Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“Yes?” she said.

“Good afternoon, I’m Major Ernest Pettigrew. I’m here to see Mrs. Ali,” said the Major in his most authoritative tone.

“Are you from the council?” said the woman.

“Good heavens, no,” said the Major. “Why, do I look like a man from the council?” The woman gave him a look that said he did. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Ali’s,” he added.

“My mother’s stepped out to the shop,” said the woman. “Do you want to wait?” She did not open the door farther or step aside as she said this, and the Major realized she was looking at him with great suspicion.

“Oh, I don’t want your mother,” said the Major, understanding his mistake. “I’m here to see Mrs. Jasmina Ali, from Edgecombe St. Mary.”

“Oh, her,” said the woman. She paused and then said: “You better come in and I’ll phone my dad.”

“Is she here?” asked the Major as he was shown into the kind of spare, formal front room that is kept exclusively for guests. Two sofas faced each other across the small gas fireplace, each dressed in crimson flocked silk in a pattern of roses and covered in see-through vinyl. Two patterned wall hangings and a large abstract painting that suggested a blue and gray landscape decked the cream-colored walls. There were no books and the various small side tables were decorated with lumps of rock and crystal and bowls of dried seed pods and aromatic twigs. Good-quality fabric blinds under a matching blue fabric pelmet hung at the bay window; opposite the window, frosted French doors surrounded by floor-length blue drapes led to another room. The room’s finest decorative feature was an oriental rug, a glorious riot of pattern hand-woven from a thousand different blue silks. It was a room, thought the Major, which his sister-in-law Marjorie might admire, and while she would never be seen to use vinyl covers on her furniture she would secretly yearn for such spill-proof elegance.

“I’ll get you some tea,” said the woman. “Please wait here.” She left, shutting the door behind her. The Major selected one of two small, straight chairs that stood at one end of the sofas. They were spindly to an alarming degree but he did not trust himself to sit on a sofa without making alarming trouser-on-vinyl noises. The silence in the room settled around him. The street noises were muffled through the double glazing and no clock ticked on the mantel. There was not even a television, though he seemed to hear the jingling of a game show. He listened hard and thought there must be a TV playing deeper in the house, beyond the frosted doors.

He stood up when the door to the hall opened. It was the young woman, coming back with a brass tea tray that held a teapot and two glasses set in silver cup holders. Two small giggling children slipped in behind her and gazed at the Major as if at a zoo exhibit.

“My father will be home right away,” said the young woman, indicating that the Major should sit. “He looks forward to meeting you Mr.-What is your name?”

“Major Pettigrew. Is Mrs. Ali not home?” he asked.

“My father will be here momentarily,” she said again, and poured him a cup of tea. Then, instead of pouring one for herself, she merely shooed the small children out of the room and left, shutting the door again behind her.

A few more silent minutes passed. The Major felt the weight of the room on his head and the pressure of time running through his fingers. He refused to glance at his watch but he could see the other guests arriving in Scotland. No doubt a cold lunch buffet was still set out on a sideboard and guests were seeing to the hanging up of clothes or enjoying a brisk walk around the lake. He had never seen Ferguson’s castle home, but it must of course have both lake and cold buffet. These things could be depended upon. In this room, the Major could depend on nothing. It was all unfamiliar and therefore very taxing. All at once, there was a key in the front door and movement in the hallway. Urgent voices seemed to meet as the front door was opened and fierce whispers accompanied the usual hallway noise of coats and shoes being deposited.

The door opened again to admit a broad-shouldered man with black cropped hair and a neat mustache. He wore a shirt and tie and his breast pocket still bore the plastic name tag that identified him, unexpectedly, as Dave. He was not tall, but his air of authority and slight double chin suggested a man in command of some slice of the world.

“Major Pettigrew? I’m Dave Ali and it’s an honor to have you in my humble home,” he said in a tone that, the Major had observed over the years, was used by those who believe their home superior to most. “I have heard all about you from my son, who considers himself greatly in your debt.”

“Oh, not at all,” said the Major, finding himself waved back to his chair and offered more tea. The Major had never liked diminutives and found the name Dave an unlikely moniker for this Mr. Ali. “Your son is a very intense young man.”

“He is impetuous. He is stubborn. He makes his mother and me crazy,” said Dave, shaking his head in mock despair. “I tell her I was the same at his age and not to worry, but she tells me I had her to whip me into shape, while Abdul Wahid-well, insha’Allah , he, too, will find his way once he is married.”

“We were all looking forward to seeing Jasmina-Mrs. Ali-when she came for the wedding,” said the Major.

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Dave in a noncommittal voice.

“She has many friends in the village,” said the Major, pressing him.

“I’m afraid she will not be coming,” said Dave Ali. “My wife and I are going in the Triumph and can barely fit our luggage. And then someone must take care of my mother, who is very frail, and Sheena is due any day now.”

“I appreciate that there are difficulties,” the Major began. “But surely, something as important as a wedding…?”

“My wife, who is the soul of kindness, Major, said ‘Oh, Jasmina should go and I will stay with Mummi and Sheena,’ but I ask you, Major, should a mother, who works seven days a week, miss her only son’s wedding?” He ran out of breath and mopped his face with a large handkerchief and considered his wife’s many sacrifices.

“I suppose not,” agreed the Major.

“Besides, it will be only the quietest of ceremonies.” Dave slurped at his tea. “I was willing to bankrupt myself to do it right, but my wife says they will prefer not to make a fuss in the circumstances. So it will be almost nothing-just a token exchange of gifts and not an ounce more than what is proper.” He paused and then looked at the Major with an eyebrow raised in significance. “Besides, we feel it is important for our Jasmina to make a clean break with the past if she is to be happy in her future.”

“A clean break?” asked the Major. Dave Ali sighed and shook his head in what appeared to be pity.

“She insisted on taking on a large burden when my brother died,” he said slowly. “A burden no woman should be asked to carry. And now we want only for her to lay down such responsibilities and be happy here in the heart of family where we can take care of her.”

“That is very generous of you,” said the Major.

“But old habits linger,” said Dave. “Myself, I look forward to the day when I can turn over our whole business to Abdul Wahid and retire, but no doubt I, too, will get under everyone’s feet and have a hard time handing over the decisions to others.”

“She is a very capable woman,” said the Major.

“In time we hope she will learn to be content here at home. She is already indispensable to my mother and she is reading the Qur’an to her every day. I have refused to put her in one of our shops. I have told her now is her time to sit back and let others take care of her. So much better to be happily at home, I tell her. No taxes or bills to pay, no books to balance, no one expecting you to know all the answers.”