Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“That’s shocking,” said the Major. “How on earth will they tell them apart?”

“My point exactly,” said Dagenham, missing the Major’s hint of irony. “Shall we march on over to the house and see if Ferguson has nailed down any offers of financing?”

“They’re probably securing houses for themselves,” said the Major as they left. He felt gloomy at the prospect.

“Oh, good God, no banker is going to be approved to live here,” said Dagenham. “Though I’m afraid we will have to swallow Ferguson.” He laughed and put an arm around the Major’s shoulder. “If you support me in this, Major, I’ll make sure Ferguson doesn’t end up in the house behind yours!”

As they crossed the courtyard toward the house, Roger came out looking for Dagenham. The bankers were apparently impatient to talk to him. After shaking hands, Dagenham hurried in and the Major was left alone with his son.

“This project is going to make my career, Dad,” said Roger. He clutched a navy blue cardboard folder emblazoned with a Dagenham crest and the words “Edgecombe St. Mary, England’s Enclave.”

“Ferguson’s being so attentive to me, my boss is going to have to put me in charge of our team on this.”

“This project is going to destroy your home,” said the Major.

“Oh, come on, we’ll be able to sell Rose Lodge for a fortune once it’s built,” said Roger. “Think of all that money.”

“There is nothing more corrosive to character than money,” said the Major, incensed. “And remember, Ferguson is only being nice because he wants to buy my guns.”

“That’s quite true,” said Roger. From the frown over his eyebrows, he seemed to be thinking hard. “Look, he mentioned inviting us both to Scotland in January to shoot pheasant. You must absolutely promise me not to sell your guns to him before then.”

“I thought you were anxious to sell,” said the Major.

“Oh, I am,” said Roger, already turning on his heel to go. “But as soon as you sell them, Ferguson will drop us like a hot potato. We must hold him off as long as we can.”

“And what about Marjorie and Jemima?” asked the Major as his son trotted away from him toward the house.

“If necessary, we’ll file a complaint in probate court just to hold things up,” called Roger, waving a hand. “After all, Father, everyone knows Uncle Bertie’s gun was supposed to be yours.” With this extraordinary remark, Roger disappeared and the Major, feeling quite dizzy with surprise, thought it best to collect his guns and retreat to home.

He had planned to bring Mrs. Ali a dozen long-stemmed roses, swathed in tissue and a satin bow and carried casually in the crook of his arm. But now that he was to pick her up with Grace, at Grace’s cottage, the roses seemed inappropriate. He settled for bringing each of them a single rose of an apricot color on a long spidery brown stem.

He had dashed for his car in order to avoid being seen by Alice Pierce, whose protest at the shoot had been followed by a door-to-door petition drive against St. James Homes, and rallies of protest at every public appearance by either Lord Dagenham or Ferguson. The effort was not going well. The Vicar, who had been seen suddenly consulting an architect on the long overdue restoration of the steeple, had declined to speak from the pulpit, citing the church’s need to provide love and spiritual comfort to all sides in the dispute. Many people, including the Major, had been glad to accept posters that urged “Save Our Village,” but only about half thought it polite to display them. The Major put his in the side window, where it screamed its message at the garage and not at the street. Alice continued to rush about the village with her band of followers, mostly strangers who seemed to favor hand-crocheted coats. She seemed unaware that even where she was supported locally, she was also studiously avoided by anyone who was planning on attending the Golf Club dance.

Straightening his bow tie and giving a final tug to his dinner jacket, the Major knocked on the insubstantial plywood of Grace’s mock Georgian front door. It was Mrs. Ali who opened it, the light spilling out onto the step around her and her face in partial shadow. She smiled and he thought he detected the shine of lipstick.

“Major, won’t you come in,” she said and turned away in a breathless, hurried manner. Her back, receding toward the front room, was partly revealed against the deep swoop of an evening dress. Under a loosely tied chiffon wrap, her shoulder blades were sharply delineated and her bronze skin glowed between the dark stuff of the dress and the low bun at the nape of her neck. In the front room, she half pirouetted on the hearth rug and the folds of the dress billowed around her ankles and came to rest on the tips of her shoes. It was a dark blue dress of silk velvet. The deeply cut décolletage was partially hidden by the sweep of the chiffon wrap, but Mrs. Ali’s collarbones were exquisitely visible several inches above the neckline. The material fell over a swell of bosom to a loosely gathered midriff where an antique diamond brooch sparkled.

“Is Grace still getting ready, then?” he asked, unable to trust himself to comment on her dress and yet unwilling to look away.

“No, Grace had to go early and help with the setup. Mrs. Green picked her up a short while ago. I’m afraid it’s just me.” Mrs. Ali almost stammered and a blush crept into her cheekbones. The Major thought she looked like a young girl. He wished he were still a boy, with a boy’s impetuous nature. A boy could be forgiven a clumsy attempt to launch a kiss but not, he feared, a man of thinning hair and faded vigor.

“I could not be happier,” said the Major. Being also stuck on the problem of how to handle the two drooping roses in his hand, he held them out.

“Is one of those for Grace? I could put it in a vase for her.” He opened his mouth to say that she looked extremely beautiful and deserved armfuls of roses, but the words were lost in committee somewhere, shuffled aside by the parts of his head that worked full-time on avoiding ridicule.

“Wilted a bit, I’m afraid,” he said. “Color’s all wrong for the dress anyway.”

“Do you like it?” she said, turning her eyes down to the fabric. “I lent Grace an outfit and she insisted that I borrow something of hers in fair trade.”

“Very beautiful,” he said.

“It belonged to Grace’s great-aunt, who was considered quite fast and who lived alone in Baden Baden, she says, with two blind terriers and a succession of lovers.” She looked up again, her eyes anxious. “I hope the shawl is enough.”

“You look perfect.”

“I feel quite naked. But Grace told me you always wear a dinner jacket, so I just wanted to wear something to-to go with what you’re wearing.” She smiled, and the Major felt more years melt away from him. The boy’s desire to kiss her welled up again. “Besides,” she added, “A shalwar kameez isn’t exactly a costume for me.”

The Major reached a spontaneous compromise with himself and reached for her hand. He raised it to his lips and closed his eyes while kissing her knuckles. She smelled of rose water and some spicy clean scent that might, he thought, be lime blossom. When he opened his eyes, her head was turned away, but she did not try to pull her hand from his grasp.

“I hope I have not offended you,” he said. “Man is rash in the face of beauty.”

“I am not offended,” she said. “But perhaps we had better go to the dance?”

“If we must,” said the Major, giving a stubborn push past the fear of ridicule. “Though anyone would be just as content to sit and gaze at you across this empty room all evening.”