Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Look, why don’t you stay to lunch and we could walk down together?” asked the Major. He was worried that Abdul Wahid might be right. If Mrs. Ali persisted in investing in George all her dreams of children and grandchildren, she might well get her heart broken. However, he was reluctant to let the young man precipitate some crisis. Moreover he found himself eager to inflict his guest upon Roger-or perhaps to inflict them on each other, in the hope of jolting both out of their moral complacency. “I would really like you to meet my son properly.”

Abdul Wahid gave a strange bleating sound and the Major realized he was actually laughing.

“Major, your son and his fiancée have brought you an entire feast of pâtés, hams, and other pig-related products. I barely escaped the kitchen with my faith.”

“I’m sure we can make you a cheese sandwich or something,” said the Major. Abdul Wahid shuffled his feet and the Major pressed his invitation home. “I do wish you’d sit around the table with us.”

“I will of course defer to your wishes,” he said. “I will drink a glass of tea if you will allow.”

In the kitchen an unfamiliar cloth of blue-striped burlap had been laid across the table. His best wineglasses, the ones the Major brought out at Christmas, were laid out next to plastic plates in a lurid lime green. A wine bucket he had never used held a bottle of fizzy water chilling in what looked like every last ice cube from the plastic trays. Strange mustards had been decanted into his china finger bowls while an unfamiliar vase like a tree root held a bunch of yellow calla lilies, which had sunk to the tabletop in a low bow. Sandy was tucking more wilting lilies among the bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece. They had kindled an unnecessary but attractive fire in the grate and the Major wondered whether they had purchased firewood in Putney as well. Roger was frying something on the stove.

“Is your jacket smoldering, Roger,” asked the Major, “or are you just cooking something made of tweed?”

“Just a few truffle slices sautéed with foie gras and sorrel,” said Roger. “We had it in a restaurant last week and it was so fabulous I thought I’d try it myself.” He poked at the pan, which was beginning to blacken. “It doesn’t smell quite like the chef made it, though. Perhaps I should have used goose fat instead of lard.”

“How many of us are there for lunch?” asked the Major. “Is there a coach tour about to turn up?”

“Well, Dad, I planned for leftovers,” said Roger. “That way you’ll have some food for the week.” He tipped the contents of the frying pan into a shallow bowl and dumped the black, hissing pan into the sink, where it continued to smoke.

“Ernest, do you have a corkscrew?” asked Sandy and the Major’s indignation at the suggestion that he needed to be provided food was displaced by the need to head off a cultural misunderstanding.

“Abdul Wahid has consented to sit at the table with us, so perhaps I’ll put on the kettle for tea and get us all a nice jug of lemon water,” said the Major. Sandy paused, cradling a bottle of wine against one hip.

“Oh, I say, do we have to-” began Roger.

“Please do not mind my presence,” said Abdul Wahid. “You must drink as you wish.”

“Good show, old man,” said Roger. “If everyone would just show such good manners, we could solve the Middle East crisis tomorrow.” He bent his lips into a vacant smile and displayed teeth too white to be natural.

“Do come and sit down by me, Abdul Wahid,” said Sandy. “I want to ask you more about traditional weaving in Pakistan.”

“I won’t be much help,” said Abdul Wahid. “I was raised in England. I was considered a tourist and an Englishman in Pakistan. I bought my scarf in Lahore, in a department store.”

“Nothing beats a plain glass of cold clear water,” said the Major, who was still rummaging for a corkscrew in the small drawer by the stove. Sandy handed him her wine bottle as she sat down by Abdul Wahid.

“Now, Father, you surely aren’t going to pass up a nice ’75 Margaux,” said Roger. “I picked it out especially for you.”

Two large glasses of decent claret in the middle of the day were not part of the Major’s usual schedule. He had to admit that they imparted a rosy air to a luncheon that would otherwise have been stilted. Sandy’s impeccably made-up face seemed soft in the haze of firelight and wine. Roger’s brash commands-he had compelled them to swirl their wine around the glass and stick their noses in as if they had never tasted a decent vintage before-seemed almost endearing. The Major wondered whether his son acted in this eager way in front of his friends in London and whether they were indulgent of his enthusiasms or just laughed at him behind his back for his feeble attempts to order everyone around. Abdul Wahid gave no sign of derision. He seemed less dour than usual-perhaps dazzled, thought the Major, by the sight of the blond and highly groomed Sandy. He alternated sips of his lemon water and his tea and answered Sandy’s few questions with the politest of replies.

Roger was pointed in ignoring their guest and chattered on about the new cottage. In one week he and Sandy had apparently managed to engage the services of a carpenter and a team of painters.

“Not just any old painters, either,” said Roger. “They’re so in demand, doing galleries and restaurants. Sandy knows them through a friend at work.” He paused and took Sandy’s hand with a loving smile. “She’s the queen of the right connections.”

“Lots of connections, very few close friends,” said Sandy. The Major caught a hint of regret that sounded genuine. “It’s so refreshing just to sit around with family and friends, like we’re doing now.”

“Where is your family?” asked Abdul Wahid. His abrupt question startled the Major from his growing sleepiness.

“We’re scattered all over,” she said. “My father lives in Florida, my mother moved to Rhode Island. I have a brother in Texas, and my sister moved with her husband to Chicago last year.”

“And what, may I ask, is your religion?”

“Good heavens, Sandy’s family is staunch Anglican,” said Roger in a clipped voice. “Tell my father about the time your mother got her picture taken with the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Yes, my mother did once stake out a men’s room to get a photo with the Archbishop,” said Sandy. She rolled her eyes. “I believe she thought it might make up for the rest of the family. I think we’re now one Buddhist, two agnostics, and the rest are plain old atheist.”

“Nonpracticing Anglicans,” said Roger.

“The word ‘atheist’ does rather give that impression, Roger,” replied the Major.

“Roger doesn’t like to talk about religion, do you?” said Sandy. She started to tick subjects off on her fingers: “No religion, no politics, sex only through innuendo-it’s no wonder you British obsess about the weather, darling.” The Major winced again at the endearment. He supposed he would have to become accustomed to it.

“I feel it is important to discuss our different religions,” said Abdul Wahid. “But in Britain, we keep it all behind closed doors and swept under the wall-to-wall carpet. I have not found anyone to sit down and discuss this topic.”

“Oh, my God-an ecumenical Muslim,” said Roger. “Are you sure you’re talking about the right religion?”

“Roger!” said Sandy.

“It is all right,” said Abdul Wahid. “I prefer such directness. I cannot defend my religion against evasion and the politeness which hides disdain.”

The Major felt an urgent need to change the subject. “Have you two set a wedding date, or were you going to make that a surprise as well?” he asked. Roger looked down and crumbled bread on the side of his plate. Sandy took a long swallow of wine, which the Major observed with pleasure as a possible crack in her façade of perfection. There was a moment’s pause.