Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson
“How lovely for you,” she said.
“Yes, and he would like—of course I told him I’d already arranged to go home with you….”
“No, no, you must go home with your son,” she said.
“I’m most awfully sorry,” he said. “He seems to have acquired a girlfriend. Apparently they’ve been looking at weekend houses.”
“Ah.” She understood right away. “A weekend house near you? How wonderful that will be.”
“I might see what I can do to help them with that,” he said, almost to himself. He looked up. “Are you sure you won’t come in and have some tea?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said. “You must enjoy your family and I must be getting back.”
“I really am in your debt,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for your gracious assistance.”
“It’s nothing at all,” she said. “Please don’t mention it.” She gave him a slight bow, got in the car, and reversed it in a tight circle that flung gravel in a wide arc. The Major tried to wave but felt dishonest, causing the gesture to fail mid-arm. Mrs. Ali did not look back.
As her little blue car pulled away, he had to resist the urge to run after it. He had held the promise of the ride home as if it were a small coal in his hand, to warm him in the dark press of the crowd. The Honda braked at the gate and the tires squirted gravel again as it lurched to avoid the sweeping oval headlights of a large black car, which showed no shift or sudden braking. It only slid up the driveway and parked in the large open space the other guests had politely left clear in front of the door.
The Major, trudging back up the gravel incline, arrived slightly out of breath just as the driver reholstered a silver lipstick and opened her door. More from instinct than inclination, he held the door for her. She looked surprised and then smiled as she unfolded tanned and naked legs from the close confines of the champagne leather cockpit.
“I’m not going to do that thing where I assume you’re the butler and you turn out to be Lord So-and-So,” she said, smoothing down her plain black skirt. It was of expensive material but unexpected brevity. She wore it with a fitted black jacket worn over nothing—at least, no shirt was immediately visible in the cleavage, which, due to her height and vertiginous heels, was almost at the Major’s eye level.
“The name is Pettigrew,” he said. He was reluctant to admit anything more before he had to. He was still trying to process the assault of her American vowels and the flash of impossible white teeth.
“Well, that narrows it down to the right place,” she said. “I’m Sandy Dunn. I’m a friend of Roger Pettigrew?” The Major considered denying Roger’s presence.
“I believe he is talking with his aunt just now,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the open hallway as if by the merest glance he could map the invisible crowd upstairs. “Perhaps I should get him for you?”
“Oh, just point me in his general direction,” she said, and moved past him. “Is that lasagna I smell? I’m starving.”
“Do come in,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pettigrew.”
“It’s Major, actually …” he said, but she was already gone, stiletto heels clicking on the garish green and white tiles. She left a trail of citrus perfume in the air. It was not unpleasant, he thought, but it hardly offset the appalling manners.
The Major found himself loitering in the hall, unwilling to face what was inevitable upstairs. He would have to be formally introduced to the Amazon. He could not believe Roger had invited her. She would no doubt make his prior reticence out to be some sort of idiocy. Americans seemed to enjoy the sport of publicly humiliating one another. The occasional American sitcoms that came on TV were filled with childish fat men poking fun at others, all rolled eyeballs and metallic taped laughter.
He sighed. Of course, he would have to pretend to be pleased, for Roger’s sake. Best to brazen it out rather than to appear embarrassed in front of Marjorie.
Upstairs, the mood was slowly shifting into cheerfulness. With their grief sopped up by a heavy lunch and their spirits fueled by several drinks, the guests were blossoming out into normal conversations. The minister was just inside the doorway discussing the diesel consumption of his new Volvo with one of Bertie’s old work colleagues. A young woman, with a squirming toddler clasped to her lap, was extolling the benefits of some workout regime to a dazed Jemima.
“It’s like spinning, only the upper body is a full boxing workout.”
“Sounds hard,” said Jemima. She had taken off the festive hat and her highlighted hair was escaping from its bun. Her head slumped toward her right shoulder, as if her thin neck was having difficulty holding it up. Her young son, Gregory, finishing a leg of cold chicken, dropped the bone in her upturned palm and scampered off toward the desserts.
“You do need a good sense of balance,” the young woman agreed.
It was nice, he supposed, that Jemima’s friends had come to support her. They had created a little clump in the church, taking over several rows toward the front. However, he was at a loss to imagine why they had considered it appropriate to bring their children. One small baby had screamed at random moments during the service and now three children, covered in jam stains, were sitting under the buffet table licking the icing off cupcakes. When they were done with each cake, they slipped it, naked and dissolving with spit, back onto a platter. Gregory snatched an untouched cake and ran by the French doors where Marjorie stood with Roger and the American. Marjorie reached a practiced hand to stop him.
“You know there’s no running in the house, Gregory,” she said, grabbing his elbow.
“Ow!” he squealed, twisting in her grip to suggest she was torturing him. She gave a faint smile and pulled him close to bend down and kiss his sweaty hair. “Be good now, dearie,” she said and released him. The boy stuck out his tongue and scuttled away.
