Major Pettigrew's Last Stand: A Novel

by Helen Simonson

  “I’m not saying nothing,” replied the lady. “Don’t get all shirty with me—I don’t make the rules.” The Major scooped up the somewhat muddy ball and handed it to the boy.

  “Thank you,” said the boy. “I’m George, and I don’t really like football.”

  “I don’t really like it, either,” said the Major. “Cricket is the only sport I really follow.”

  “Tiddlywinks is a sport, too,” said George with a serious expression. “But Mum thought I might lose the bits if I brought them to the park.”

  “Now that you bring it up,” said the Major, “I’ve never seen a sign saying ‘No Tiddlywinking’ in any park, so it might not be such a bad idea.” As he straightened up, the young woman hurried over.

  “George, George, I’ve told you a thousand times about talking to strange men,” she said in a tone that identified her as the child’s mother rather than an older sister, as the Major had first thought.

  “I do apologize,” he said. “It was entirely my fault, of course. Bit of a long time since I played any football.”

  “Silly old cow ought to mind her own business,” said the young woman. “Thinks she’s in a uniform instead of an apron.” This was said loud enough to carry back to the kiosk.

  “Very unfortunate,” said the Major in as noncommittal a voice as possible. He wondered whether he and Mrs. Ali would have to find an alternative source for tea. The kiosk lady was glaring at them.

  “The world is full of small ignorances,” said a quiet voice. Mrs. Ali appeared at his elbow and gave the young woman a stern look. “We must all do our best to ignore them and thereby keep them small, don’t you think?” The Major braced himself for an abusive reply but to his surprise, the young woman gave a small smile instead.

  “My mum always said things like that,” she said in a low voice.

  “But of course we do not like to listen to our mothers,” said Mrs. Ali, smiling. “At least, not until long after we are mothers ourselves.”

  “We have to go now, George. We’ll be late for tea,” said the young woman. “Say goodbye to the nice people.”

  “I’m George, goodbye,” said the boy to Mrs. Ali.

  “I’m Mrs. Ali, how do you do?” she replied. The young woman gave a start and peered at Mrs. Ali more closely. For a moment she seemed to hesitate, as if she wanted to speak, but then she appeared to decide against volunteering any further introductions. Instead, she took George by the hand and set off at a fast pace toward the town.

  “What an abrupt young woman,” said the Major.

  Mrs. Ali sighed. “I rather admire such refusal to bow before authority, but I fear it makes for a very uncomfortable daily existence.”

  At the kiosk, the lady was still glaring and muttering something under her breath about people who thought they owned the place now. The Major tightened his upright stance and spoke in his most imposing voice, the one he had once reserved for quieting a room full of small boys.

  “Do my eyes deceive me or are those real mugs you’re using for tea?” he said, pointing the head of his cane toward a row of thick earthenware mugs alongside the large brown teapot.

  “I don’t hold with them polystyrene things,” said the woman, softening her expression just a bit. “Makes the tea taste like furniture polish.”

  “How right you are,” said the Major. “Could we have two teas, please?”

  “The lemon cake is fresh today,” she added as she slopped dark orange tea into two mugs. She was already cutting two huge slices as the Major nodded his head.

  They drank their tea at a small iron table partly sheltered by an overgrown hydrangea rusty with the drying blooms of autumn. They were quiet and Mrs. Ali ate her slice of cake without any trace of the self-conscious nibbling of other ladies. The Major looked at the sea and felt a small sense of contentment quite unfamiliar in his recent life. A gin-and-tonic at the golf club bar with Alec and the others did not inspire in him any of the quietude, the happiness like a closely banked fire, which now possessed him. He was struck by the thought that he was often lonely, even in the midst of many friends. He exhaled and it must have come out as a sigh, for Mrs. Ali looked up from sipping her tea.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t asked you how you are doing,” she said. “It must have been difficult today, dealing with the solicitor?”

  “These things have to be taken care of,” he said. “It’s always a bit of a mess, though, isn’t it? People don’t always take the time to leave clear instructions and then the executors have to sort it all out.”

