Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“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 vanished and he thought how glorious the day was.

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

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.