Major Pettigrew's Last Stand: A Novel

by Helen Simonson

  “Daisy has me on duty here another half hour,” said Grace. “Do go in and let our Grand Vizier announce you.”

  Mrs. Ali gripped his arm as if she were afraid of tripping and gave him a smile that was more determination than happiness. As they crossed the Rubicon of the short crimson entrance carpet he whispered, “Grand Vizier—good God, what have they done?”

  At the end of the carpet Alec Shaw stood waiting for them, frowning in a large yellow turban. An embroidered silk dressing gown and curly slippers, from which his heels hung out the back, were complemented by a long braided beard. He looked unhappy.

  “Don’t even speak,” he said, raising an arm. “You’re the last bloody people I’m doing. Daisy can get some other idiot to stand around looking ridiculous.”

  “I think you’re rather convincing,” said the Major. “You’re sort of Fu Manchu on an exotic holiday.”

  “I told Alma the beard was all wrong,” said Alec. “But she’s been saving it ever since they did The Mikado and she glued it on so tight I may have to shave it off.”

  “Perhaps if you soak it in a large glass of gin, the glue will soften,” said Mrs. Ali.

  “Your companion is obviously a lady of intelligence as well as beauty.”

  “Mrs. Ali, I believe you know Mr. Shaw,” said the Major. Mrs. Ali nodded, but Alec peered from under the slipping turban as if unsure.

  “Good heavens,” he said, and turned a red that clashed with the mustard-yellow collar of his gown. “I mean, Alma said you were coming, but I would never have recognized you—I mean, out of context.”

  “Look, can we skip the announcements and just all go and find a drink?” said the Major.

  “Certainly not,” said Alec. “I haven’t had anyone interesting to announce in half an hour. Watch me turn their heads with this one.” Taking up a small brass megaphone wrapped in paper flowers, Alec bellowed over the sound of the orchestra.

  “Major Ernest Pettigrew, costumed as the rare Indian subcontinental penguin, accompanied by the exquisite queen of comestibles from Edgecombe St. Mary, Mrs. Ali.” The orchestra embarked on a choppy segue into its next tune and, as the dancers paused to pick up the new rhythm, many turned their heads to peer at the new arrivals.

  The Major nodded and smiled as he scanned the blur of faces. He acknowledged a wave from Old Mr. Percy, who winked as he danced with a tanned woman in a strapless gown. Two couples he knew from the club nodded at him, but then whispered to each other from the sides of their mouths and the Major felt his face flush. In the thick of the dancing crowd he caught a glimpse of a familiar hairdo and wondered whether it was some trick of the psyche that he should see his sister-in-law, Marjorie. He had always found excuses not to invite her and Bertie, fearing that she would unleash her loud voice and money questions on all his friends. It seemed unimaginable that she would be here now. He blinked, however, and there she was, twirling under the arm of a portly member who was known at the club for his lively temper and who held the record for most golf clubs thrown into the sea. As the dancers turned away into a fast swing, Alec said, “I’ll be off now,” and took off his turban to run a hand over his sweaty head. “If he’s not good company, just come and find me and I’ll take care of you,” he added, holding out his damp hand. Mrs. Ali took it without shrinking and the Major wondered where she found such reserves.

  “Let’s plunge in, shall we?” he said over the rising exuberance of the music. “This way, I think.”

  The room was uncomfortably full. To the east, the folding doors had been flung back and the small orchestra sawed away on the stage set against the far wall. Around the edge of the dance floor, people were packed in tight conversational clumps between the dancers and the crowded rows of round tables, each decorated with a centerpiece of yellow flowers and a candle lantern in the shape of a minaret. Groups of people jostled in every available aisle. Waiters squeezed in and out of the crowd, carrying tilting trays of hors d’oeuvres high above everyone’s head as if competing to make it the length of the room and back without dispensing a single puff pastry. The room was redolent with a smell like orchids, and slightly humid, either from perspiration or from the tropical ferns that dripped from many sizes and shapes of Styrofoam column.

  Mrs. Ali waved to Mrs. Rasool, who could be seen dispensing waiters from the kitchen door as if she were sending messengers to and from a battlefield. As they watched, she dispensed Mr. Rasool the elder; he wobbled out with a tray held dangerously low and made it no farther than the first set of tables before being picked clean. Mrs. Rasool hurried forward and, with practiced discretion, pulled him back to the safety of the kitchen.

