Major Pettigrew's Last Stand: A Novel

by Helen Simonson

  The Major, with Grace’s complete agreement, had decided he would look ridiculous, and be more talked about, if he avoided the village shop, so he continued to pop in though every visit was painful, like picking at a scab. Amina, who worked during school hours and in the evenings, had lost the spiky tufts from her hair and no longer wore any bright colors or wild footwear. She maintained a subdued, noncommittal tone when Abdul Wahid’s ancient auntie was around.

  “How’s little George?” he asked during a moment when she was alone. “I never see him.”

  “He’s fine,” she said, ringing up his bag of cakes and two navel oranges as if she had always worked a till. “Two kids were mean to him his first day of school and there was a rumor that one family was taking their kids out. But the headmistress told them they wouldn’t get a free bus pass to the school they wanted, so that told them.”

  “You seem very accepting.” Where had her usual prickliness gone? She looked at him squarely, and for a moment her eyes flashed with the old anger.

  “Look, we all make our own beds,” she said in a low voice. “George lives here now, and he has a father who makes a solid living in his own business.” She looked around to check the shop was empty. “If that means biting my tongue and not chewing the heads off the customers, well, I know what I have to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling a little nibbled.

  “And if it means giving up dancing, and having to wear old-lady shoes, well …” Here she paused and gave him a conspiratorial grin. “I can stand it while I need to.”

  A few days later, on Christmas Eve, he met her in the lane by his house. She was pressed into the hedge shivering and smoking a cigarette. She looked nervous when he smiled at her.

  “I don’t smoke anymore,” she said. She ground the stub beneath her sensible shoe and then kicked it away. “Soon as I’m married, I’m going to make Abdul Wahid send that old bat home. She gives me the creeps.”

  “You don’t get along?” asked the Major, hoping for a dizzy moment that Mrs. Ali might return.

  “They say she was a midwife in her village.” Amina spoke as if talking to herself. “If you ask me, I think that’s code for some kind of witch.” She looked at him and anger burned in her dark eyes. “If she pinches George one more time, I’m going to slap her silly.”

  “Do you hear from Mrs. Ali—Jasmina?” he asked, desperate to bring her name into the conversation. “Perhaps she might return to help you.” Amina hesitated, as if unwilling to say anything, but then added in a rush, “They say if Jasmina doesn’t like where she is, she’ll go to Pakistan and live with her sister.”

  “But she never wanted to go to Pakistan,” said the Major, appalled.

  “I can’t say for sure. It’s not really my place to get involved.” Here she looked away with what the Major took to be a consciousness of guilt. “She’ll have to work it out herself.”

  “Your happiness was important to her,” said the Major, hoping to suggest a similar responsibility in Amina.

  “You can’t reduce life to something as simple as happiness,” she said. “There’s always some bloody compromise to be made—like having to work in a godawful shop for the rest of your life.”

  “I was supposed to teach George chess,” said the Major. He realized he was clutching for some last continued filament of connection to Jasmina, however tenuous.

  “He has a lot going on right now,” she said too quickly. “And he’s spending his free time with his father.”

  “Of course,” said the Major. Hope melted in the soft cold of the lane.

  He held out his hand and, though she looked surprised, Amina shook it. “I admire your tenacity, young lady,” he said. “You are the kind of person who will succeed in making your own happiness. George is a lucky boy.”

  “Thank you,” she said, turning away down the hill. As she left, she turned her head and grimaced at him. “George may not agree with you tomorrow. Now that we live with his father, I’ve told him Christmas is strictly a store decoration. He won’t be getting any of the gifts his nanni and I used to slip under his pillow.”

