Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Telling Roger that the journey to Scotland would include a detour to visit Mrs. Ali was not the sort of thing one could successfully manage on the telephone. So, on the Sunday before, the Major tapped lightly on the door knocker at Roger’s cottage. The frost was still deep and the sun only a vague promise in the mid-morning sky; he blew on his hands and stamped his feet against the cold as he looked with dismay at the window boxes with their withered holly and dead white roses left over from Christmas. The windows looked smeary, too, and mud on the doorstep suggested that no one was taking care of the place now that Sandy was gone.

He tapped again, the sound reverberating like a pistol shot in the hedges, and saw a twitch of curtain in the cottage opposite. Footsteps, banging, and a muttered curse preceded Roger, who opened the door wrapped in a duvet over flannel pajamas and sporting flip-flops over his socks.

“Aren’t you up?” asked the Major, feeling cross. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“Sorry, bit of a hangover,” said Roger, leaving the door wide open and trailing back into the living room, where he collapsed onto the couch and groaned.

“Is this becoming a daily condition for you?” asked the Major, looking about him at the room. Takeout containers sat congealing on the coffee table. The Christmas tree still bristled with black intensity, but its feet were covered in dust. The couch and chaise had slid away from their razor-sharp alignment and now sat askew on the rug, as dazed as Roger. “This place is a disgrace, Roger.”

“Don’t shout. Please don’t shout,” said Roger, covering his ears. “I think my ears are bleeding.”

“I am not shouting,” said the Major. “I don’t suppose you’ve had breakfast, have you? Why don’t you get dressed while I clear up and make some toast?”

“Oh, leave the clearing up,” said Roger. “I have a cleaning lady who comes tomorrow.”

“Does she really,” replied the Major. “My, how she must look forward to Mondays.”

When Roger had finished emptying the hot water tank and, from the smell of him, using some expensive men’s shower gel, no doubt packaged in a gleaming aluminum container of sporty design, he wandered, squinty-eyed, into the kitchen. He had put on tight jeans and a close-fitting sweater. His feet were bare and his hair combed back in wide stiff lines. The Major paused as he spread some thin toast with the last scrapings of a margarine substitute. “How come you have all these foreign designer clothes and yet you have no food and your milk is sour?”

“I get all my ordinary food and stuff delivered in London,” said Roger. “A girl comes and puts it all away in the right place. I mean, I don’t mind popping in the gourmet store for a browse around the aged Gouda, but who wants to waste their time buying cereal and washing-up liquid?”

“How do you think other people manage?” said the Major.

“They spend their whole lives toddling down the shops with a little string bag, I expect,” said Roger. “Sandy took care of it and I haven’t had time to get a system in place, that’s all.” He took a piece of toast and the Major poured him tea with no milk and cut up a small, slightly withered orange. “I don’t suppose you could pick me up a few things, say on a Friday?” he added.

“No, I couldn’t,” said the Major. “My string bag is quite at capacity as it is.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Roger. “Do I have any aspirin in the cupboard?”

The Major, who had inventoried the cupboards and swept all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher before Roger had rinsed off his soap, produced a large bottle of aspirin and rinsed a glass for water.

“Thanks, Dad,” said Roger. “What are you up for so early for, anyway?”

The Major explained, in as vague a way as possible, that he needed to leave earlier on Thursday in order to visit a friend on the way to Scotland and that he would need Roger to be up with the dawn.

“Not a problem,” said Roger.

“Considering the difficulty I just had in rousting you from your slumbers at eleven o’clock,” said the Major, “I’ll need some more reassurance.”

“It’s not a problem because I’m not going to drive up with you,” said Roger. “Gertrude’s been asked to go up early and she wants me to go with her.”

“You’re going with Gertrude?” repeated the Major.

“You’ll be happy to know I ordered a whole picnic for the trip,” said Roger. “I’m going to whip out my hamper of cold mini pasties and duck confit on soft rolls with sour cherry chutney and seal the deal with a split of chilled champagne.” He rubbed his hands with anticipatory glee. “Nothing like a nice long road trip to advance romantic activities.”

“But you asked to ride up with me,” said the Major. “I was counting on two drivers so we wouldn’t have to stop.”

“You never did like to stop anywhere,” said Roger. “I remember that trip to Cornwall when I was eight. You wouldn’t stop for the bathroom until Stonehenge. I really enjoyed the searing pain of that bladder infection.”

“You always remember things out of proportion,” said the Major. “It cleared right up with the antibiotics, didn’t it? And besides, we bought you a rabbit.”

“Thanks, but I’ll take Gertrude and a duck leg and avoid kidney stones,” said Roger.

“Don’t you think it’s unconscionably soon to be pursuing another woman?” asked the Major. “Sandy only just left.”

“She made her choice,” said Roger. The Major recognized, with a rueful smile, that his son’s words sounded familiar. “I’m not going to let the grass grow,” he added. “Mark to market and move on, as we say about a bad deal.”

“Sometimes it’s a mistake to let them go, my boy,” said the Major. “Sometimes you have to go after them.”

“Not this time, Dad,” said Roger. He looked at his father with some hesitation and then lowered his head, and the Major understood that his son did not believe he welcomed awkward confidences.

“I would like to know what happened,” he said, turning away to wash dishes. It had always been easier to get Roger to talk when they were driving in the car or engaged in some other activity that did not require eye contact. “I grew to quite like her.”

“I screwed it all up and I didn’t even know it,” said Roger. “I thought we’d agreed on everything. How was I supposed to know what she wanted if she didn’t know herself until it was too late?”

“What did she want?”

“I think she wanted to get married, but she didn’t say.” Roger munched on his toast. “And now it’s too late?”

When Roger spoke again, his usual bravado was replaced with a note of seriousness. “We had a little mishap. No big deal. We agreed on how to handle it.” He turned back to the Major. “I went with her to the clinic and everything. I did everything you’re supposed to do.”

“A clinic?” The Major could not bring himself to ask more plainly.

“A woman’s clinic,” said Roger. “Don’t make a face like that. It’s absolutely acceptable these days-woman’s right to choose and all that. It’s what she wanted.” He paused and then amended his language. “Well, we talked about it and she agreed. I mean, I told her it was the responsible thing to do at this stage on our careers.”

“When was this?” asked the Major.

“We found out right before the dance,” said Roger. “Took care of it before we came down for Christmas, and she never told me she didn’t want to go through with it-as if I’m supposed to have magic powers of detection, like some psychic Sherlock Holmes.”

“I think you’re confusing two concepts,” said the Major, distracted by the metaphors.