  The Major steered Mrs. Ali into a slow circle around the dance floor. As the main bar, next to the kitchen, was invisible behind the battalion of thirsty guests waving for drinks, he had decided to steer for a secondary bar, set up in the lee of the stage, hoping that he might then navigate them into the relative quiet of the enclosed sun porch. The Major had forgotten how difficult it was to navigate such a crush while protecting a lady from both the indifferent backs of the chatting groups and the jousting elbows of enthusiastic dancers. The benefit however, of needing to keep Mrs. Ali’s arm tucked close against his side was almost compensation enough. He had a fleeting hope that someone might knock her over into his arms.

  Costumes ran the full array from the expensively rented to the quickly improvised. Near a tall column decked in trailing vines, they met Hugh Whetstone wearing a safari jacket and a coolie hat.

  “Is that also from The Mikado?” asked the Major, shouting to be heard.

  “Souvenir from our cruise to Hong Kong,” said Whetstone. “I refused to spend another penny on costumes after what the wife went out and spent on full maharani rig.” Together they looked around the room. The Major spotted Mrs. Whetstone in a lime-green sari talking to Mortimer Teale, who had traded his usual sober solicitor’s suit for a blazer and yellow cravat, worn over cricket pants and riding boots. He seemed to be enjoying a good leer at Mrs. Whetstone’s flesh, which emerged in doughy rolls from a brief satin blouse. She seemed to be happily explaining to Mortimer all about the temporary tattooed snake that rose out of her cleavage and over her collar bone.

  “I mean, where is she ever going to wear it again?” complained Hugh. The Major shook his head, which Hugh took to be agreement but which was really the Major dismissing both Hugh, who didn’t care enough to even notice other men paying attention to his wife, and Mortimer, who never brought his wife anywhere with him if he could help it.

  “Perhaps you could use it as a bedspread,” suggested Mrs. Ali.

  “I’m sorry! Mrs. Ali, you know Hugh Whetstone?” The Major had hoped to avoid introductions; Hugh was already listing to one side and breathing fumes.

  “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” said Hugh, obviously not recognizing her either.

  “I’m usually wrapping you half a pound of streaky bacon, three ounces of Gorgonzola, and a half dozen slim panatelas,” said Mrs. Ali, raising an eyebrow.

  “Good God, you’re the shop lady,” he said, leering openly now. “Remind me to up my order from now on.”

  “Got to go. Must get a drink,” said the Major, making sure to put his body between Mrs. Ali and Hugh’s notorious bottom-pinching hands as he led her away. He realized with some pain that all evening he was going to have to introduce Mrs. Ali to people who had been buying their milk and newspapers from her for years. Whetstone bellowed after them: “Renting a native princess is pretty excessive, I’d say.”

  Before the Major could formulate a retort, the music ended; in the rearrangement of the crowd, Daisy Green was suddenly upon them like a beagle on a fox cub. She was dressed as some kind of lady ambassador in a white gown and blue sash with many strange medals and pins. A large feathered brooch decorated one side of her head and a single peacock feather trailed backward, catching people in the face as they walked by.

  “Mrs. Ali, you’re not in costume?” she said, as if pointing o
ut a trailing petticoat or a trace of spinach on the teeth.

  “Grace and I swapped costumes,” said Mrs. Ali, smiling. “She has my antique shalwar kameez, and I have her aunt’s gown.”

  “How disappointing,” said Daisy. “We were so looking forward to seeing you in your beautiful national costume, weren’t we, Christopher?”

  “Who?” said the Vicar, appearing from a nearby knot of people. He looked slightly disheveled in riding boots, rumpled military jacket, and safari hat. He wore a cravat made from a scrap of brightly patterned madras and looked, the Major thought, like the ambassador’s wife’s illicit drunken lover. He smiled at a stray image of Daisy and Christopher carrying on such a game at home, after the party.

  “Ah, Pettigrew!” The Major shook the proffered hand. He did not attempt to have a conversation: the Vicar was notoriously unable to hear in noisy crowds. This had proved hilarious to several generations of choirboys, who delighted in all talking at once and seeing who could slip the most offensive words past the Vicar’s ears during singing practice.

