Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Yes, yes of course,” said Grace in a voice that telegraphed her complete lack of such a recollection. Mrs. Khan leaned completely across Mrs. Ali to shake Grace’s hand.

“Such a crush of people, but my husband and I feel we must support such basic institutions,” added Mrs. Khan. She stepped back and seemed to see Mrs. Ali for the first time.

“Why, Jasmina, you are here, too?” she asked. The Major recognized the use of Mrs. Ali’s first name as a deliberate slight but he was very grateful to finally hear it. It sounded enchanting even from such a raw and ill-intentioned source.

“Saadia,” said Mrs. Ali, inclining her head again.

“Why, what a treat it must be for you to be liberated from the shop counter,” added Mrs. Khan. “A small break from the frozen peas and newspapers?”

“I think you have some fabric samples to show us?” said Mrs. Rasool.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Khan. “My assistant Noreen and her niece are bringing them now.” They watched Mrs. Khan’s lunch companion and a younger woman struggle through the heavy restaurant door with several armfuls of sample books and a small box of fabrics. A small boy followed, carrying a large book precariously in both arms. The Major recognized him immediately as the young boy from the Promenade. He felt a schoolboy flush of panic rise into his face at the possibility that he and Mrs. Ali would be exposed. Of course, there had been only public tea drinking, not some kind of debauchery. Still, as the small group came slowly across the expanse of the restaurant, running the gauntlet of curious faces, he felt miserable that he was to be discovered in his private friendship. The Major could not move. He could only clutch the back of Mrs. Ali’s chair and guess the feelings in the glossy head beside him.

“Oh, my goodness, the niece has brought her boy,” said Mrs. Khan in a loud whisper to Mrs. Rasool. “I’ll get rid of him right away-what was she thinking?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Rasool. She laid a hand on Mrs. Khan’s sleeve. “It will be perfectly all right.”

“I’m trying to help, if only for Noreen’s sake,” said Mrs. Khan. “But the young woman is very difficult.” She gave the Major and Grace an uncomfortable glance.

“What a darling little boy,” exclaimed Grace as the women dropped their heavy load onto a nearby table and the boy struggled to do the same. “What’s his name?” There was the briefest of pauses, as if introductions had not been expected. The woman named Noreen looked quite frightened. She patted her thin gray hair with a nervous hand and darted her eyes at Mrs. Khan, whose lips were pressed to a thin line.

“I couldn’t just leave him in the car,” said the young woman, also looking at Saadia Khan, but with a face as fierce as her aunt’s was meek.

“I believe his name is George,” said Mrs. Ali, dispelling the tension. She got up and went to over to shake the small boy by the hand again. “We had the pleasure of meeting in the park. Did you manage to get your ball all the way home?”

The young woman frowned and swung George up onto her hip. “He managed that day, but he lost it down a drain on the way to the shops the next day.” She said nothing to the Major, giving him only a brief nod. Today she wore a long, shapeless black dress over leggings; the tone was spoiled only by violently crimson sneakers that laced up over the ankle. Her hair was partially hidden under a stretchy bandana. She had made an obvious effort to dress more conservatively, but it seemed to the Major that she had just as deliberately measured out a stubborn resistance. She looked as out of place at the restaurant as she had done on the Promenade, when she had screamed at the tea lady.

“Jasmina, I believe Amina and George are from your home turf up north,” said Mrs. Khan with a silky smile. “Perhaps your families are acquainted?”

The Major couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Ali was amused or angry. She compressed her lips as if suppressing a chuckle, but her eyes flashed.

“I don’t think so, Saadia,” she replied. The Major detected a deliberate avoidance of the name Sadie. “It’s a big place.”

“Actually, I think you might have a nephew my age who used to live there,” Amina put in. Her aunt Noreen trembled like a leaf in a sudden squall and fiddled with the books of fabrics. “Maybe I went to school with him?”

“Well, perhaps, but he left a while ago,” said Mrs. Ali. There was a hint of caution in her voice that the Major had not heard before. “He has been in Pakistan studying for some time.”

“And now I hear he is living with you,” said Mrs. Khan. “How fortunate to be given the chance to move to Sussex. My charity does a lot of work in these northern cities, and there are many, many problems.” She patted Amina on the arm as if Amina constituted most of them. The young woman opened her mouth and looked from one to the other as if torn between saying something more to Mrs. Ali and delivering a stinging retort to Sadie Khan. Before she could speak, her aunt gave a savage tug to her arm and she clamped her mouth shut again and turned away to help unfold a length of heavy fabric. The Major watched them tussle over it in silent argument.

“Shall we talk about decorations?” said Mrs. Rasool, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “Why don’t you show us the table runner fabrics first, Mrs. Khan?”

Mrs. Khan, Mrs. Rasool, and Grace were soon arguing over the relative merits of the iridescent sorbet sheers and the heavy damasks resplendent with rioting paisleys. Amina and her aunt Noreen unfolded fabrics and turned sample book pages in silence, the former with pressed lips. The Major regained his seat and the waiters brought glasses of hot tea. Ignoring the elderly Rasools, the Major watched Mrs. Ali invite George to climb up on her lap.

She handed him the teaspoon dipped in honey and he gave it a cautious lick. “George likes honey,” he said with a perfectly serious face. “Is it organic?” Mrs. Ali laughed.

“Well, George, I’ve never seen anyone injecting bees with antibiotics,” said the Major, who was generally in favor of medicating sick livestock and saw nothing wrong in a healthy application of properly aged manure. George frowned at him, and for a moment the Major was reminded of Mrs. Ali’s dour nephew.

“Organic is better, my mum says.” He ran the spoon down the entire length of his tongue. “My nanni puts honey in her tea, but she died,” he added.

Mrs. Ali bent her head to the top of his and gave his hair a brief kiss. “That must make you and your mother sad,” she said.

“It makes us lonely,” said George. “We’re lonely in the world now.”

“You mean ‘alone’?” asked the Major, aware that he was being pedantic. He resisted the urge to ask about a father. These days it was better not to; and somehow, it seemed unlikely that there was one.

“Can I have more honey?” asked George, closing the subject with a child’s honest abruptness.

“Of course you can,” said Mrs. Ali.

“I like you,” said George.

“Young man, you have very good taste,” said the Major.

Grace came back to the booth beaming and informed the Major of the good news that Mrs. Khan would lend them wall hangings and draperies and charge them at cost for lengths of fabric used as table runners, which were almost certain to get stained.

“It is such an old and important institution in the area,” said Mrs. Khan. “And my husband has so many friends who are members. We are glad to help in any way.”

“I’m sure it will be appreciated,” said the Major. He raised his eyebrows at Grace who gave him a blank smile in return. “Perhaps Grace, you’d like to get a final approval from your committee chairwoman?”