“She’s really good, isn’t she?” said Grace as a round of applause greeted the end of the solo. “Like a real ballerina.”
“Of course, only courtesans would have danced,” said Sadie Khan to the table. “A maharajah’s wife would never have so displayed herself.”
“The line is blocked! The line is blocked!” shrieked Daisy. As the dancers stamped their jingling feet and swirled their chickens and baskets with more urgent energy, Roger continued to peruse his newspaper, oblivious to the action around him. The Major began to feel impatient. He was sure his father would have been quicker to pick up on the change of mood on the train. He was tempted to cough, to attract Roger’s attention.
“A murderous mob rains terror on the innocent train,” cried Daisy. From all the doorways of the Grill room staggered the hastily recruited boyfriends, dressed in black and flailing large sticks.
“Oh, dear,” said Grace. “Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to give them the beer and sandwiches before the performance.”
“I probably would have thought twice about the cudgels,” joked the Major. He looked to Mrs. Ali, but she did not smile at his comment. Her face, fixed on the scene, was as still as alabaster.
As the images flickered ever faster on the scrim, the men set about a series of exaggerated slow-motion attacks on the writhing women. The Major frowned at the muffled shrieking and laughter from the dancers which was not entirely covered by the wailing music. Amina engaged in a frantic dance with two attackers, who did their best to lift her and throw her away whenever she grabbed their arms. Their movements were more enthusiastic than pretty to look at, though the Major thought Amina made it look passably threatening. At last she broke free and, leaping away, spun right into Roger’s lap. Roger raised his head from the newspaper and mimed suitable astonishment.
“The Maharajah’s wife throws herself upon the protection of the British officer,” said Daisy’s voice again. “He is only one man, but by God he is an Englishman.” A round of cheers broke out in the audience.
“Isn’t it exciting?” said Mrs. Jakes. “I’ve got goose bumps.”
“Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction,” said Mrs. Ali in a mild voice. “The British Empire may cause that.”
“Disguising the Maharani as his own subaltern …” continued Daisy. The Major did not want to be critical, but he could not approve of Roger’s performance. To begin with, he had assumed a stance more James Bond than British military; furthermore, he was using a pistol, having handed Amina his trench coat and rifle. The Major thought this an unforgivable tactical error.
The sound of gunshots mingled with the music and the squealing. The spotlights flashed red and the scrim went dark.
“When help arrived, the brave Colonel, down to his last bullet, still stood guard over the Princess,” said Daisy. The lights rose on a mass of inert bodies, both male and female. Only Roger still stood, pistol in hand, the Maharani fainting in his arms. Though one or two girls could be seen to be giggling—probably the fault of the young men lying across their legs—the Major felt the whole room go quiet, as if everyone were holding their breath. The momentary hush gave way to a burst of applause as the lights went down.
When the lights rose again, a glittering final tableau featured Lord Dagenham and Gertrude on thrones, Amina at their feet. On the steps of the stage and the floor, the dancers were arrayed, now wearing gaudy necklaces and sparkling headscarves. Alec Shaw, as Vizier, was holding out an open box containing the shotguns; Roger, standing at attention, saluted the royal court. On the scrim behind them, a sepia photo showed the same scene. The Major recognized, with a sting of emotion that was equal parts pride and pain, the photo his mother had hung in a dark corner of the upstairs hallway, not wishing to appear showy.
A series of photo flashes exploded in the room, loud Asian pop music with a wailing vocalist blared over the loudspeakers, and, as the audience clapped along, the female dancers broke into a Bollywood-style routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking men from the audience to join them in their gyrations. As he blinked his dazzled eyes, the Major became dimly aware of a small man climbing onto the stage, shouting in Urdu and reaching for Daisy Green’s microphone.
“Get away from me, you horrible little man,” cried Daisy.
“Isn’t that Rasool’s father?” shouted Dr. Khan. “What on earth is he doing?”
“I have no idea,” said Mrs. Khan. “This could be a disaster for Najwa.” She sounded very happy.