  “Of course, with your wonderful complexion you can wear the wildest of colors.” Daisy was still talking. “Poor Grace, on the other hand—well, lilac is such a difficult color to carry off.”

  “I think Grace looks quite wonderful,” said the Major. “Mrs. Ali, too, of course—Mrs. Ali, I believe you know Father Christopher?”

  “Of course,” said the Vicar, while his eyes crossed slightly, a clear indication that he had no idea who she was.

  “Grace’s aunt was quite legendary for her expensive tastes,” said Daisy, looking up and down Mrs. Ali’s dress as if measuring out a few alterations. “Grace told me she could never get up the nerve to wear any of the dresses. She is so sensitive to even the suggestion of impropriety. But you, my dear, carry it off so well. Do enjoy yourself as much as you can, won’t you.” She was already sweeping away. “Come along Christopher.”

  “Who are all these people?” asked the Vicar.

  “It is a good thing I don’t drink,” said Mrs. Ali as they pushed on around the crowd.

  “Yes, Daisy has that effect on many people,” said the Major. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, please don’t apologize.”

  “Sorry,” said the Major before he could stop himself. “Look, I think the bar is just beyond that palm tree.”

  There was almost a small opening in the crowd at the bar, but the space between the Major and a welcome gin-and-tonic was occupied by a rather unhappy-looking Sadie Khan and her husband, the doctor. The doctor looked stiff to the point of rigor mortis, thought the Major. He was a handsome man with thick short hair and large brown eyes, but his head was slightly small and was stuck well into the air as if the man were afraid of his own shirt collar. He wore a white military uniform with a short scarlet cloak and a close-fitting hat adorned with medals. The Major could immediately see him as a photo in the newspaper of some minor royalty recently executed during a coup. Mrs. Khan wore an elaborately embroidered coat as thick as a carpet and several strands of pearls.

  “Jasmina,” said Mrs. Khan.

  “Saadia,” said Mrs. Ali.

  “My goodness, Mrs. Ali, you look quite ravishing,” said the doctor, giving a low bow.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Ali gathered an end of her wrap and tossed a second layer across her neck under the pressure of the doctor’s admiring gaze. Sadie Khan pursed her lips.

  “Major Pettigrew, may I present my husband, Dr. Khan.”

  “Delighted,” said the Major, and leaned across to shake Dr. Khan’s hand.

  “Major Pettigrew, I believe we are all to be seated together this evening,” said Sadie. “Are you at table six?”

  “I can’t say I know.” He fumbled in his pocket for the card that Grace had handed to him in the foyer and peered with disappointment at the curly “Six” written on it in green ink.

  “And your friend Grace DeVere is also going to be joining us this evening, I believe,” said Sadie, leaning past Mrs. Ali to read his card. “Such a lovely lady.” The emphasis on the word “lady” was almost undetectable, but the Major saw Mrs. Ali flush, and a small twitch along her jaw line betrayed her tension.

  “Would anyone care for champagne?” said one of Mrs. Rasool’s catering waiters, who had glided up with a tray of assorted glasses. “Or the pink stuff is fruit punch,” he added in a quiet voice to Mrs.

  Ali.

  “Fruit punch all round, then, and keep ’em coming?” asked the Major. He assumed none of them drank and wanted to be polite, though he wondered how he was to get through the evening on a child’s beverage.

  “Actually, I’ll get another gin-and-tonic,” said Dr. Khan. “Care to join me, Major?”

  “Oh, you naughty men must have your little drink, I know,” said Sadie, smacking her husband’s arm lightly with a large alligator clutch bag. “Do go ahead, Major.” There was an uncomfortable pause in conversation as they all watched the drinks being poured.

  “You must be very excited about the ‘dance divertissement’ before dessert,” said Sadie Khan at last, waving the thick white program labeled “A Night at the Maharajah’s Palace Souvenir Journal.” She held it open with a thick thumb adorned with a citrine ring and the Major read over her long thumbnail:

  COLONEL PETTIGREW SAVES THE DAY

  An interpretive dance performance incorporating historic Mughal folk dance traditions, which tells the true story of the brave stand in which local hero Colonel Arthur Pettigrew, of the British army in India, held off a train full of murderous thugs to rescue a local Maharajah’s youngest wife.

