?” she said.
“Bullies have no brains,” repeated George from the backseat. The scribble of pencil against paper indicated that he was still drawing.
“They expect you to slink away or tip your cap or something,” said Amina. “When you spit back at them, they get all flustered. Bet you’ve never tried it, have you?”
“No, I suppose I was raised to believe in politeness above all,” said the Major.
“You ought to try it sometime,” she said. “It can be really funny.” There was a weary tone to her voice that made the Major doubt she found it as amusing as she claimed. They drove in silence for a while and then she shifted in her seat to look at him. “You’re not going to ask me about George, are you?” she asked in a low voice.
“None of my business, young lady.” He tried to keep any judgment out of his tone.
“Women always ask,” she said. “My aunt Noreen is having migraine attacks from all the scandalized ladies dropping by to ask her about me.”
“Nasty things, migraines,” said the Major.
“Men never ask, but you can see they’ve made up a whole story about me and George in their heads.” She turned away and placed her fingers where the rain ran sideways along the glass of her window. The Major’s first impulse was to claim he had never given it a thought, but she was very observant. He wondered what truthful comment he could make.
“I’m not going to answer for men, or women, in general,” he said after a moment. “But in my own case, I believe there is a great deal too much mutual confession going on today, as if sharing one’s problems somehow makes them go away. All it really does, of course, is increase the number of people who have to worry about a particular issue.” He paused while he negotiated a particularly tricky, right-hand turn across the busy road and into the shortcut of a narrow back lane. “Personally, I have never sought to burden other people with my life history and I have no intention of meddling in theirs,” he added.
“But you’re making judgments about people all the time—and if you don’t know the whole story …”
“My dear young woman, we are complete strangers, are we not?” he said. “Of course we will make shallow and quite possibly erroneous judgments about each other. I’m sure, for example, that you already have me pegged as an old git too, do you not?” She said nothing and he thought he detected a guilty smirk.
“But we have no right to demand more of each other, do we?” he continued. “I mean, I’m sure your life is very complicated, but I’m equally sure that I have no incentive to give it any thought and you have no right to demand it of me.”
“I think everyone has the right to be shown respect,” she said.
“Ah well, there you go.” He shook his head. “Young people are always demanding respect instead of trying to earn it. In my day, respect was something to strive for. Something to be given, not taken.”
“You know, you should be an old git,” she said with a faint smile, “but for some reason I like you.”
“Thank you,” he said, surprised. He was equally surprised to find that he felt pleased. There was something about this prickly young person that he also liked. He was not about to tell her so, however, in case she took it as an invitation to tell him more about her life. It was with a feeling of relief that he pulled up the car in front of Mrs. Ali’s shop and let his passengers out.
“Do they have comics?” asked George.
“I’ve got no money, so just be a good boy and maybe when we get home I’ll make you a cake,” said Amina.
“Good luck,” the Major called though the window as Amina paused in front of the shop, holding George by the hand. The face she turned to him was quite gray and frightened. He felt a dawning of suspicion that she was not going to the shop for a mere job interview. Whatever she was up to, she seemed more frightened of Mrs. Ali than she had been of the club secretary.
He had returned home and had put the tea in the pot but not yet poured a cup, when his uneasiness about dropping the strange young woman and her son on Mrs. Ali’s doorstep was compounded by the horrible sensation that it was the third Thursday of the month. He went to the calendar to check and his fears were realized. On the third Thursday in every month, the bus company shifted all the afternoon buses to some mysterious other duties. Even the Parish Council had been unable to get a clear answer as to where they went. The company would only say it was a “rationalization” of service to allow “increased presence in underserved markets.” Since buses came to Edgecombe only every two hours on a normal day, the Major and others had voiced the opinion that the village was itself underserved, but the matter had not been resolved. While his neighbor Alice had suggested protests on the steps of the county hall, he and most of the other village leaders had been content to retreat to the comfort of their cars. Alec had even gone out and bought a four-wheel drive, claiming that he would regard it as a vital community resource now that buses could not be counted upon in an emergency.
The Major was sure that Amina had told George the truth when she said she had no money. He was certain she could not afford a taxi. With great reluctance, tinged with curiosity, he put the cozy on the pot and fetched his coat. He would have to at least offer to drive the pair back to town.
Through the distortion of the plate glass window he could see Mrs. Ali leaning against the counter as if she were slightly faint. Her nephew stood rigid, which was hardly unusual, but he was staring past the Major’s shoulder at some distant point outside the window. Amina looked down at her bright crimson boots, her shoulders sunk into an old woman’s hunch that telegraphed defeat. This was no job interview. The Major was just thinking about sneaking away again when he was accosted by a loud voice.
