Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

The Major allowed himself to be persuaded. To hell with women, anyway, he thought as he went to find his golf bag. How much better it was to focus on the manly friendships that were the foundation of a quiet life.

Preparations for “An Evening at the Mughal Court” were in full vulgar display as the Major arrived early for his game. In the annex beyond the Grill, where tea and coffee urns were usually set out for morning golfers, there was no urn in sight. Instead, all the tables had been pushed aside to create rehearsal space in front of the stage. The girls of the luncheon staff, their scowls deepened with concentration, were engaged in flinging scarves about with their arms and stamping their feet as if to crush earwigs. They wore anklets of tiny bells whose seamless jarring wash of sound gave away the fact that not a single dancer was moving in time with any other. Amina, the young woman from the Taj Mahal restaurant, seemed to be teaching the group. George was ensconced on top of a steep pile of chairs, drawing with a fat colored pencil in a thick sketchbook.

“Five, six, seven… hold the eight for two beats… stamp, stamp!” called Amina, leading with graceful steps from the front while the women lumbered behind her. The Major thought she might be better off turning around to watch them, but then perhaps it was too painful to look at the sweating faces and assorted large feet for an extended period. As he scanned the entire room in vain for a tea urn, trying to remain invisible, a cry went up from a large girl in the back row.

“I’m not doing this if people keep coming in looking at us. They told us it would be private.”

“Yeah, we’re in bare feet here,” said another girl. The entire troupe glared as if the Major had invaded the ladies’ locker room. George looked up from his book and waved. His stack of chairs wobbled.

“Sorry, just looking for some tea,” said the Major. The girls continued to glare. Having been relieved of their other duties in order to do whatever it was they were actually doing, they had no intention of helping a club member.

“Girls, we only have a couple of weeks to do this,” said Amina, clapping her hands together. “Let’s take a five-minute tea break and then we’ll talk about feeling the rhythm.” The Major had not expected to hear such a tone of authority coming from someone so scruffy and odd. Even more surprising was how the girls shuffled obediently through the swing doors to the kitchen with scarcely a mutter. The Major tried not to think of so many sweaty footprints on the kitchen floor.

“Major Pettigrew, right?” said Amina. “You were at the Taj Mahal with Miss DeVere and that Mrs. Ali?”

“Nice to see you and George again,” said the Major, waving at the boy and not answering the particulars of her question. “May I ask what you are attempting to do with our lovely ladies of the luncheon service?”

“I’m trying to teach them some basic folk dance routines to perform at the big dance,” said Amina with a sour laugh. “Sadie Khan told Miss DeVere that I dance, and they asked me to help.”

“Oh, dear, I’m truly sorry,” said the Major. “I can’t believe she roped you in to something so impossible.”

“If it was easy, I wouldn’t have done it,” said Amina, an ugly frown flickering across her face. “I don’t take charity.”

“No, of course not,” he said.

“Oh, who am I kidding? I really needed the money,” said Amina. “They’re not so bad if you don’t ask them to do more than three different steps. So we’ll be shaking a lot of hips, and I’m thinking of bringing bigger scarves.”

“Yes, the more veils the better, I think,” said the Major. “The naked feet will be quite alarming enough.”

“So, how well do you know Mrs. Ali?” she asked abruptly.

“Mrs. Ali runs a very nice shop,” said the Major, responding to the direct question with automatic evasiveness. “So many of our village shops are being lost today.” There was a brief pause. “May I assume you are a dancer by profession?” he added by way of turning the conversation.

“Dance, yoga, aerobics. Dance doesn’t pay very well, so I teach whatever,” she said. “Do you think she’s nice, then, Mrs. Ali?”

“You are obviously very good at what you do,” said the Major. The lunch girls were filing back into the room and he felt multiple ears listening to the conversation.

“I was hoping you could tell me more about her,” said Amina. “I was thinking of going over to see her. I heard she wants some parttime help in the shop.”

“You did?” said the Major who couldn’t see quite see her in a shop apron, stacking tins of spaghetti rings and being polite to old ladies. On the other hand, she could hardly be worse than the grumpy nephew. “I can tell you Mrs. Ali’s a lovely woman. Very nice shop,” he said again.

“Of course, it’s not what I want to do long term-shop work.” She seemed to be talking to herself, the Major thought. “And it’d have to be school hours or I’d have to bring George with me.”

“I hope you get the job,” said the Major. He looked away toward the door and raised an eyebrow to acknowledge an imaginary passing acquaintance-an invisible Alec to help him escape the room. “I must be getting along to find my partner.”

“D’you think you could give us a lift after your game?” said the young woman. The Major knew he should answer, but he found he had no idea how to parry such a bold request from a stranger. He simply stared at her. “Only it’s two different buses from here to Edgecombe,” she added. “We’ll probably have to hitchhike.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” said the Major. “Not safe at all, hitchhiking, especially with the boy.”

“Thank you, then,” she said. “I’ll wait and go with you.”

“I may be some time,” he began.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of work here,” she said as the slack-postured lunch girls filed back from the kitchen. “They’ve offered us lunch and then we can just wait for you in the lobby.” Several faces perked up as she said this and the Major had the horrible sensation of being caught making an assignation. He fled as fast as possible, determined to retrieve his golf bag and wait discreetly somewhere outside until Alec arrived.

“Ah, there you are,” said Alec. “Is there a reason you’re loitering in a hedge, and do you realize that ancient bag of yours rather gives the whole thing away?”

“I am not loitering,” said the Major. “I am simply indulging in a few moments of pastoral solitude-together with my very distinguished bag, which you covet and of which you therefore feel compelled to make fun.” They both looked at the bag, a well-oiled leather bag that had belonged to the Major’s father and that bore a small embossed leather patch from the Lahore Gymkhana Club. It reclined on a vintage wooden-wheeled carrier with a bamboo handle and was a source of some pride to the Major.

“I thought maybe you were trying to avoid the secretary. I hear he’s looking for you.”

“Why would he be looking for me?” said the Major as they set off toward the first tee.

“Probably wants to sort out about your son,” Alec said. “I hear there was some mix-up when he came in the other day?”

“My son?” asked the Major with surprise.

“Didn’t you know he was here?” asked Alec, his eyebrows stretching like two rabbits getting up from a nap.

“Well, yes, no, of course-I mean we talked about his taking out a membership,” said the Major.

“He stopped by on Sunday. I happened to be here. I think the secretary was just a little surprised. You hadn’t mentioned it to him and then…” Alec paused, fiddling with the heads of his clubs as he chose his driver. The Major detected a small discomfort in his face. “Well, look, Pettigrew, he’s your son, so perhaps you should have a word with him.”