Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Yes, plenty of time later,” interjected Marjorie.

“And yet, since you bring it up, perhaps we should speak frankly on the subject-we’re all family here,” he said. Jemima scowled at him. Marjorie looked back and forth at them both and pursed her lips a few times before speaking.

“Well, Ernest, Jemima has suggested that we might do very well now, selling your father’s guns as a pair.” He said nothing and she rushed on. “I mean, if we sell yours and ours together-we might make quite a bit, and I would like to help Jemima with little Gregory’s education.”

“Yours and ours?” he repeated.

“Well, you have one and we have one,” she continued. “But apparently, they’re not worth nearly as much separately.” She looked at him with wide eyes, willing him to agree with her. The Major felt his vision shift in and out of focus. He scoured his mind wildly for a way out of the conversation, but the moment of confrontation was upon him and he could find no alternative but to speak his mind.

“Since you bring it up… I was under the impression… that Bertie and I had an understanding with each other as to the-to the disposition, as it were, of the guns.” He drew a breath and prepared to thrust himself even into the teeth of the frowning women before him. “It was my understanding… It was our father’s intention… that Bertie’s gun should pass into my care… and vice versa… as circumstances should dictate.” There! The words had been cast at them like boulders from a catapult; now he could only stand his ground and brace for the counterattack.

“Dear me, I know you’ve always been very keen on having that old gun,” said Marjorie. For a moment the Major’s heart leaped at her blushing confusion. Might he even prevail?

“That, Mother, is exactly why I don’t want you talking to anyone without me,” said Jemima. “You are likely to give away half your possessions to anyone who asks.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate, Jemima,” said Marjorie. “Ernest isn’t trying to take anything from us.”

“Yesterday you nearly let that Salvation Army woman talk you into giving her the living room furniture along with the bags of clothes.” She rounded on the Major. “She’s not herself, as you can see, and I won’t have people try to walk all over her, no matter if they are relatives.” The Major felt his neck swell with rage. It would serve Jemima right if he popped a blood vessel and collapsed right on the kitchen floor.

“I resent your implication,” he stammered.

“We’ve always known you were after my father’s gun,” said Jemima. “It wasn’t enough that you took the house, the china, all the money-”

“Look here, I don’t know what money you’re referring to, but-”

“And then all those times you tried to con my father out of the one thing his father gave him.”

“Jemima, that’s enough,” said Marjorie. She had the grace to blush but would not look at him. He wanted to ask her, very quietly, whether this topic, which she had obviously chewed over many times with Jemima, had also been discussed with Bertie. Could Bertie have held on to such resentments all these years and never let it show?

“I did make monetary offers to Bertie over the years,” he conceded with a dry mouth. “But I thought they were always fair market value.” Jemima gave an unpleasant, porcine snort.

“I’m sure they were,” said Marjorie. “Let’s just all be sensible now and work this out together. Jemima says if we sell the pair, we can get such a lot more.”

“Perhaps I might make you some suitable offer myself,” said the Major. He was not sure he sounded very convincing. The figures were already turning in his head and he failed to see immediately how he might part with a substantial cash sum. He lived very well off his army pension, a few investments, and a small annuity that had passed to him from his paternal grandmother and which, he was forced to admit, had not been discussed as part of his parents’ estate. Still, dipping into principal was not a risk he cared to take in anything but an emergency. Might he contemplate some kind of small mortgage on the house? This prompted a shiver of dismay.

“I couldn’t possibly take money from you,” said Marjorie. “I won’t take it.”

“In that case-”

“We’ll just have to be smart and get the highest price we can,” said Marjorie.

“I think we should call the auction houses,” said Jemima. “Get an appraisal.”

“Look here,” said the Major.

“Your grandmother once sold a teapot at Sotheby’s,” said Marjorie to Jemima. “She always hated it-too fussy-then it turned out to be Meissen and they got quite a bit.”

“Of course, you have to pay commission and everything,” said Jemima.

“My father’s Churchills are not being put on the block at public auction like some bankrupt farm equipment,” said the Major firmly. “The Pettigrew name will not be printed in a sale catalog.”

Lord Dagenham quite cheerfully sent off pieces of the Dagenham patrimony to auction now and then. Last year a George II desk of inlaid yew had been shipped off to Christie’s. At the club, he had listened politely to Lord Dagenham boasting of the record price paid by some Russian collector, but secretly he had been deeply distressed by the image of the wide desk, with its thin scrolled legs, duct-taped into an old felt blanket and upended in a rented removal van.

“What else do you suggest?” asked Marjorie. The Major suppressed a desire to suggest that they might consider removing themselves to hell. He calmed his voice to a tone suitable for placating large dogs or small, angry children.

“I would like to suggest that you give me an opportunity to look round a bit,” he said, improvising as he went. “I actually met a very wealthy American gun collector recently. Perhaps I might let him take a look at them.”

“An American?” said Marjorie. “Who is it?”

“I hardly think the name will be familiar to you,” said the Major. “He is-an industrialist.” This sounded more impressive than “builder.”

“Ooh, that sounds like it might do,” said Marjorie.

“Of course, I would have to take a look at Bertie’s gun first. I’m afraid it is probably going to need some restoration work,”

“So I suppose we should just give you the gun right now?” asked Jemima.

“I think that would be best,” said the Major, ignoring her sarcasm. “Of course, you could send it to be restored by the manufacturer, but they will charge you rather steeply. I am in a position to effect a restoration myself at no cost.”

“That’s very kind of you, Ernest,” said Marjorie.

“It is the least I can do for you,” said the Major. “Bertie would expect no less.”

“How long would this take?” asked Jemima. “Christie’s has a gun auction next month.”

“Well, if you want to pay out over fifteen percent in commissions and accept only what the room will offer on the day…” said the Major. “Personally, I cannot see myself consigning my gun to the vagaries of the market.”

“I think we should let Ernest handle it,” said Marjorie.

“As it happens, I will be attending Lord Dagenham’s shoot next month,” continued the Major. “I would have an opportunity to show my American friend how the guns perform as a pair.”

“How much will he pay?” asked Jemima, demonstrating that her mother’s inclination to discuss money in public was evolving down the generations. No doubt little Gregory would grow up to leave the price tags hanging from his clothes and the manufacturer’s sticker still glued to the window of his German sports car.

“That, my dear Jemima, is a delicate subject best broached after the guns have been displayed to their finest advantage.”