  “Ah, executors.” The dry hissing sound of the word conjured the scuttling of gray men, in ransacked rooms, looking for matches.

  “Fortunately I am the executor for my brother,” he said. “Only there are one or two things he left rather vague. I’m afraid it will require delicate negotiation on my part to make things come out right.”

  “He is lucky to have an executor of your integrity,” she said.

  “Nice of you to say so,” he said trying not to squirm on his seat with a sudden twinge of guilt. “I will do my best to be absolutely fair, of course.”

  “But you need to act fast,” she continued. “Before you can take inventory, the silver is gone, the linens appear on someone else’s table, and the little brass unicorn from his desk—worth next to nothing, except to you—poof! It’s slipped into a pocket and no one can even remember it when you ask.”

  “Oh, I don’t think my sister-in-law would stoop …” He was seized with a sudden anxiety. “I mean when it is a question of an item of considerable value. I don’t think she’d rush to sell it or anything.”

  “And everyone knows exactly what happened but no one will ever speak of it again, and the family goes on with its secrets invisible but irritating, like sand in a shoe.”

  “There must be a law against it,” he said. Mrs. Ali blinked at him, emerging from her own thoughts.

  “Of course there is the law of the land,” she said. “But we have talked before of the pressures of the family. One may be the most ancient of charters, Major, but the other is immutable.” The Major nodded, though he had no idea what she was talking about. Mrs. Ali fiddled with her empty tea mug, tapping it almost noiselessly against the table. He thought her face had clouded over, but perhaps it was just the day. The clouds did seem to be moving back in.

  “Looks like we’ve had the best of the weather,” he said, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Perhaps it’s time we were heading back?”

  • • •

  The walk back was silent and somewhat uncomfortable, as if they had trespassed too far into personal areas. The Major would have liked to ask Mrs. Ali’s opinion of his situation, since he felt sure she would agree with him, but her faster stride suggested that she was still lost in her own memories. He was not about to inquire further into her life. Already there was an awkward intimacy, as if he had stumbled against her body in a crowd. This was one of the reasons he had avoided women since Nancy’s death. Without the protective shield of a wife, the most casual conversations with females had a way of suddenly veering off into a mire of coy remarks and miscommunicated intentions. The Major preferred to avoid looking ridiculous.

  Today, however, his usual determination to retreat was being compromised by a stubborn recklessness. As he walked his head churned with the repeating phrase “I was wondering if you were planning to come to town next week?,” but he could not bring himself to express it aloud. They reached the small blue car and a sharp sadness threatened him as Mrs. Ali bent to unlock the door. He admired again her smooth brow and the brightness of her hair disappearing into its scarf. She looked up under his gaze and straightened up. He noticed her chin was hidden by the curve of the roof line. She was not a tall woman.

  “Major,” she asked, “I was wondering if it would be possible to consult you more about Mr. Kipling when I’ve finished my book?” The sky began to spit fat drops of rain and a cold gust of wind whipped dust and litter against his legs. The sadness vanishe
d and he thought how glorious the day was.

  “My dear lady, I would be absolutely delighted,” he said. “I am completely at your disposal.”

  Chapter 6

  The golf club was built on the water side of the Downs, on a low promontory that ended in a roll of grass-backed dunes. The greens ranged in quality from thick green turf, clipped to perfection, to patchy brown areas, invaded by dune grass and prone to sudden spurts of sand whipped up into the face by wind gusts. The thirteenth hole was famous for Dame Eunice, a huge Romney Marsh ewe who kept the grass cropped to the limit of her rusty chain. Visitors, especially the occasional American, might be told that it was customary to take practice swings at the large blobs of sheep droppings. A rusty shovel for cleaning up was kept in the small box on a post that also contained a manual ball-washer. Some of the newest members had been heard to complain about Eunice; in the new era of world-class golf resorts and corporate golf outings, they were worried that she made their club look like some kind of miniature golf outfit. The Major was part of the group who defended Eunice and who thought the new members’ attitude reflected poor standards by the club’s nomination committee. He also enjoyed referring to Eunice as “environmentally friendly.”