“Ooh, let’s go and dance,” said Mrs. Jakes, dragging away her husband.
The doctor got to his feet. “Someone should get the old fool out of there. He will make us all look bad.”
“Please don’t get involved,” said Mrs. Khan. She did not place a hand on her husband’s sleeve to stop him but merely gestured in that direction. The Major had often noted this kind of shorthand between married people. The doctor sat down again.
“My husband is always so compassionate,” said Mrs. Khan to the table.
“Bit of an occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Khan.
Mr. Rasool Senior had the microphone now and was wagging his finger in the face of a shocked Daisy Green. He was shouting now in English, so loudly it hurt the ears to hear his voice cracking and sputtering at the limits of the sound system.
“You make a great insult to us,” they heard. “You make a mock of a people’s suffering.”
“What is he doing?” asked Grace.
“Maybe he is upset that the atrocities of Partition should be reduced to a dinner show,” said Mrs. Ali. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like bhangra music.”
“Why would anyone be insulted?” asked Grace. “It’s the Major’s family’s proudest achievement.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Ali. She pressed the Major’s hand and he flushed with a sudden shame that perhaps she was not apologizing to him but for him. “I must help Najwa’s father-in-law—he is not a well man.”
“I can’t see why it should be your responsibility,” said Sadie Khan in a malicious voice. “I think you really should leave it to the staff.” But Mrs. Ali had already risen from the table. She did not look at the Major again. He hesitated, but then hurried after her.
“Let go of him before I break your arm,” said a voice from the stage as the Major thrust through the crowd. He was in time to see Abdul Wahid at the front of a small group of waiters, advancing on a couple of the male dancers, and some band players, who were holding the senior Mr. Rasool by the arms. “Show some respect for an old man.” The men grouped themselves like a defensive wall.
“What are you doing here?” the Major thought he heard Amina ask as she tried to grab Abdul Wahid by the arm but maybe, he thought, he was only lip-reading over the continuous crashing of the music. “You were supposed to meet me outside.”
“Do not speak to me now,” said Abdul Wahid. “You have done enough damage.” Dancing couples, taking notice of the commotion, began to back away into tables.
“The old man is crazy,” said Daisy Green in a faint voice. “Someone call the police.”
“Oh, please, no need to call the police,” said Mrs. Rasool, collecting her father-in-law’s arm from a scowling trombonist. “My father-in-law is only a little confused. His own mother and sister died on such a train. Please forgive him.”
“He’s a lot less confused than most people here,” said Abdul Wahid in a voice that carried. “He wants you to know that your entertainment is a great insult to him.”
“Who the hell does he think he is?” said Roger. “It’s a true story.”
“Yeah, who asked him?” jeered a voice in the crowd. “Bloody Pakis.” The waiters swiveled their heads and a pale, thin man ducked behind his wife.
“I say, that’s not on,” called out Alec Shaw from underneath his teetering turban.
The Major knew, even as he witnessed the event, that he would be hard pressed later to relay the details of the fight that now erupted. He saw a shor
t man with large feet shove Abdul Wahid, who fell against one of the waiters. He saw another waiter slap a male dancer across the face with his white arm towel, as if to challenge him to a duel. He heard Daisy Green call out, somewhat hoarsely, “People, please remain civilized,” as a riot erupted in the middle of the dance floor. Things became a blur as women screamed, men shouted, and bodies hurled themselves at one another only to crash to the ground. There was much ineffectual thumping of backs and indiscriminate kicking.
As the music segued into an even more raucous tune, the Major was astonished to see a large drunken guest whip off his turban, hand his hookah pipe to his girlfriend, and throw himself across the heaving mass of assailants as if it were all a game. The Vicar waded in to grab him by the trousers but was kicked backward and fell on Alma. He became tangled in her green sari in a way that made Mortimer Teale look quite jealous, and was rescued by Alec Shaw; he dragged them behind the bar, which Lord Dagenham and Ferguson seemed to have commandeered as if for a siege.