  As she disappeared from sight, the Major found himself wondering whether it was too late to rush to town to buy George a solid but not overly expensive chess set. He quashed this idea with a sigh, refusing to give in to the foolish human tendency toward butting in where one was not wanted. He reminded himself that when he got home, he really should put away the little book of Kipling poems, which he had left on the mantelpiece. There had been no note tucked inside (he had shaken out the pages in hope of some brief parting message) and it was foolish to keep it out as if it were a talisman. He would put it away, and then later he would pop over to Little Puddleton to pick up a Christmas gift for Grace; something plain and tasteful that would suggest a depth of friendship without implying any nonsense. Fifty pounds should cover it. Then he would call in on Roger and let him know he would be bringing a guest for Christmas dinner.

  Chapter 19

  He thought for a moment that they were not home. A single lamp burned in the window of the cottage, as people like to leave who have gone out and who wish to deter burglars and also not stumble about in the dark when they return. The front hall and bedroom floor were dark and no flicker of television or sound of a stereo gave any sign of life.

  The Major knocked anyway and was surprised to hear the scraping of a chair and feet in the passage. Several bolts were drawn and the door opened to reveal Sandy, dressed in jeans and a white sweater, carrying in her hand a large, professional-looking packing tape dispenser. She seemed pale and unhappy. Her skin was scrubbed bare of makeup, and her hair escaped in wisps from the rolled-up scarf she wore as a headband.

  “Don’t shoot,” he said, raising his hands a little.

  “Sorry, come on in,” she said, laying the dispenser down on a small console table and letting him into the warm hallway. “Roger didn’t tell me you were coming over.” She gave him a hug, which he found disconcerting but not unpleasant.

  “He didn’t know,” said the Major, hanging up his coat on a hook made from some bleached animal bone. “Spur-of-the-moment visit. I was just shopping in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop off a couple of gifts and wish you happy Christmas Eve.”

  “He’s not here,” she said. “But you and I can have a drink, can’t we?”

  “A dry sherry would be welcome,” he said advancing into a very sparsely furnished living room where he stopped in his tracks to peer at a giant black bottle brush that he supposed must be a Christmas tree. It reached the ceiling and was decorated only with silver balls in graduated sizes. It glowed in waves of blue light from the fiber-optic tips of its many branches. “Good heavens, is it Christmas in Hades?” he asked.

  “Roger insisted. It’s considered very chic,” said Sandy, busy aiming a remote control at the chimney, where flames lit up in a fire basket of white pebbles. “I was prepared to go more traditional down here, but since it cost a fortune and it’ll be out of fashion by next year, I threw it in the car and brought it down with me.”

  “I am usually all in favor of domestic economy,” he said doubtfully as she poured a large sherry over so much ice he would have to drink fast or face complete dilution.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s hideous.”

  “Perhaps you can rent it out in the spring to clean chimneys?”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to have you over before.” She waved him to the low white leather couch. It had a short, rounded back and no arms, like a banquette in a ladies’ shoe store. “Roger wanted everything to be done before he showed it off, and then we got stuck with a whole lot of banker dinner parties and such.” Her voice was low and uninflected and the Major worried about whether she was feeling unwell, which might have unknown ramifications for Christmas Day’s dinner effort. She poured herself a large glass of red wine and curled her long legs onto a metal chaise that seemed to be covered in horse skin. She waved her hand around the room and the Major tried to
take in the white cropped fur of the rug and the wood-rimmed glass coffee table and the colored metal shades of a standing lamp that bristled like a temporary traffic light.

  “Saves on the dusting I suppose, keeping things minimal,” he said. “The floors look very clean.”

  “We scraped off seven layers of linoleum and sanded off so much varnish, I thought we were going right through the boards,” she said looking at the pale honey of the wide planks. “Our contractor says they’ll be good now for another lifetime.”

  “It’s a lot of effort for a rented place.” The Major had wanted to say something more complimentary and was annoyed that the same old critical language had come from his lips unchecked. “I mean, I hope you get to keep it.”

  “Well, that was the plan,” she said. “Now I suppose Roger will try to buy it and flip it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  To his surprise, she started crying. The tears ran down her cheeks in silence as she cupped one hand over her face and turned away toward the fire. The wine trembling in the glass in her other hand was the only visible movement. The Major could see misery in the hunch of her back and the shadowed edge of her frail collarbones. He swallowed down some sherry and put his glass very quietly on the coffee table before speaking.