“Major, yoo-hoo!” He turned around and was greeted with the sight of Daisy, Alma, Grace, and Lord Dagenham’s niece, Gertrude, crammed into Daisy’s Mercedes with so many overstuffed and billowing bags and packages that they looked like four china figurines packed in a gift box. “So happy to have spotted you, you’re just the man we wanted to see,” added Daisy, as the four ladies did their best to emerge from the car without spilling their purchases into the street. It was not the most dignified scene. The Major held the car door for Alma and tried not to look at her plump knees as he bent to rescue a large yellow satin turban that had almost tumbled into a puddle.
“I see Alec is all taken care of,” he said.
“I’m so glad we spotted you,” repeated Daisy. “We couldn’t wait to tell you all about the exciting new plan we came up with,”
“It involves you!” said Alma, as if the Major should feel pleased.
“Major, we have been debating whether our folk dancing was enough to set the theme of our evening,” said Daisy. “Then this morning, while we were breakfasting at Lord Dagenham’s, we came up with a delightful proposition.”
“It was a lovely breakfast, Gertrude,” said Alma to the niece. “Such a delightful start to the day.”
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br /> “Thank you,” said Gertrude. “I’m more used to grabbing a bacon sandwich in the stables than entertaining other ladies. I’m so sorry about the kippers.”
“Nonsense,” said Alma. “Quite my own fault for gobbling them up so fast.”
“I was standing by to attempt the Heimlich, but I’m more experienced with horse choke.”
“Ladies, ladies,” said Daisy. “If we could stay on point?” She paused for effect. “We’ve settled on a series of scenes—very tasteful—and we were discussing how to make them relevant.”
“Oh, you tell him, Grace—it was partly your idea,” added Alma.
“Oh, no, no,” said Grace. She stood a little apart, shifting slightly from foot to foot. The Major found this nervous fretting irritating in an otherwise sensible woman. “We were just talking about local connections to India and I happened to mention your father. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.”
“My father?” asked the Major.
“If I might explain,” said Daisy, quelling Grace with a lifted eyebrow. “We were reminded of the story of your father and his brave service to the Maharajah. We’ve decided to do it in three or four scenes. It’ll be the perfect core of our entertainment.”
“No, no, no,” the Major said. He felt quite faint at the idea. “My father was in India in the thirties and early forties.”
“Yes?” said Daisy.
“The Mughal Empire died out around 1750,” said the Major, his exasperation overcoming his politeness. “So you see it doesn’t go at all.”
“Well, it’s all the same thing,” said Daisy. “It’s all India, isn’t it?”
“But it’s not the same at all,” said the Major. “The Mughals—that’s Shah Jehan and the Taj Mahal. My father served at Partition. That’s the end of the English in India.”
“So much the better,” said Daisy. “We’ll just change ‘Mughal’ to ‘Maharajah’ and celebrate how we gave India and Pakistan their independence. Dawn of a new era and all that. I think it’s the only sensitive option.”
“That would solve the costume problem for a lot of people,” said Alma. “I was trying to tell Hugh Whetstone that pith helmets weren’t fully developed until the nineteenth century, but he didn’t want to hear it. If we add an element of ‘Last Days,’ they can wear their ‘Charles Dickens’ summer dresses if they prefer.”
“Though ‘Last Days’ is what got us in trouble last year,” ventured Grace.
“We needn’t be so specific,” snapped Alma.
“Partition was 1947,” said the Major. “People wore uniforms and short frocks.”
“We’re not trying to be rigidly historical, Major,” said Daisy. “Now I understand you do have possession of your father’s guns? And what about some kind of dress uniform? I understand he was at least a colonel, wasn’t he?”
“We’ll need to find someone younger than you, Major, to play him, of course,” said Alma. “And we’ll need some men to play the murderous mob.”
“Maybe Roger, your son, would do it?” said Gertrude. “That would be very appropriate.”
“To be a murderous mob?” asked the Major.
“No, to be the Colonel, of course,” said Gertrude.
“I’m sure the lunch girls have a few murderous-looking boyfriends between them to be our mob,” said Daisy.
“My father was a very private man,” said the Major. He almost stammered under the sense that all around him were losing their reason. That the ladies could imagine that he or Roger would consent to appear in any sort of theatrical was beyond comprehension.
“My father thinks it’s a wonderful story,” added Gertrude. “He wants to present you with some kind of silver plate at the end of the evening’s speeches. Recognition of the Pettigrews’ proud history, and so on. He’ll be so disappointed if I have to tell him you declined his honor.” She looked at him with wide eyes and he noticed she held her cell phone ready as if to call on a moment’s notice. The Major fumbled for words.
“Perhaps we should give the Major some time to absorb the idea,” said Grace, speaking up. Her feet ceased to move and became planted as she defended him. “It’s rather a big honor, after all.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Daisy. “We’ll say no more right now, Major.” She looked at the windows of the shop and waved at Mrs. Ali inside. “Let’s go in and secure Mrs. Ali’s help for the dance, shall we, ladies?”
