Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Roger looks so handsome in uniform,” said Grace. “You must be so proud.” She caught Roger’s eye and waved. Roger, with a smile that expressed more reluctance than pleasure, started across the dance floor toward them. As he approached, the Major tried to focus on pride as a primary emotion. A certain embarrassment attached to seeing his son wearing a uniform to which he was not entitled. Roger had been so adamant in his refusal to join the army: the Major remembered the discussion they had had one blustery Easter weekend. Roger, home from college with a box full of economics textbooks and a new dream to become a financier, had cut a sharp slice through the Major’s discreet inquiries.

“The army is for bureaucrats and blockheads,” said Roger. “Careers grow about as fast as moss and there’s no room for breakout success.”

“It’s a matter of serving one’s country,” the Major had said.

“It’s a recipe for getting stuck in the same box as one’s father.” Roger’s face had been pale but there was no hint of shame or apology in his eyes. The Major felt the pain of the words expand on impact, like a blow from a lead cosh in a wool sock.

“So your grandfather was a colonel?” asked Mrs. Khan as Roger was introduced. “And how wonderful that you are following the family tradition.”

“Tradition is so important,” added the doctor, shaking hands. “Actually, Roger works in the City,” said the Major. “Banking.”

“Though it often feels like we’re down in the trenches,” said Roger. “Earning our scars in the fight against the markets.”

“Banking is so important nowadays,” said Dr. Khan, switching gears with the poise of a politician. “You certainly have the opportunity to make important connections.” They watched as Lord Dagenham’s table assembled in the center of the room, mounting the low dais.

“I saw Marjorie,” said the Major, pulling Roger aside. “Did you invite her?”

“Heavens, no,” said Roger. “Ferguson did. She said she got a lovely note, inviting her to be his guest.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“I expect he’s looking to pressure us over the guns,” Roger said. “Stand firm, Dad.”

“I intend to,” said the Major.

Dinner proceeded as an exercise in barely contained chaos. Waiters forced their way through the aisles as guests refused to remain seated. There was a full complement on the dance floor, but many people merely pretended to be going to or fro; they wandered from table to table greeting friends and promoting their own self-importance. Even the Khans, who excused themselves for a cha-cha, were to be seen hovering in the small group around Lord Dagenham. The crowd was so thick that the Major could see Sandy, sitting between Dagenham and Ferguson, signal a waiter to hand her dinner across the expanse of table rather than try to serve over her shoulder. During the main course, it became clear that the waiters were far too busy pouring wine to bother fetching fruit punch for Mrs. Ali.

“I’ll make a quick dash for the bar, if you’ll be all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” said Mrs. Ali. “Grace and I will sit and gossip about all the flesh on display.”

“Nothing for me,” said Grace. “I’ll stick to my single glass of wine.” She then gathered her evening bag and hastily excused herself to visit the ladies’ lounge.

“Perhaps we should tell her that every time she looks away, the waiter manages to top up her Chardonnay,” said the Major.

Forcing his way back from the bar, the Major paused in a quiet spot behind a palm fern and took a moment to observe Mrs. Ali, who sat quite alone, dwarfed by the large expanse of the table. Her face was a polite blank, her eyes fixed on the dancing. The Major felt she did not look as confident in this warm room as she did on a blustery promenade in the rain and he had to admit that, as he had noticed many times before, people who were alone and ignored often appeared less attractive than when surrounded by admiring companions. As he peered harder, Mrs. Ali’s face broke into a wide smile that restored all her beauty. Alec Shaw had leaned in to talk to her and, to the Major’s surprise, she then rose from her chair, accepting an invitation to a rather fast foxtrot. As Alec took her hand and passed his arm about her slender waist, someone slapped the Major’s shoulder and demanded his attention.

“Having a good time, Major?” Ferguson was carrying a glass of Scotch and chewing on an unlit cigar. “I was on my way out for a smoke.”

“Very good, thank you,” said the Major, who was trying to follow Alec’s head through the crowd as he twirled Mrs. Ali around the room with rather an excessive number of spins.

“I was glad your sister-in-law could make it,” said Ferguson.

“I’m sorry-what?” asked the Major still looking at the dancers. She was as light on her feet as he had dreamed, and her dress flew around her ankles like blue waves.

“She told me all about her plans to take a cruise when she has the money,” he said.

“What money?” asked the Major. He was torn between a sudden urge to throttle Alec and a small voice that told him to pay attention to Ferguson. With great difficulty, he dragged his eyes from the dance floor.

“Not to worry.” Ferguson now also seemed to be watching Mrs. Ali spinning though the crowd of dancers like a brilliant blue flame. “I’m ready to deal square with you if you’re square with me.” The cigar moved up and down like an insult. Ferguson turned to face him and added. “As I told Sterling, sure I could just pay the widow a big premium for her gun now, then take it out of Pettigrew’s hide later, but why would I do that? I respect the Major too much as a gentleman and a sport to pull a fast one.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You invited her to the dance,” said the Major.

“Least I could do, old chap,” said Ferguson, slapping him again on the back. “Got to have the whole Pettigrew family to witness your receiving this award.”

“Of course,” said the Major, feeling sick.

“You might want to grab those guns quick after the show,” Ferguson added as he moved away. “She did seem very interested to know they were here.”

The Major was so dazed by the implied threat that he sank back into the shadow of the door’s curtain to recover his composure. He was just in time to escape the notice of Daisy Green, who promenaded by with Alma. She, too, had noticed Alec and Mrs. Ali dancing, for she paused and took Alma by the arm.

“I see she’s ensnared your husband.”

“Oh, doesn’t she look pretty,” said Alma. “I asked Alec to make sure she wasn’t left out.”

“I’m just saying that maybe if Grace showed a bit more cleavage, he wouldn’t have been led on by more exotic charms.”

“You mean Alec?” asked Alma.

“No, of course I don’t mean Alec, you ninny.”

“I think Grace is worried about neck wrinkles,” said Alma, smoothing her own neck, which was swathed in a purple satin scarf with orange glass balls clicking on the fringed ends. She wore a Victorian high-buttoned blouse set over a voluminous and crumpled velvet skirt that seemed to have sustained many a moth.

“She’ll have more to worry about when her so-called friend snaps him up and rubs all our noses in it,” hissed Daisy.

“If she marries him, I suppose we should invite her into the garden club?” asked Alma.

“We must all do our Christian duty, of course,” said Daisy.

“His wife wasn’t much of a joiner,” said Alma. “Maybe she won’t be, either.”

“Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask her to join in activity related to the church.” Daisy gave an unpleasant smile. “I think that keeps her off most of the committees.”