“Oh, please, there is no need for violence,” cried Daisy as two combatants spun out from the crowd and landed on a table which collapsed in a heap of gravy-soaked plates. Several of the fighters, already looking winded, seemed to find it more effective to kick someone else’s opponent while clutching their own with their arms to prevent being punched.
Most of the guests had been pressed into the corners of the room and the Major wondered why those nearest the door did not just run out into the night. He guessed that they had not yet been served dessert and were reluctant to leave before parting gifts had made an appearance in the vestibule.
The fight might have organized itself into something actually dangerous had not someone found the appropriate switch backstage and killed the music. In the sudden quiet, heads popped up from the heaving mass of bodies and punches hesitated in midair. Old Mr. Percy, who had been staggering around the perimeter of the mêlée, whacking indiscriminately with a stuffed chicken, now gave one final blow. The chicken burst in a wave of polystyrene beads. Combatants soaked in gravy and now covered in white polystyrene seemed to realize that perhaps they looked foolish and the fight began to lose steam.
“I am terribly sorry,” said Mrs. Rasool to Daisy as she and her husband held up the elder Mr. Rasool. “My father-in-law was only six years old when his mother and sister were killed. He didn’t mean to cause a fuss.” The old man swayed and looked as faint and translucent as parchment paper.
“He’s ruined everything!” shrieked Daisy.
“He’s obviously quite ill,” said Mrs. Ali. “He needs to get out of here.” The Major cast around for an easy exit, but combatants were still being pulled apart and the crowd, no longer held in the corners, had swelled into all the spaces not covered with gravy.
“Mrs. Rasool, why don’t we squeeze through and bring him to the porch?” said Grace, taking charge. “It’s quieter out there.”
“Is there something wrong with the kitchen?” shrieked Daisy as he was led away.
“It’s probably dementia, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Khan asked her husband loudly.
“Oh no, Daisy is always that way,” said the Major without thinking.
“I guess we call it a night and get a cleaning crew in here,” said Lord Dagenham, surveying the damage. Five or six overturned tables complete with broken dishes, a palm tree cut in half, and curtains down in the entranceway seemed to be the only major damage. There were spots of blood on the dance floor from some bruised noses, and several sets of dirty footprints.
“I’ll get the parting gifts and send people home,” said Gertrude.
“Nonsense! No one’s leaving until we have dessert and then make our presentation to Major Pettigrew,” said Daisy. “Where is that caterer? Where is the band?”
“I am here and ready to get my team back to work,” said Mrs. Rasool, appearing at Daisy’s side. “We will finish the job in the same professional manner we began.” She turned to the waiters. “Do you hear me, boys? Get straightened up and start resetting those tables. No more nonsense now, please. Ladies—please let your young men go backstage and have a good drink and we’ll start the dessert procession.”
The band gathered and began a particularly objectionable polka; to the Major’s surprise, the waiters began to move. There were some muttered words among them, but they obeyed Mrs. Rasool, some picking up tables and the rest disappearing out into the kitchen. The lunch girls, more truculent and louder in their comments, were disinclined to leave their injured friends, but half of them complied while the others led away their aggrieved warriors to be comforted in the backstage room. The guests began to filter toward the bars, and a few club members helped to pick up tables. A groundskeeper two-stepped his way across the dance floor with a huge wet mop and disappeared through a French door into the night.
“Mrs. Rasool, you should have been a general,” said the Major, deeply impressed as the room began to assume normality and a parade of lunch ladies entered bearing tiered stands of petits fours.
“Major Pettigrew, my apologies for the disturbance,” said Mrs. Rasool, drawing him aside. “My father-in-law has been very frail lately and the sight of all the dead bodies came as a shock to him.”
“Why do you apologize?” said Abdul Wahid, startling the Major, who had not seen him approach. “Your father-in-law spoke nothing but the truth. They should be apologizing to him for making a mockery of our land’s deepest tragedy.”
“You have no right to call it a mockery,” said Amina, her voice wobbling from exhaustion and anger. “I worked like crazy to make a real story out of this piece.”
