Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“That’s what I love about this guy, Sterling,” said Ferguson. “His dry sense of humor. Major, you’re an original.”

“Thank you,” said the Major, who could not help but be aware that there were many ears tuned in to the conversation. He felt himself being sized up and there was a vibration of approval in the room. He noticed Roger frowning at an inquiry from an older man. He hoped his son was being asked about the very distinguished gentleman who was laughing with Dagenham and Ferguson.

“Speaking of originals, how about giving me a look at those Churchills of yours?” said Ferguson.

“Oh, yes, we’re all dying to get a look at the famous Pettigrew Churchills-gift of the grateful Maharajah,” said Dagenham. “Shall we get started, gentlemen?”

The Major, who had dreamed of such a moment for years, found himself surrounded by the small crowd following him out to the temporary rack where they had left their guns. He was offered many hands to shake, not that he had any hope of distinguishing one wax-coated banker from the next, and at one point found himself shaking hands with his own son.

“Father, if you have a minute I want you to come and meet my boss, Norman Swithers,” said Roger, indicating a well-fed barrel of a man in rumpled shooting attire and promotional bank-logo socks who waved and managed to raise his pendulous jowls into a brief smile. Roger’s usual air of condescension seemed to have been replaced by an attitude of genuine respect and the Major felt a moment of triumph as he allowed himself to be led over to meet the man. The moment was swiftly curtailed as Roger added, “Why didn’t you tell me you were so friendly with Frank Ferguson?”

A line had been established behind a waist-high hedge that ran along a narrow field to the east of the pond’s edge. Thick woods shaded the opposite side of the field. The field itself provided an open flightway for the ducks to the small dewpond, which was almost circular and fringed on the western side by a straggly copse of trees and some dense, untended undergrowth. Behind this showed the tops of the elm allée where the ducklings were bred. As they walked down to the hedge, the Major could see that both the pond and the copse were thick with ducks. Green ropes divided the stands and, in what the Major considered rather a departure from the usual rules, the pulling of pegs from a bag had been forgone and instead names had been drawn in marker on wooden stakes to show each man his position. A folding stool and a crate for dead game were provided and young men, drawn from local farms, stood ready to act as loaders. As etiquette demanded, conversation ceased as the men came toward their spots.

“Good luck,” whispered a nervous Roger, from his own spot near the pond. The Major continued down the line toward the more favored end. He was both gratified and annoyed to find his own name on a prime spot next to Ferguson’s. He was not altogether pleased by the prospect of having Ferguson’s beady eyes fixed on his Churchills all morning. He feared the American might be so crass as to ask to borrow them. The Major nodded at his red-haired young loader and silently passed him one gun and a box of cartridges.

“Comfy there, are you, Pettigrew?” asked Lord Dagenham in a low voice, clapping him on the back as he went by. “Show our American friend how it’s done, will you?”

As the assembled guns waited quietly, the Major inhaled cold air and felt his spirits soar. The grass of the field had begun to steam in the strengthening sunlight and the adrenaline of the impending sport began to sing in his extremities. He thought of Mrs. Ali still tucked up in bed, dreaming behind her flowered curtains. She would awaken soon to the sound of the guns popping above the valley. He allowed himself to imagine striding into her shop at the end of the day, smelling of gunpowder and rain-misted leather, a magnificent rainbow-hued drake spilling from his game bag. It would be a primal offering of food from man to woman and a satisfyingly primitive declaration of intent. However, he mused, one could never be sure these days who would be offended by being handed a dead mallard bleeding from a breast full of tooth-breaking shot and sticky about the neck with dog saliva.

A loud rattling sound from behind the pond launched the ducks, almost vertically. It was Morris the keeper, thrashing the inside of an old oil barrel with a cricket bat-an alarm to which all the ducks had been trained to fly away. South behind the wood they disappeared, their cries, like old hinges, growing faint. The Major loaded cartridges in his gun. As he raised the gun to his shoulder, he felt as if the whole world were holding its breath. He took deliberate care to breathe out and in slowly, relaxing his shoulders and his fingers.

The sound of ducks began again in the distance and grew until a chorus of calls came in waves down the field, followed by the urgent flapping of wings. The whole squadron curved over the wood and began their descent along the field, heading for their home pond. The first gun barked and soon the entire line was popping at the blur of wings. The smell of powder hung over the line and small bundles began to thud into the rough grass. The Major lost his shot at a fat drake as Ferguson, having missed it, took an extra shot well out of his own line. The Major waited a fraction of a second for the next duck to come by. Sighting at the target he moved his gun smoothly into the lead, squeezed the trigger, absorbed the hard recoil into the shoulder as he followed through, and watched with satisfaction as the bird fell dead. Ferguson potted a second duck flying at the lowest limit of what any man would consider a sporting height. The Major swung his own gun high and squeezed off a difficult shot at a bird soaring up and slightly away. The bird fell on the far side of the field and the Major marked it before reaching back to hand his empty weapon to his loader and retrieve his second gun, Bertie’s gun. His third shot missed but the gun worked smoothly and felt perfectly balanced and solid in his hands. He thought of how much these guns had meant to his father. He thought of Bertie and how the two of them had perhaps been as separated as these two guns in the last, wasted years. He tracked another duck but did not fire; whether because the flock was thinning out or because he was overcome with strong emotion, he could not say. Ferguson shot a straggler, who was flapping in slowly at the end of the line as if resigned to his own death.

A great splashing on the pond indicated that many ducks had made it through the barrage and were quarrelling over their options like politicians. In a matter of a few minutes, Morris would bang the oil can again and send them all aloft to repeat their suicidal mission. Meanwhile the hired youths went out to comb the field, enthusiastically competing to collect the small green and blue bodies and toss them over the hedge to the right gun. The red-haired youth gave the Major a wink as he tossed Ferguson’s drake at the Major’s feet.

“I think this was actually your kill,” he said, picking it up by the neck and handing it to the American.

“Afraid I poached your airspace on that one,” said Ferguson, his face alight with cheer as he took the dead bundle and tossed it in a crate. “Couldn’t bear to let him get the better of me.”

“Not a problem. We keep things fairly informal down here,” said the Major, who wished to be polite while also delivering a clear rebuke.

“You’ll have to come shoot with me in Scotland and show them how to keep it loose,” said Ferguson. “I’ve had my own ghillie scream at me in front of my guests for shooting over the line.”

“My father is very knowledgeable about shooting,” said Roger, appearing out of nowhere and sticking out his hand. “Roger Pettigrew. Pleased to meet you.”