Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Don’t know why I bothered all these years, sending them off to the seaside at my expense,” said Dagenham over the trifle and chocolate éclairs that followed the breakfast buffet. “Never knew I could just as well lock ’em in with a ham sandwich and a few crayons.” He laughed. “Not that one minds being generous, of course. Only one’s funds get so eroded by the government’s constant demands these days.” Gertrude came in again and said, “The villagers in the lane said thank you very much for the ham sandwiches and hot toddies, Uncle.”

“What the devil do you mean sending them food?” asked Dagenham.

“It was Roger Pettigrew, actually, who mentioned that it might be a nice gesture given the earlier confrontation,” she said, smiling down the table toward Roger. Roger raised a glass in her direction.

“Very shrewd operators those Pettigrews,” said Ferguson, winking at the Major.

“The constable thought it was a sign of great consideration,” added Gertrude. “He’s down there having a sandwich, and whoever called him is too polite to make any complaints while eating.”

“I told you Gertrude was a smart girl, Ferguson,” said Dagenham. “Her mother, my sister, was a wonderful woman. No one loved her like I did.” He dabbed the corner of his eye with his napkin. The Major found this claim unexpected: it was well known in the village that May Dagenham had run off with a singer at a young age and had been largely disowned by the family. Gertrude displayed no obvious response to her uncle’s remark, but her lips pressed together more firmly and the Major saw some flicker of expression in her eyes that might, he thought, be anger. In that expression, he saw again the gawky young girl who had hung around the lane, in her shapeless smock and leggings, waiting to bump into Roger. He looked down the table at his own son, who was regaling his colleagues with some exaggerated tale of how Swithers had pushed an insolent golf caddy into a water hazard. The Major found for once that he was more understanding of his son. He might be obnoxious, but his ambition demonstrated some spark of life; some refusal to bow before adversity. He thought it was preferable to Gertrude’s quiet pain.

“Family is everything to you Brits,” said Ferguson. “I’m still hoping to pick one up one of these days.” This occasioned more laughter around the table, and the breakfast party moved on to coffee and cigars.

After breakfast, which went so long as to bleed imperceptibly into lunch, most of the bankers left. Roger was saying goodbye to Gertrude when Swithers tapped him on the shoulder and indicated with a certain gruffness that he was to stay. Roger looked delighted and came over directly to the Major.

“I’m to stay for some hush-hush business with Ferguson,” he said. “Just us senior bankers. I think he’s going to unveil his next project.” His chest seemed to puff up and the Major thought he might pop with delight. “Do you have a lift home?” added Roger.

“I’m invited to stay myself, thank you,” said the Major, careful to keep a neutral tone and not to claim credit for Roger’s invitation in case it spoiled his son’s obvious pleasure.

“Really? I can’t imagine you’ll understand much of it,” said Roger. “Stay close to me and I’ll try to explain some of the technical terms to you if you like.”

“That’s exactly what I told Lord Dagenham and his American colleague when they asked me if you should be invited,” said the Major. He was slightly ashamed that his good intentions had been so quickly abandoned, but he told himself that the fleeting glance of dismay on his son’s face was for Roger’s own good. “Shall we join the others?”

The table in the middle of the old stone dairy wore a lumpy nylon cover, concealing something large and horizontal. There was barely room for the remaining guests to squeeze along the edges where, noticed the Major, one’s backside immediately radiated with numbing cold from the stone walls. A smelly heater of indeterminate age burned fiercely in one corner but failed to do more than take off the chill.

“Sorry about the accommodations, gentlemen, but this is more private than the house,” said Lord Dagenham. “With Mr. Ferguson’s approval-or should I say with the approval of Lord Ferguson, Laird of Loch Brae”-here Ferguson winked, and waved away the honor with a modesty that did not conceal his delight-“I will reveal to you at once the greatest advance in appropriate English countryside development since his Royal Highness’s fully planned village at Pound-bury.” He and Ferguson gripped the fabric cover and drew it gently off the table. “I give you the Twenty-first Century Enclave at Edgecombe.”

What was revealed was a model of the village. The Major could see at once the folds and creases of the familiar landscape. On one side, the model ended in an upsweep of downland, on the other it spread out into flat farm country. He could see the village green and the pub, which seemed to have been painted pale green and to have developed some carbuncular buildings on one side. He could see the lane leading up to Rose Lodge and even pick out his own garden, edged with fuzzy miniature hedges and furnished with a single architect’s model tree. The village, however, seemed to have sprouted a few too many versions of Dagenham Manor. They produced a strange mirror effect, with almost identical manor houses, each sporting a long carriage drive, squares of formal gardens, stable blocks set round with miniature cars, and even a round pond, complete with silver paint surface and three mallards each. There was one such manor in the field behind his own house and another where the bus stop should have been. The bus stop and the main road seemed to have disappeared, removed to the edge of the model, where they disappeared into the farmland. The Major peered closer at the village green, looking for the shop. The plate glass window was gone and the shop, faintly recognizable behind a new bowed window and shutters of teal blue said, “Harris Jones and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Comestibles and Patisserie.” A wicker basket of apples and an old iron dog cart containing pots of flowers stood at the new bubbled-glass door. A tea shop, a milliner’s, and a tack and gun shop had been added. The Major felt frozen to the spot.

“In looking to the future of the Dagenham estate,” said Ferguson, “my good friend Lord Dagenham asked me how he could possibly develop the site, in order to shore up the financial foundation of the estate, while also preserving the best of the English countryside.”

“I told him no shopping centers!” said Dagenham. The small cadre of bankers laughed.

“I could not answer that question until I had the chance to purchase Loch Brae Castle and experience for myself what it means to be a steward of the countryside.” Here Ferguson stopped to place a hand over his heart as if pledging allegiance. “To be responsible for the lives of all those crofters and the land itself calling out for our protection.” Now the bankers seem puzzled, as if he had started speaking another language. “So together we came up with a vision of the highest-end luxury development, unparalleled in the U.K. Taking advantage of the availability of planning permission for new, architecturally significant country estates, my company, St. James Homes, will build an entire village of prestigious manor homes and redevelop the village to service those estates.” As he paused to draw breath, the bankers bobbed and squatted to view the tabletop village from closer angles. This was not the easiest of gymnastic exercises after so large a meal, and there was much huffing and panting between questions. “Where’s the retail corridor?”

“Is there a motorway connection?”

“How’s the cost per square foot compared to Tunbridge Wells?”