“Abdul Wahid, I think you should take Amina home now,” said Mrs. Ali. Abdul Wahid looked as if he had plenty more to say, and Amina hesitated. “Both of you will leave now. We will not discuss this further,” added Mrs. Ali, and some steel in her tone, which the Major had never heard before, caused them to do as she said.
“Look here, normally I’d say the show must go on,” said Lord Dagenham. “But maybe we just drop it and avoid any further controversy? Give the Major his tray on the quiet.”
“That would be fine with me,” said the Major.
“Nonsense!” said Daisy. “You can’t let some old man’s aspersions drive you from the stage, Major.”
“If you do, people may think there is some kind of truth to his view,” said Ferguson.
“Well, I don’t see how anyone could be insulted,” said Roger. “My grandfather was a hero.”
“I’m sure you can understand that many people still grieve for those who were murdered during this time,” said Mrs. Ali in a conciliatory tone. “Thousands died, including most on your grandfather’s train, it seems.”
“Well, you can’t expect one man to have defended a whole train, can you?” said Roger.
“Certainly not,” said Dagenham, clapping the Major on the back. “Personally I think he would have been quite justified in jumping out a window and saving his own skin.”
“Pity he didn’t have more warning,” said Ferguson. “He could have organized the passengers to tear up the seats and use them to barricade the windows. Maybe made some crude weapons or something.”
“You must be American,” said Mrs. Ali. She looked angry now. “I think you’ll find that works a lot better in the movies than in a real war.”
“Look, the truth belongs to the guy who’s best at sticking to his story,” said Ferguson. “We see a picture of all of us in the paper with that silver tray, Double D, then this dance was a big success and this little contretemps never happened.”
“So let’s get the tray and the guns and round up the dancers,” agreed Dagenham. “Then we make sure we include the doctor and his wife here, and Mrs. Ali who looks so lovely, and we’ll have a fine story.”
As they walked away, taking Roger with them to fetch the guns from backstage, Mrs. Khan touched up her hair with her hands and sidled toward Daisy.
“Oh, we don’t want to be in the limelight,” she simpered. “Perha
ps just in the back row?”
“Where your presence will no doubt still radiate,” said Mrs. Ali.
“I am surprised you didn’t know the old man was unstable,” said Sadie Khan in an icy voice. “You are so intimate with the Rasools.” She leaned closer to Daisy to add: “It’s so hard to be sure about one’s suppliers these days.”
“The photographer’s almost ready,” said Roger, coming up to them, bearing the box of guns in his arms. “We’re getting set up for the presentation and pictures.”
“I will not appear in the picture,” said Mrs. Ali.
“Is that for religious reasons?” asked Roger. “Understandable, of course.”
“No, I am disinclined to be paraded for authenticity,” said Mrs. Ali. “You will have to rely on Saadia for that.”
“Oh, how very tiresome,” said Daisy Green. “It really isn’t polite to come to our party and then complain about everything.”
“Daisy, there’s no need to be rude,” said Grace. “Mrs. Ali is my good friend.”
“Well, Grace, that should tell you that you need to get out more,” said Daisy. “Next you’ll be having the gardener in for tea.” There was an instant of stunned silence and the Major felt compelled to interject a rebuke.
“I think Grace is entitled to have anyone she likes to tea,” he said. “And it’s no business of yours to tell her otherwise.”
“Of course you do,” said Daisy with an unpleasant smile. “We are all aware of your proclivities.”
The Major felt despair strike him like a blow to the ear. He had defended the wrong woman. Moreover, he had encouraged Daisy to further insult.
“Major, I wish to go home,” said Mrs. Ali in an unsteady voice. She looked at him with the smallest of painful smiles. “My nephew can drive me, of course. You must stay for your award.”
“Oh no, I insist,” he said. He knew it was imperative to persuade her, but he could not avoid a quick glance toward Roger. He was not about to abandon his gun box to Roger while both Marjorie and Ferguson were still in the building.
Major Pettigrew's Last Stand Page 29