  For his heroism, the Colonel was awarded a British Order of Merit and personally presented with a pair of fine English sporting guns by the grateful Maharajah. After partition, the Maharajah was forced to give up his province but was happily resettled in Geneva with his wives and extended family.

  After the dance, a Silver Tea Tray of recognition will be awarded to the family of the late Colonel by our distinguished Honorary Event Chair, Lord Daniel Dagenham.

  “Relative of yours?” asked Dr. Khan.

  “My father,” said the Major.

  “Such an honor,” said Mrs. Khan. “You must be very thrilled.”

  “The whole thing’s a bit embarrassing,” said the Major, who could not quell a small bubble of satisfaction. He looked at Mrs. Ali to see whether she was at all impressed. She smiled, but she seemed to be biting her lip to keep from chuckling.

  “It is absurd the fuss they make,” said Mrs. Khan. “My husband is quite appalled at the way they’ve splashed the sponsors all over the cover.” They all looked at the front cover, where the sponsors were listed in descending type size, beginning with “St. James Executive Homes” in a bold headline and finishing up, behind “Jakes and Sons Commercial Lawn Supplies,” with a tiny italic reference to “Premiere League Plastic Surgery.” This last was Dr. Khan’s practice, the Major surmised.

  “Who on earth is ‘St. James Executive Homes’?” said Dr. Khan. The Major did not feel like enlightening him. However, the mystery of the decorative extravagance was now clear: Ferguson had made another shrewd move toward controlling the locals.

  “They want to build big houses all over Edgecombe St. Mary,” said Mrs. Ali. “Only the rich and the well-connected will be allowed to buy.”

  “What a clever idea,” said Mrs. Khan to her husband. “We should look into how big a house is permitted.”

  “It’s Lord Dagenham’s doing,” added Mrs. Ali.

  “I understand Lord Dagenham is to present the award to you himself tonight,” said Mrs. Khan to the Major. “My husband was so relieved not to be asked. He loves to contribute, but he hates the limelight.”

  “Of course, when you’re a lord, you don’t have to come up with any cash,” said Dr. Khan. He took a long drink from his small glass of gin and tried in vain to signal for another round.

  “My husband is very generous,” added Mrs. Khan.

  A small drumroll interrupted their c
onversation. Alec Shaw, turban once again quivering on his head, announced the arrival of the Maharajah himself, accompanied by his royal court. The orchestra broke into a vaguely recognizable processional piece.

  “Is that Elgar?” asked the Major.

  “I think it’s from The King and I or something similar,” said Mrs. Ali. She was actively chuckling now.

  The crowd pressed to the sides of the dance floor. The Major found himself pinned uncomfortably between the doctor’s sword hilt and Mrs. Khan’s upholstered hip. He stood as tall as possible so as to shrink away from any contact. Mrs. Ali looked equally uncomfortable trapped on the other side of the doctor.

  From the lobby, down the crimson carpet, there came two waiters carrying long banners, followed by Lord Dagenham and his niece dressed in sumptuous costumes. Dagenham, in purple tunic and turban, seemed to be having some difficulty in not snagging his scimitar on his spurred boots, while Gertrude, who had obviously been instructed to wave her arms about to display her flowing sleeves, held them at a stiff thirty degrees from her body and clumped down the length of the room as if still wearing wellies instead of satin slippers. Two lines of dancing girls—the lunch ladies—trudged after them, led by the light-footed Amina in a peacock blue pajama costume. She had hidden her hair under a tight satin wrap and though her face, below kohl-ringed eyes, was obscured behind a voluminous chiffon veil, she looked surprisingly beautiful. There was a distinct symmetry to her troupe: and as they passed, it came to the Major that they had been arranged in order of their willingness to participate, the lead girls wriggling their arms with abandon while those in the back trudged with sullen embarrassment.

  Two drummers and a silent sitar player followed the girls, then two more waiters with flags, the fire-eater, and finally a tumbling acrobat, who did a few spins in place to give the procession time to exit. The flag bearers had some difficulty getting through the door stage left and the Major noticed a faint singed smell that suggested the fire-eater had been impatient. Lord Dagenham and his niece mounted the stage from opposite sides and came together behind Alec, who gave them a low bow and almost tumbled the microphone stand. Lord Dagenham made a small leap to steady it.