Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“It is absurd the fuss they make,” said Mrs. Khan. “My husband is quite appalled at the way they’ve splashed the sponsors all over the cover.” They all looked at the front cover, where the sponsors were listed in descending type size, beginning with “St. James Executive Homes” in a bold headline and finishing up, behind “Jakes and Sons Commercial Lawn Supplies,” with a tiny italic reference to “Premiere League Plastic Surgery.” This last was Dr. Khan’s practice, the Major surmised.

“Who on earth is ‘St. James Executive Homes’?” said Dr. Khan. The Major did not feel like enlightening him. However, the mystery of the decorative extravagance was now clear: Ferguson had made another shrewd move toward controlling the locals.

“They want to build big houses all over Edgecombe St. Mary,” said Mrs. Ali. “Only the rich and the well-connected will be allowed to buy.”

“What a clever idea,” said Mrs. Khan to her husband. “We should look into how big a house is permitted.”

“It’s Lord Dagenham’s doing,” added Mrs. Ali.

“I understand Lord Dagenham is to present the award to you himself tonight,” said Mrs. Khan to the Major. “My husband was so relieved not to be asked. He loves to contribute, but he hates the limelight.”

“Of course, when you’re a lord, you don’t have to come up with any cash,” said Dr. Khan. He took a long drink from his small glass of gin and tried in vain to signal for another round.

“My husband is very generous,” added Mrs. Khan.

A small drumroll interrupted their conversation. Alec Shaw, turban once again quivering on his head, announced the arrival of the Maharajah himself, accompanied by his royal court. The orchestra broke into a vaguely recognizable processional piece.

“Is that Elgar?” asked the Major.

“I think it’s from The King and I or something similar,” said Mrs. Ali. She was actively chuckling now.

The crowd pressed to the sides of the dance floor. The Major found himself pinned uncomfortably between the doctor’s sword hilt and Mrs. Khan’s upholstered hip. He stood as tall as possible so as to shrink away from any contact. Mrs. Ali looked equally uncomfortable trapped on the other side of the doctor.

From the lobby, down the crimson carpet, there came two waiters carrying long banners, followed by Lord Dagenham and his niece dressed in sumptuous costumes. Dagenham, in purple tunic and turban, seemed to be having some difficulty in not snagging his scimitar on his spurred boots, while Gertrude, who had obviously been instructed to wave her arms about to display her flowing sleeves, held them at a stiff thirty degrees from her body and clumped down the length of the room as if still wearing wellies instead of satin slippers. Two lines of dancing girls-the lunch ladies-trudged after them, led by the light-footed Amina in a peacock blue pajama costume. She had hidden her hair under a tight satin wrap and though her face, below kohl-ringed eyes, was obscured behind a voluminous chiffon veil, she looked surprisingly beautiful. There was a distinct symmetry to her troupe: and as they passed, it came to the Major that they had been arranged in order of their willingness to participate, the lead girls wriggling their arms with abandon while those in the back trudged with sullen embarrassment.

Two drummers and a silent sitar player followed the girls, then two more waiters with flags, the fire-eater, and finally a tumbling acrobat, who did a few spins in place to give the procession time to exit. The flag bearers had some difficulty getting through the door stage left and the Major noticed a faint singed smell that suggested the fire-eater had been impatient. Lord Dagenham and his niece mounted the stage from opposite sides and came together behind Alec, who gave them a low bow and almost tumbled the microphone stand. Lord Dagenham made a small leap to steady it.

“I declare this wonderful evening officially open,” he said. “Dinner is served!”

Table six was placed in a very visible spot along the window side of the dance floor, and toward the middle of the room; the Khans seemed satisfied with their prominence.

“So happy to meet another sponsor,” said Mrs. Khan to the couple already there, who had proved to be Mr. and Mrs. Jakes. They were already tucking into the bread basket.

“We always give them a good discount on the weed killer come spring, so they invite us. The wife likes a bit of a dance now and then,” said Mr. Jakes. He was wearing a plain beige shalwar kameez with dark socks and a pair of wingtip shoes. His wife wore a matching outfit but with gold wedge sandals and a large gold headband. The Major thought they looked as if they were wearing surgical scrubs.

“Ooh, they’re playing the mambo,” said Mrs. Jakes, jumping up in a way that made the silverware tinkle. The Major hurried to stand up. “Excuse us, won’t you?” The couple scurried off to dance. The Major sat down again, wishing it were possible to ask Mrs. Ali to dance.

Grace arrived at the table and introduced Sterling, who was wearing a long antique military coat in yellow with black lace and frogging and a black cap with a yellow-and-black scarf hanging down the back.

“Oh, you’re American,” said Mrs. Khan, holding out her hand. “What a charming costume.”

“The Bengal Lancers were apparently a famous Anglo-Indian regiment,” said the young man. He pulled at his thighs to display the full ballooning of the white jodhpurs. “Though how the Brits conquered the empire wearing clown pants is beyond me.”

“From the nation that conquered the West wearing leather chaps and hats made of dead squirrel,” said the Major.

“So nice to see you again, Major,” said the young man, extending a hand. “Always a hoot.”

“And where is Mr. Ferguson?” asked Grace.

“He likes to come late for security reasons,” said Sterling. “Keep things low key.” Just then, Ferguson appeared at the door. He was dressed in a military uniform so sumptuous as to look almost real. It was topped with a scarlet cloak trimmed and lined with ermine. Under his left arm he carried a tall cocked hat and with his right hand he was checking text on his phone. Sandy, in a column of dove-gray chiffon and pink gloves, was holding his elbow.

“Oh, look, Major, isn’t that Roger coming in with Mr. Ferguson?” asked Grace. Indeed he was: buttoned too tight into his grandfather’s army jacket and conversing in an eager terrier manner with Ferguson’s broad back. He almost bumped into Ferguson as the American paused to look for his table. Sandy seemed to be struggling to keep her pale, diplomatic smile.

“Mr. Ferguson has quite outdone even our Maharajah in magnificence,” said Mrs. Khan.

“Where on earth did he get such a rig?” said Dr. Khan. His face showed quite clearly that he was no longer as happy with his own costume.

“Isn’t it fabulous?” said Grace. “It’s Lord Mountbatten’s viceroy uniform.”

“How historically appropriate.” A slight stiffness crept into Mrs. Ali’s voice. “You are joking, I hope.”

“Not the real thing, of course,” said Sterling. “Borrowed it from some BBC production, I think.”

“Major, is that your son playing Mountbatten’s man?” asked Dr. Khan.

“My son-” began the Major, making a serious attempt to control the urge to splutter. “My son is dressed as Colonel Arthur Pettigrew, whom he will portray in tonight’s entertainment.” There was a small silence around the table. Across the room, Roger continued to shuffle behind Ferguson in a way that did suggest an orderly more than a leader of men. Roger was by no means a bulky man and the way he filled the uniform so tightly gave the Major the unpleasant sensation that his own father must have been more slight and insubstantial than he remembered.