Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“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.

“What he means is…” Alec paused as if he had just now lost an entirely diplomatic explanation.

“Are we to take it that you disapprove of our efforts, Major?” asked Daisy in a low voice.

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Alec. “Look, best leave us out of it, ladies. As long as the bar is open, we’ll be happy, won’t we, Pettigrew?” The Major felt a discreet tug on his arm; Alec was signaling the retreat. The Major pulled away and looked directly at Daisy.

“What I meant to say, Mrs. Green, is that while last year’s theme was most creative-”

“Yes, very creative, most entertaining,” interrupted Alec.

“-not all the guests carried on in the decorous manner that I’m sure you had counted upon.”

“That’s hardly the fault of the committee,” said Alma.

“Quite, quite,” said the Major. “Yet it was most distressing to see ladies of your standing subjected to the rowdiness sometimes sparked by the perceived license of a costume party.”

“You are absolutely right, Major,” said Daisy. “In fact, I think the Major brings up such a good point that we should reconsider our themes.”

“Thank you,” said the Major.

“I do believe that one of our themes, and only one, calls for the appropriate decorum and elegant behavior. I believe we can cross off ‘Flappers and Fops’ as well as ‘Brigadoon.’ ”

“Oh, but surely ‘Brigadoon’ is beyond reproach,” said Alma. “And the country dancing would be so much fun-”

“Men in kilts and running off into the heather?” said Daisy. “Really, Alma, I’m surprised at you.”

“We can run off into the heather at home if you like,” said Alec, winking at his wife.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. Tears seemed imminent as two red spots burned in her cheeks.

“I think that leaves us with ‘An Evening at the Mughal Court’-a most elegant theme,” said Daisy.

“I thought ‘Mughal Madness’ was the name?” said the bucket hat lady.

“A working title only,” said Daisy. “ ‘Evening at the Court’ will send an appropriate message of decorum. We must thank the Major for his contribution to our efforts.” The ladies clapped and the Major, speechless with the futility of protest, was reduced to giving them a small bow.