“Why, that’s Amina, the girl who’s teaching our waitresses to dance,” said Gertrude also looking in the window. “I wonder what on earth she’s doing here in Edgecombe.”
“Oh, it’s a small community,” said Alma with the sweeping certainty reserved for the ignorant. “They’re all related in some way or another.”
“Perhaps now is not the best time,” said the Major, anxious to spare Mrs. Ali an assault by the ladies. “I believe they have business together.”
“It’s the perfect opportunity to speak to both of them,” said Daisy. “Everybody in, in, in!” The Major was obliged to hold the door open and found himself herded inside the shop along with the ladies. It was a tight squeeze around the counter area, and the Major found himself standing so close to Mrs. Ali that it was difficult to raise his hat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I could not dissuade them from coming in.”
“Those that will come, will come,” she said in a tired voice. “It is not in our power to prevent them.” She looked at Amina, to whom Daisy was talking.
“What luck that you are here as well,” said Daisy. “How is the dancing coming along?”
“Considering they all have two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it was going quite well,” said Amina. “But I don’t think your club manager will be letting me back in anytime soon.”
“You mean the secretary?” said Gertrude. “Yes, he was quite apoplectic on the phone.” She stopped to chuckle. “But don’t you worry about the little man. I told him he must have more patience, considering your unfortunate circumstances and our pressing need for your talent.”
“My circumstances?” said Amina.
“You know, single mother and all that,” said Gertrude. “Afraid I laid it on a bit thick but we do hope you’ll carry on. I think we can approve a little more money, given the bigger scope of the project.”
“You’re dancing for money?” asked Mrs. Ali’s nephew.
“I’m only teaching a few routines,” she said. “You mustn’t think of it as dancing.” He said no more, but his scowl deepened, and the Major marveled anew at the way so many people were willing to spend time and energy on the adverse judgment of others.
“Oh, she’s teaching all our girls how to shake those hips,” said Alma. “Such a wonderful display of your culture.” She smiled at Mrs. Ali and her nephew. The nephew turned an ugly copper color and rage flickered under his skin.
“Now, Mrs. Ali, we were wondering whether we could prevail on you to attend the dance.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Ali. A sudden, shy pleasure lit her face.
“My aunt will not engage in public dancing,” said Abdul Wahid. The Major could tell that his voice bubbled with rage, but Daisy only peered at him with condescension suitable for shop assistants who might unwittingly forget their manners.
“We were not expecting her to dance,” she said.
“We wanted kind of a welcoming goddess, stationed in the niche where we keep the hat stand,” said Alma. “And Mrs. Ali is so quintessentially Indian, or at least quintessentially Pakistani, in the best sense.”
“Actually, I’m from Cambridge,” said Mrs. Ali in a mild voice. “The municipal hospital, ward three. Never been further abroad than the Isle of Wight.”
“But no one would know that,” said Alma.
“Mrs. Khan feels we need someone to welcome and to take the hats and coats,” said Daisy. “She and her husband, Dr. Khan, are coming as guests, so they can’t do it. She suggested you, Mrs. Ali.” Mrs. Ali’s face grew pale and the Major felt a rage cli
mbing into his own throat.
“My aunt does not work at parties—” began the nephew, but the Major cleared his throat loudly enough that the young man stopped in surprise.
“She won’t be available,” he said, feeling his face redden. They all looked at him, and he felt torn between a desire to run for the door and the urgent need to stand up for his friend.
“I have already asked Mrs. Ali to attend as my guest,” he said.
“How extraordinary,” said Daisy, and she paused as if fully expecting him to reconsider. Mrs. Ali’s nephew looked at the Major as if he were a strange bug discovered in the bathtub. Alma could not disguise a look of shock; Grace turned away and appeared suddenly struck by some important headline in the rack of local newspapers. Mrs. Ali blushed but held her chin in the air and looked straight at Daisy.
“I’m sure Mrs. Ali will add a decorative note to the room anyway,” said Gertrude, stepping blunt but welcome into the awkward silence. “We will be happy to have her as an ambassador at large, representing both Pakistan and Cambridge.” She smiled, and the Major thought perhaps he had underestimated the redheaded young woman’s character. She seemed to have a certain authority and an edge of diplomacy that might drive Daisy insane eventually. He could only look forward to that day.
“Then there’s no more to be done here,” said Daisy in a huffy voice. “We must go over the plans and we must call the Major and arrange to search his house for uniforms and so on.”
“I will call Roger; he and I can work on the Major,” said Gertrude, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “It’s my job to get more young people involved in the entertainment and, as a new member, I’m sure he’ll be itching to help.”
“I never understand why it’s so hard to get the men involved,” said Alma as the ladies left, talking loud plans all the way to the car.
Major Pettigrew's Last Stand Page 17
