Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

He did not hear or sense Mrs. Ali’s presence in the empty store and so, rather than scour each aisle, the Major made his way as casually as possible back toward the bulk sales area, quite ignoring the tea canisters near the front counter and cash register. Beyond this area was the shop office, a small area hidden behind a curtain of stiff vertical vinyl panels.

He had inspected the prices on each stack of bulk items and had shifted to reviewing the ham-and-egg pies in the back-wall dairy case when Mrs. Ali finally appeared through the vinyl, carrying an armful of Halloween-themed boxes of mini apple pies.

“Major Pettigrew,” she said with surprise.

“Mrs. Ali,” he replied, almost distracted from his purpose by the realization that American Halloween hoopla was making inroads into British baked goods.

“How are you?” She looked around for somewhere to put the boxes.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness the other day.”

“No, no, it was nothing.” She seemed to want to wave her hands but, encumbered by the pies, she could only waggle her fingertips. “And I wanted to apologize-” he began.

“Please don’t mention it,” she said, and her face tightened as she looked past his shoulder. The Major felt between his shoulder blades the presence of the nephew. He turned around. The nephew seemed bulkier in the narrow aisle, his face shadowed by the bright daylight from the shop front. The Major moved aside to let him pass, but the young man stopped and also stepped aside. An invisible pull invited the Major to pass him and exit the shop. His body, stubborn with the desire to stay, kept him planted where he was.

He sensed that Mrs. Ali did not wish him to go on with his apologies in front of her nephew.

“Again, I just wanted to thank you both for your kind condolences,” he said, particularly pleased with the “both,” which dropped in softly, like a perfectly putted golf ball. The nephew was forced to nod his head in appreciation.

“Anything we can do, you must just ask, Major,” said Mrs. Ali. “Beginning, perhaps, with some fresh tea?”

“I am running a little low,” said the Major.

“Very well.” She lifted her chin and spoke to the nephew while looking at a space somewhere over his head. “Abdul Wahid, would you fetch the rest of the Halloween specials and I’ll take care of the Major’s tea order?” She marched past both of them with her armful of cake boxes and the Major followed, squeezing by the nephew with an apologetic smile. The nephew only scowled and then disappeared behind the vinyl curtain.

Dumping the boxes on the counter Mrs. Ali rummaged behind it for her spiral-bound order book and began to leaf through the pages.

“My dear lady,” began the Major. “Your kindness to me-”

“I would rather not discuss it in front of my nephew,” she whispered and a brief frown marred the smoothness of her oval face. “I don’t quite understand,” said the Major.

“My nephew has recently returned from his studies in Pakistan and is not yet reacquainted with many things here.” She looked to make sure the nephew was out of earshot. “He is having some worries about his poor auntie’s well-being, you know. He does not like it when I drive the car.”

“Oh.” It was slowly dawning on the Major that the nephew’s concerns might include strange men such as himself. He felt disappointment sag his cheeks.

“Not that I have any intention of paying the least heed, of course,” she said, and this time she smiled and touched a hand to her hair as if to check that it was not escaping its tightly coiled, low bun. “Only I’m trying to reeducate him slowly. The young can be so stubborn.”

“Quite. I quite understand.”

“So if I can do anything for you, Major, you must just ask,” she said. Her eyes were so warm and brown, the expression of concern on her face so genuine that the Major, after a quick look around himself, threw caution to the winds.

“Well, actually,” he stammered. “I was wondering if you were going to town later this week. It’s just that I’m still not feeling well enough to drive and I have to stop in and see the family solicitor.”

“I usually go in on Thursday afternoons but I can possibly-”

“Thursday would be fine,” said the Major quickly.

“I could pick you up around two o’clock?” she asked.

The Major, feeling very tactful, lowered his voice. “Perhaps it would be most convenient if I waited at the bus stop on the main road-save you driving all the way up to me?”

“Yes, that would be perfectly convenient,” she said, and smiled. The Major felt that he was in danger of smiling like a fool.

“See you Thursday, then,” he said. “Thank you.” As he left the shop, it occurred to him that he had failed to buy any tea. It was just as well really, since he was amply stocked for his own needs and visited only by those who brought their own. As he strode back across the village green, he was aware of a lighter step and easier heart.

Thursday morning, the Major surfaced from sleep to the sound of rain hammering at the eaves like fists. It was also dripping, in an infuriatingly random and unmusical pattern, onto the weak spot on the windowsill where the wood was beginning to soften. The bedroom swam in blue darkness and from the stuffy cocoon of his blankets he could picture the clouds dropping their heavy loads of water as they bumped against the flank of the Downs. The room, with its heavy beams, seemed to be actively sucking in all the damp. The blue-striped wallpaper looked yellow in the strange rainy light and ready to peel itself off the thick plaster walls under the weight of the moist air. He lay in a stupor, sunk in the clumped duck-down pillow, and watched his hopes for the day being washed away down the bubbled glass of the window.

He cursed himself for having assumed the weather would be sunny. Perhaps it was the result of evolution, he thought-some adaptive gene that allowed the English to go on making blithe outdoor plans in the face of almost certain rain. He remembered Bertie’s wedding, almost forty years ago: an alfresco luncheon at a small hotel with no room in the boxy dining room for fifty guests seeking shelter from a sudden thunderstorm. He seemed to remember Marjorie crying and an absurd amount of wet tulle whipped around her angular frame like a melting meringue. He was not usually such a fool about rain. When he played golf, he made sure to carry a pair of his old army gaiters with him, ready to strap them around his socks at the first sign of a shower. He kept a rolled-up yellow raincoat in the boot of his car and had a collection of stout umbrellas in the front hall rack. He had been teased at many a cricket match, on blazing hot days, for always carrying a small folding stool that held a plastic poncho in a zippered side pocket. No, he had not even considered the question of weather or so much as looked at the paper or the six o’clock news because he had wanted today to be sunny and, like King Canute demanding that the sea withdraw, he had simply willed the sun to shine.

The sun was to have been his excuse to turn a borrowed car ride into something more. An invitation to walk the seafront would have been entirely appropriate, given the beauty of the day. Now a walk was out of the question and he was afraid that an invitation to afternoon tea in a hotel would reflect too much presumption. He sat up rather suddenly and the room swam around him. What if Mrs. Ali used the rain as an excuse to telephone and cancel entirely? He would have to reschedule his meeting with Mortimer or drive himself.

Assuming she did not cancel, there were certain adjustments to be made to his grooming and wardrobe. He got up, slipped his feet into Moroccan leather slippers, and padded over to the large pine wardrobe. He had planned on a tweed jacket, wool slacks, and a splash of celebratory aftershave. However, the tweed gave off a faint odor when moist. He didn’t want to fill Mrs. Ali’s small car with a smell like wet sheep dipped in bay rum. He stood for a moment and ruminated.