Helen Simonson: Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Yes, I was meaning to talk to Marjorie about it. But it’s not really the time, is it?” He had not forgotten about the question of the gun, but it didn’t seem important today.

“They understand perfectly about the value of it. Jemima is quite up on the subject.”

“It’s not a question of the money, of course,” said the Major sternly. “Our father was quite clear in his intentions that the pair be reunited. Family heirlooms, family patrimony.”

“Yes, Jemima feels that the pair should be reunited,” said Roger. “A little restoration may be needed, of course.”

“Mine is in perfect condition,” said the Major. “I don’t believe Bertie quite took the time with his that I did. Not much of a shooting man.”

“Well, anyway,” said Roger, “Jemima says the market is red hot right now. There aren’t Churchills of this quality to be had for love or money. The Americans are signing up for waiting lists.” The Major felt a slow tightening in the muscles of his cheeks. His small smile became quite rigid as he inferred the blow that was to come. “So, Jemima and I think the most sensible course of action would be to sell them as a pair right now. Of course, it would be your money, Dad, but since you are planning to pass it on to me eventually, I assume, I could really use it now.”

The Major said nothing. He concentrated on breathing. He had never really noticed how much mechanical effort was involved in maintaining the slow in-and-out of the lungs, the smooth passage of oxygen through the nose. Roger had the decency to squirm in his chair. He knew, thought the Major, exactly what he was asking.

“Excuse me, Ernest, there’s a strange woman outside who says she’s waiting for you?” said Marjorie, appearing suddenly and putting her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, coughing to hide his wet eyes. “Are you expecting a dark woman in a small Honda?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “that’s Mrs. Ali come to pick me up.”

“A woman taxi driver?” said Roger. “You hate women drivers.”

“She’s not a taxi service,” snapped the Major. “She’s a friend of mine. She owns the village shop.”

“In that case, you’d better have her come in and have some tea,” said Marjorie, her lips tight with disapproval. She looked vaguely at the buffet. “I’m sure she’d like a piece of Madeira cake-everyone likes Madeira cake, don’t they?”

“I’ll do that, thank you,” said the Major, rising to his feet.

“Actually, Dad, I was hoping I could drive you home,” said Roger. The Major was confused.

“But you came by train,” he said.

“Yes, that was the plan,” said Roger, “but things changed. Sandy and I decided to drive down together. She’s out looking at weekend cottages right now.”

“Weekend cottages?” It was too much to take in.

“Yes, Sandy thought since I had to come down anyway… I’ve been on at her about getting a place down here. We could be nearer to you.”

“A weekend cottage,” repeated the Major, still struggling with the implications of this person named Sandy.

“I’m dying for you to meet her. She should be here any minute.” Roger scanned the room in case she had suddenly come in. “She’s American, from New York. She has a rather important job in the fashion business.”

“Mrs. Ali is waiting for me,” said the Major. “It would be rude-”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand,” interrupted Roger.

Outside the air was chill. The view of the town and the sea beyond was smudged around the edges with darkness. Mrs. Ali had parked her Honda just inside the curly iron gates with their depictions of flying dolphins. She waved and stepped from the car to greet him. She was holding a paperback and half a cheeseburger wrapped in its garish, oily paper. The Major was venomously opposed to the awful fast-food places that were gradually taking over the ugly stretch of road between the hospital and the seafront, but he was prepared to find her indulgence charmingly out of character.

“Mrs. Ali, won’t you come in and have some tea?” he said.

“No, thank you, Major, I don’t want to intrude,” she said. “But please don’t rush on my account. I’m quite fine here.” She indicated the book in her hand.

“We have quite a buffet inside,” offered the Major. “We even have homemade Madeira cake.”

“I’m quite happy, really,” she said, smiling at him. “You take your time with your family and I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.”

The Major was miserably confused. He was tempted to climb in the car and go right now. It would be early enough when they got back to invite Mrs. Ali in for tea. They could discuss her new book. Perhaps she might listen to some of the funnier aspects of the day.

“You’re going to think me impossibly rude,” he said. “But my son managed to come down after all, by car.”

“How lovely for you,” she said.

“Yes, and he would like-of course I told him I’d already arranged to go home with you…”

“No, no, you must go home with your son,” she said.

“I’m most awfully sorry,” he said. “He seems to have acquired a girlfriend. Apparently they’ve been looking at weekend houses.”

“Ah.” She understood right away. “A weekend house near you? How wonderful that will be.”

“I might see what I can do to help them with that,” he said, almost to himself. He looked up. “Are you sure you won’t come in and have some tea?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said. “You must enjoy your family and I must be getting back.”

“I really am in your debt,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for your gracious assistance.”

“It’s nothing at all,” she said. “Please don’t mention it.” She gave him a slight bow, got in the car, and reversed it in a tight circle that flung gravel in a wide arc. The Major tried to wave but felt dishonest, causing the gesture to fail mid-arm. Mrs. Ali did not look back.

As her little blue car pulled away, he had to resist the urge to run after it. He had held the promise of the ride home as if it were a small coal in his hand, to warm him in the dark press of the crowd. The Honda braked at the gate and the tires squirted gravel again as it lurched to avoid the sweeping oval headlights of a large black car, which showed no shift or sudden braking. It only slid up the driveway and parked in the large open space the other guests had politely left clear in front of the door.

The Major, trudging back up the gravel incline, arrived slightly out of breath just as the driver reholstered a silver lipstick and opened her door. More from instinct than inclination, he held the door for her. She looked surprised and then smiled as she unfolded tanned and naked legs from the close confines of the champagne leather cockpit.

“I’m not going to do that thing where I assume you’re the butler and you turn out to be Lord So-and-So,” she said, smoothing down her plain black skirt. It was of expensive material but unexpected brevity. She wore it with a fitted black jacket worn over nothing-at least, no shirt was immediately visible in the cleavage, which, due to her height and vertiginous heels, was almost at the Major’s eye level.

“The name is Pettigrew,” he said. He was reluctant to admit anything more before he had to. He was still trying to process the assault of her American vowels and the flash of impossible white teeth.

“Well, that narrows it down to the right place,” she said. “I’m Sandy Dunn. I’m a friend of Roger Pettigrew?” The Major considered denying Roger’s presence.

“I believe he is talking with his aunt just now,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the open hallway as if by the merest glance he could map the invisible crowd upstairs. “Perhaps I should get him for you?”