  “Something is the matter,” he said. “Where is Roger?”

  “He’s gone to the party at the manor house.” Bitterness clipped her words short. “I told him he should go if that’s what he wanted, and he went.”

  The Major considered this as he shifted his weight on the uncomfortable leather. It was never wise to get in the middle of a couple who were having a domestic squabble: one inevitably got sucked into taking sides and, just as inevitably, the couple worked things out and then turned on all who had dared to criticize either party. He feared, however, that his son must be at fault if such a self-possessed woman had been reduced to the fragility of glass.

  “What can I do to help you?” he asked, removing a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and offering it to her. “Can I get you some water?”

  “Thank you.” She took the handkerchief to wipe her face with slow measured strokes. “I’ll be fine in a minute. Sorry to act so stupid.”

  When he came back from the kitchen, which was a sort of space-age farmhouse look with wooden cabinets with no visible legs, she looked strained but controlled. She drank as if she had been thirsty for a while.

  “Feeling any better?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Sorry to put you in such a position. I promise not to start telling you everything that’s wrong with your son.”

  “Whatever he’s done, I’m sure he’ll be sorry directly,” said the Major. “I mean, it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “It won’t matter, anyway. I won’t be here when he gets back,” she said. “I was just taping up a couple of boxes of my stuff to be sent on later.”

  “You’re leaving?” he said.

  “I’m driving back to London tonight and flying home to the States tomorrow.”

  “But you can’t leave now,” he said. “It’s Christmas.” She smiled at him and he saw that her eyeliner had run. It was probably now all over his handkerchief.

  “Funny, isn’t it, how people insist on hanging on through the holidays,” she said. “Can’t have an empty seat at the dinner table—think of the kids. Can’t dump him before New Year’s because you must have someone to kiss at midnight?”

  “It’s hard to be alone during Christmas,” he said. “Can’t you stay and work things out?”

  “It’s not so hard,” she said and he saw, as a flicker across her face, that there had been other Christmases alone. “There will always be a fabulous party to go to and fabulous important people to mingle with.”

  “I thought you were—fond of each other,” he said, choosing to tread lightly over any mention of love or marriage.

  “We are.” She looked around her, not at the stylish furnishings but at the heavy beams and the smooth floor and the old slats of the kitchen door. “I just forgot what we started out to do, and I got kinda carried away with the thought of this place.” She turned away again and her voice trembled. “You have no idea, Major, how hard it is to keep up with the world sometimes—just to keep up with ourselves. I guess I let myself dream I could get out for a while.” She wiped her eyes again and stood up and smoothed her sweater. “A cottage in the country is a dangerous dream, Major. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better finish my packing.”

  “Is there nothing I can do to fix this?” asked the Major. “Can I go and fetch him home? My son is an idiot in many respects, but I know he cares for you and—well, if you let him go, then we have to let you go and that’s three of us made all the lonelier.” He felt as if he were being left behind on the dock while all around him others chose to embark on journeys without him. It felt not like loss but like an injustice that he should always remain behind.

  “No, don’t go after him,” she said. “It’s all decided. We both need to get back to doing what we do.” She held out her hand and as he took it, she leaned in to kiss him on both cheeks. Her face was damp and her hands cold. “If I make my connection in New York, I might be able to join our Russian friends in Las Vegas for a few days. I think it’s about time we moved the center of the fashion world to Moscow, don’t you?” She laughed and the Major saw that with a new application of makeup, a fresh suit, and the ministrations of the crew in the first-class cabin she expected to cement over any crack in her heart and move on.

  “I envy you your youth,” he said. “I hope you find a way to be happy in the world one day.”

  “I hope you find someone to cook your turkey,” she said. “You do know not to rely on Roger, right?”