  The Major, feeling his spirits lift with the early morning light, and the smell of the sea and the grass, gave Eunice a surreptitious pat as he shooed her away from the green where his ball lay near the southern edge. Alec was scything dune grass with his wedge, the bald spot on his head shining in the chilly sunshine. The Major waited patiently with his putter on his shoulder, enjoying the low arc of the bay: miles of sand and ceaseless water washed with silver by the cloudy light.

  “Bloody grass. Cuts you to ribbons,” said Alec, red in the face and stamping down a clump with his cleats.

  “Careful there, old chap,” said the Major. “The ladies’ environmental committee’ll be after you.”

  “Bloody women and their bloody dune habitats,” said Alec, stamping more furiously. “Why can’t they leave well enough alone?” The ladies of the club had become recent advocates for more responsible golf course management. Posters manufactured on a home computer had begun appearing on the bulletin board urging members to keep off the dunes and advising of wildlife nestings. Alma was one of the prime agitators and the board had responded by asking Alec to head a subcommittee to explore environmental issues. It was quite obvious that the poor man was cracking under the pressure.

  “How is Alma?” asked the Major.

  “Won’t leave me in peace,” replied Alec. He was on his hands and knees now forcing his hands into the clumps. “What with the environmental nonsense and now the annual dance, she’s just driving me crazy.”

  “Ah, the annual dance.” The Major smiled and knew he was being unkind. “And what is our theme this year?” It was a source of annoyance to the Major that what had once been a very refined black tie dance, with a simple steak menu and a good band, had been turned into a series of increasingly elaborate theme evenings.

  “They haven’t made the final decision,” said Alec. He stood up, defeated, and brushed off his plus fours.

  “They will be hard pressed to exceed the ‘Last Days of Pompeii,’ ” said the Major.

  “Don’t remind me,” said Alec. “I still have nightmares of being stuck inside that gladiator costume.” Alma had rented costumes unseen from a shop in London and poor Alec had been forced to clank around all night in a close-fitting metal helmet while his neck swelled up. Alma had ordered herself a “Lady of the Mysteries” costume, which turned out to be a courtesan’s sheer and garishly painted toga. Her hasty addition of a purple turtleneck and cycling shorts had done little to improve the overall effect.

  The theme, combined with an open bar until midnight, had resulted in a ridiculous loosening of standards. The usual expected and required banter, the flirtatious compliments, and the occasional pinching of bottoms had been magnified into open debaucheries. Old Mr. Percy became so drunk that he threw away his cane and subsequently fell into a glass door while chasing a shrieking woman across the terrace. Hugh Whetstone and his wife had a loud row at the bar and left with different people. Even Father Christopher, in leather sandals and a hemp robe, imbibed a little too much, so that he sat mute in a chair looking for significance in a long vertical crack in the wall and Daisy had to half-drag him to the taxi at the end of the night. The Sunday sermon that weekend had been a call to more ascetic living, delivered in a hoarse whisper. The entire event was wholly unworthy of a golf club of pedigree and the Major had considered writing a letter of protest. He had composed several serious but witty versions in his mind.

  “If only this year we could just go back to having an elegant dance,” he said. “I’m tired of wearing my dinner suit and having people ask me what I’m supposed to be.”

  “There’s a meeting this morning to settle the issue,” said Alec. “When we get in, you could pop your head round the door and suggest it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said the Major, horrified. “Perhaps you could have a quiet word with Alma?” Alec merely snorted, took a ball out of his pocket, and dropped it over his shoulder onto the edge of the green.

  “One-stroke penalty gives you four over par?” added the Major, writing in the tiny leather scorebook he kept in the breast pocket of his golfing jacket. He was a comfortable five strokes ahead at this point.

