Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson
“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.
“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 th
“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.”
“Maybe she’ll convert.” Alma giggled.
“Don’t even joke like that,” said Daisy. “Let’s just hope it’s just a last fling.”
“One last small bag of wild oats found in the back of the shed, so to speak?” said Alma. The two women laughed and moved away deeper into the hot, crowded room.
It was a moment before the Major could move his body, which seemed to have stuck itself to the cold glass of the French door and was strangely numb. A brief thought that perhaps he should not have invited Mrs. Ali to the dance made him ashamed of himself and he instantly changed to being angry at Daisy and Alma. It was astonishing that they would consider making up such stories about Mrs. Ali and him.
He had always assumed gossip to be the malicious whispering of uncomfortable truths, not the fabrication of absurdities. How was one to protect oneself against people making up things? Was a life of careful, impeccable behavior not enough in a world where inventions were passed around as fact? He looked around at the high-ceilinged room filled with people he considered to be his friends and neighbors. For a moment he saw them as complete strangers; drunk strangers, in fact. He stared into the palm tree but found only a label that identified it as plastic and made in China.
Returning to the table, he was in time to see Alec depositing Mrs. Ali in her seat with a flourish.
“Now, remember what I told you,” said Alec. “Don’t you pay them any attention.” With that he added, “Your lady is a wonderful dancer, Ernest,” and disappeared to find his dinner.
“What was he talking about?” asked the Major as he set down their drinks and took his seat at her side.
“I think he was trying to be reassuring,” she said, laughing. “He told me not to worry if some of your friends seemed a bit stiff at first.”
“What friends?” asked the Major.
“Don’t you have any?” she asked. “Then who are all these people?”
“Blessed if I know,” he said and added: “I didn’t think you danced, or I would have asked you myself.”
“Will you ask me now?” she said. “Or are you going to have seconds on the roast beef?” Mrs. Rasool’s waiters were circling with vast platters.
“Will you please do me the honor?” He led her to the floor as the dance band struck up a slow waltz.
Dancing, the Major thought, was a strange thing. He had forgotten how this vaguely pleasant exercise and social obligation could become something electric when the right woman stepped into one’s arms. Now he could understand why the waltz had once been as frowned upon as the wild gyrations that today’s young people called dance. He felt that he existed only in the gliding circle they made, parting the other dancers like water. There was no room beyond her smiling eyes; there were no people beyond the two of them. He felt the small of her back and her smooth palm under his hands and his body felt a charge that made him stand taller and spin faster than he would have ever thought possible.
He did not see the two men who gossiped at his back as he swung past the stage and the bar but he heard, in a brief silence between cascades of melody, a man ask, “Do you really think they’ll ask him to resign from the club?” and then a second voice, speaking a little loud over the sound of the music: “Of course I wouldn’t, but the club secretary says it does seem like George Tobin all over again.”
The Major’s face burned; by the time he risked a glance at the bar, the men had turned away and he could not be sure whom they had been talking about. As the Major looked around for any other impropriety that might suggest censure, Old Mr. Percy swept by with his lady companion in his stiff arms. Her strapless dress had turned quite around so that her ample bosom threatened to burst from the top of the zipper, while on her back two boned protuberances suggested the buds of undeveloped wings. The Major sighed with relief and thought that perhaps the club would benefit from certain tighter standards.
The case of George Tobin, who had married a black actress from a popular television series, still made him uneasy, though it had been considered merely a question of privacy. They had all agreed that Tobin had gone beyond the pale in exposing the club to the possible attention of paparazzi and a celebrity-hungry public by marrying a TV star. As the Major had reassured a very upset Nancy, the membership committee had vigorously denied any suggestion that color was an issue. After all, Tobin’s family had been members for several generations and had been very well accepted despite their being both Catholic and of Irish heritage. Tobin was happy to resign quietly on the understanding that his son from his previous marriage would be allowed his own membership, so the whole thing had been handled with the utmost discretion. Nancy, however, had refused to set foot in the club again, and the Major had been left feeling vaguely uncomfortable.
As the music began to reach its crescendo, the Major shook all thoughts of the club from his mind and refocused on Mrs. Ali. She looked slightly puzzled, as if his slipping away into thought had registered in his expression. Cursing himself for wasting any moment of the dance, he gave her a big smile and spun them around until the floor threatened to come away from their feet.
A drumroll at the end of the dance and an enthusiastic flashing then dowsing of the main chandeliers announced the after-dinner entertainment. In the sudden dark, the room roiled with squeals, muttered oaths, an
A crash of cymbals from the band gave way to the flat squeal of recorded music and the whistle of a train. In the darkness, a single slide projector lit up a white scrim with sepia-toned images of India flickering and cascading almost too fast to register actual scenes. The Major felt a horrible sense of familiarity build until a brief image of himself as a boy, sitting on a small painted elephant, told him that Roger had indeed raided the tin box in the attic and put the family photographs on public display.
A scatter of applause hid the muffled jingling of ankle bells; as the lights came up again a lurid green spotlight revealed the dancers, swaying in time to a train’s motion and waving about an assortment of props including baskets, boxes, and a number of stuffed chickens. Roger sat on a trunk smoking an absurdly curly pipe as he perused a newspaper, apparently oblivious to the colorful chaos around him. At one end of the ensemble, Amina made flowing gestures toward some wide and distant horizon. With the music, the train whistle, and the flickering scrim, the Major thought it looked much more effective than he would have imagined. He decided to forgive Roger for using the photographs.
“It’s not as bad as I feared,” he said to Mrs. Ali, conscious of a small, nervous pride in his voice.
“Very lifelike, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Jakes. “Just like being in India.”
“Yes, personally I never travel by train without a chicken,” said Mrs. Ali, looking with great intent at the dancers.
“It is the End of Empire, end of the line …” As Daisy Green’s shrill voice narrated the story of the young, unsuspecting British officer returning to his barracks in Lahore on the same train as the beautiful new bride of the Maharajah, Amina danced a brief solo, her flowing veils creating arcs of light and movement.