  The Major awoke Christmas morning with a feeling that today was to be the low point of his world, an Antarctic of the spirit. Getting out of bed, he went to the window and leaned his head against the cold glass to look at the dark drizzle over the garden. There were holes in the back field now, and a large digging machine with a tall arm, some kind of core testing drill, was parked against his hedge as if the driver had tried to arrange for its massive rusting bulk some shred of protection. The trees hung their heads under the constant dripping, and mud ran thick in the gaps between paving stones as if the earth were melting. It did not seem like a day to rejoice in a birth that had promised the world a new path to the Lord.

  The morning began with the awkward question of how early to telephone Roger. It had to be done soon, yet who among the bravest of men would relish calling a drunkard out of his slumber to remind him, in the agonies of the hangover and the anguish of a lost love, that the turkey has to go in at 200 Celsius, and not to let the giblets boil dry? He was tempted not to call at all, but he did not want to parade Roger’s humiliations before Grace and besides, he wanted his Christmas dinner. Compounding the difficulty was that he had no idea how large a bird Roger and Sandy might have purchased. Hazarding a guess that they would have been intimidated by anything over fifteen pounds, he waited until the last possible moment, eight thirty, to pick up the phone. He had to redial two more times before a hoarse voice answered.

  “Hurro,” whispered the ghost of Roger, voice desiccated and distant.

  “Roger, have you put the turkey in yet?”

  “Hurro,” came the voice again. “Who, who the … what day is it?”

  “It’s the fourteenth of January,” said the Major. “I think you’ve overslept.”

  “What the …”

  “It’s Christmas Day and it’s already past eight thirty,” said the Major. “You must get up and put on the turkey, Roger.”

  “I think it’s in the garden,” said Roger. The Major heard a faint retching and held the phone away from his ear in disgust.

  “Roger?”

  “I think I threw the turkey out the window,” said Roger. “Or maybe I threw it through the window. There’s a big draft in here.”

  “So go and fetch it,” said the Major.

&nb
sp; “She left me, Dad.” Roger’s voice was now a thin wail. “She wasn’t here when I got home.” The Major heard a sniffling sound from the phone and was annoyed to feel rising in his chest a sense of compassion for his son.

  “I know all about it,” said the Major. “Take a hot bath and some aspirin and get into clean clothes. I’ll come and take over.”

  He called Grace, just to let her know he would be out for the morning and that he would drive over and pick her up at noon as arranged. He found himself sketching quickly what had happened, mostly in case she would like to withdraw from the festivities.

  “I can’t promise what shape dinner will be in,” he said.

  “Can I come and help you with dinner, or would that be too embarrassing for your son?” she asked.

  “Any embarrassment on his part is entirely self-induced and therefore not to be encouraged,” said the Major who, to tell the truth, was not sure whether he remembered how to make gravy or when to put in the pudding. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure there was to be a pudding. He was clutched by a sudden horror that Roger and Sandy might have commissioned a bûche de Noël to match their hideous tree, or planned to serve something strange, like mango. “But I wouldn’t want to put you out,” he added.

  “Major, I am up for the challenge,” she said. “I will confess that I’ve been dressed for hours and I’m sitting about here with my bag and my gloves doing absolutely nothing. Do let me help you in this time of need.”

  “I’ll pick you up directly,” said the Major. “We’d better bring our own aprons.”

  Can the bleakest of circumstances be pushed aside for a few hours by the redeeming warmth of a fire and the smell of a dinner roasting in the oven? This was the question the Major pondered as he sipped a glass of champagne and stared out the window of Roger’s kitchen at the wilting garden. Behind him, a large saucepan jiggled its lid as the pudding simmered; Grace was straining gravy through a sieve. The turkey, rescued from under the hedge, had proved to be organic, which meant it was expensive and skinny. It was also missing a wing but, well washed and stuffed lightly with brown bread and chestnuts, it was now turning a satisfying caramel color atop a pan of roasting vegetables. Roger was still sleeping; the Major had peeked in and seen him, wet hair sticking up all over and mouth open on the pillow.