  “Let’s say the winner talks to my wife,” said Alec, and grinned. The Major was stricken. He put away his notebook and lined up his shot. He hit it a little fast and too low, but the ball, skipping on a budding dandelion, made a dive into the hole anyway.

  “Oh, good shot,” said Alec.

  On the sixteenth hole, a barren area backed by a gravel pit of steel-gray water, Alec asked him how he was feeling.

  “Life goes on, you know,” he said to Alec’s back. Alec concentrated on his swing. “I have good days and bad.” Alec hit a hard drive very straight and almost to the green.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better,” said Alec. “Nasty business, funerals.”

  “Thank you,” said the Major, stepping up to set his own ball on the tee. “And how are you?”

  “The daughter’s baby, baby Angelica, is doing much better. They saved the leg.” There was a pause as the Major lined up his own shot and hit a slightly crooked drive, short and to the edge of the fairway.

  “Nasty business, hospitals,” said the Major.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Alec. They retrieved their bags and set off down the grassy incline.

  Arriving at the clubhouse from the eighteenth hole, the Major saw that the big clock above the terrace portico stood at 11:45. Alec made a show of checking the clock against his watch.

  “Ah, timed it just right for a drink and a spot of lunch.” he said, as he did every week regardless of when they finished their round. They had been at the bar as early as eleven one time. The Major was not anxious to repeat the experience. Lunch not being served before noon; they had each had several drinks and these, combined with a glass of wine to accompany the quenelles of chicken in cream sauce, had made him extremely dyspeptic.

  They deposited their carts under the convenient lean-to at the side of the building and headed across the terrace toward the grill bar. As they passed the solarium, which used to be the ladies’ bar before the club had opened the grill to women, a hand rapped on the glass and a shrill voice called to them.

  “Yoo-hoo, Alec, in here, please!” It was Alma, rising from a circle of ladies grouped around a long table. She was waving vigorously. Daisy Green also beckoned, in commanding manner, and the other women turned behatted heads and fixed on them steely eyes.

  “Shall we run for it?” whispered Alec, waving to his wife even as he continued to sidle toward the grill.

  “I think we’re well and truly captured,” said the Major, taking a step toward the glass doors. “But don’t worry, I’ll back you up.”

  “We could mime an urgent need for the gents’?�
�

  “Good heavens, man,” said the Major. “It’s only your own wife. Come on now, stiffen up there.”

  “If I stiffen up any more I’ll throw my neck into spasms again,” said Alec. “But have it your own way. Let’s face the enemy.”

  “We need a gentleman’s opinion,” said Daisy Green. “Do you know everyone?”

  She waved at the assembled ladies. There were one or two unfamiliar faces, but the women in question looked too frightened of Daisy to offer any introduction.

  “Will it take long?” asked Alec.

  “We must settle on our theme today,” said Daisy, “and we have one or two different ideas. While I think my suggestion has, shall we say, a large following, I believe we should explore all the options.”

  “So we want you to pick your favorite,” said Grace.

  “Just in a purely advisory way, of course,” said Daisy, frowning at Grace who blushed. “To enhance our own deliberations.”

  “We were actually just discussing the dance, out on the course,” said the Major. “We were saying how lovely it might be to bring back the old dance. You know, black-tie-and-champagne sort of thing?”

  “Kind of a Noël Coward theme?” asked one of the unfamiliar ladies. She was a youngish woman with red hair and thick makeup, which could not hide her freckles. The Major wondered whether there was an unspoken order from Daisy that younger women should stuff themselves into ugly bucket hats and make themselves look older in order to join her committees.

  “Noël Coward is not one of the themes under discussion,” said Daisy.

  “Black tie is not a theme,” said the Major. “It’s the preferred attire for people of good breeding.”

  An enormous abyss of silence opened across the room. The youngish lady in the ugly hat dropped her mouth so far open that the Major could see a filling in one of her back molars. Grace appeared to be choking into a handkerchief. The Major had a fleeting suspicion that she might be laughing. Daisy seemed to consult some notes on her clipboard, but her hands grasped the piecrust edge of the table with whitened knuckles.