“Dad, over here,” called Roger, who had spotted him watching. The Major waved and began a reluctant voyage across the room between groups of people whose conversations had whipped them into tight circles, like leaves in a squall.
“He’s a very sensitive child,” Marjorie was telling the American. “High-strung, you know, but very intelligent. My daughter is having him tested for high IQ.” Marjorie did not seem at all offended by the interloper. In fact, she seemed to be doing her best to impress her. Marjorie always began impressing people by mentioning her gifted grandson. From there, she usually managed to work the conversation backward to herself.
“Dad, I want you meet Sandy Dunn,” said Roger. “Sandy’s in fashion PR and special events. Her company works with all the important designers, you know.”
“Hi,” said Sandy extending her hand. “I knew I was right about the butler thing.” The Major shook her hand, and raised his eyebrows at Roger, signaling him to continue with the introduction, even though it was all in the wrong order. Roger only gave him a big vacant smile.
“Ernest Pettigrew,” said the Major. “Major Ernest Pettigrew, Royal Sussex, retired.” He managed a small smile and added, for emphasis: “Rose Lodge, Blackberry Lane, Edgecombe St. Mary.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, Dad,” said Roger.
“It’s nice to meet you properly, Ernest,” said Sandy. The Major winced at the casual use of his first name.
“Sandy’s father is big in the insurance industry in Ohio,” said Roger. “And her mother, Emmeline, is on the board of the Newport Art Museum.”
“How nice for Ms. Dunn,” said the Major.
“Roger, they don’t want to hear about me,” said Sandy. She tucked her hand through Roger’s arm. “I want to find out all about your family.”
“We have quite a nice art gallery in the Town Hall,” said Marjorie. “Mostly local artists, you know. But they have a lovely Bouguereau painting of young girls up on the Downs. You should bring your mother.”
“Do you live in London?” asked the Major. He waited, stiff with concern, for any hi
“I have a small loft in Southwark,” she said. “It’s near the new Tate.”
“Oh, it’s an enormous place,” said Roger. He was as excited as a small boy describing a new bike.
For a moment, the Major saw him at eight years old again, with a shock of brown curls his mother refused to cut. The bike had been red, with thick studded tires and a seat with springs like a car suspension. Roger had seen it at the big toy store in London, where a man did tricks on it, right on a stage inside the main door. The bike had completely pushed from his mind all memory of the Science Museum. Nancy, weary from dragging a small boy around London, had shaken her head in mock despair as Roger tried to impress upon them the enormous importance of the bike and the necessity for purchasing it at once. They had, of course, said no. There was plenty of room to adjust the seat on Roger’s existing bicycle, a solid-framed green bike that had been the Major’s at a similar age. His parents had stored it in the shed at Rose Lodge, wrapped securely in burlap and oiled once a year.
“The only problem is finding furniture on a big enough scale. She’s having a sectional custom made in Japan.” Roger was still boasting about the loft. Marjorie looked impressed.
“I find G-Plan makes a good couch,” she said. Bertie and Marjorie had acquired most of their furniture from G-Plan—good solid upholstered couches and sturdy square edged tables and chests of drawers. The choice might be limited, Bertie used to say, but they were solid enough to last a lifetime. No need to ever change a thing.
“I hope you ordered it with slipcovers,” Marjorie advised. “It lasts so much better than upholstery, especially if you use antimacassars.”
“Goatskin,” said Roger. There was great pride in his voice. “She saw my goatskin lounger and said I was ahead of the trend.”
The Major wondered whether it was possible he had been too strict with Roger as a child and thereby inspired his son to such excesses. Nancy, of course, had tried to spoil him rotten. He had been a late gift to them, born just as they had given up all hope of having children, and Nancy could never resist making that little face smile from ear to ear. It was he who had been forced to put a stop to many an extravagance.
“Roger really has an eye for design,” said Sandy. “He could be a decorator.” Roger blushed.
“Really?” said the Major. “That’s quite an accusation.”
They left soon after, Sandy handing her car keys to Roger to drive. She took the passenger side without comment, leaving the Major to sit in the back.
“Are you all right back there, Dad?” asked Roger.
“Fine, fine,” said the Major. There was a thin line, he reflected, between comfort and smothering. The car’s back seat seemed to mold itself around his thighs. The ceiling also curved close and pale. The sensation was of being a large baby riding in a rather luxurious pram. The quiet engine contributed its own hummed lullaby, and the Major struggled against an encroaching drowsiness.
“I’m so sorry Roger was late today,” said Sandy, turning around to smile at him through the gap in the seats. Her bosom strained at the seatbelt. “We were looking at a cottage and the realtor—I mean the estate agent—was late.”
“Looking at a cottage?” he said. “What about work?”
“No, that all got resolved,” said Roger, keeping his attention fixed on the road. “I told the client I had a funeral and he could push things back a day or get someone else.”
“So you looked at cottages?”
“It was my fault entirely, Ernest,” said Sandy. “I thought I’d scheduled plenty of time to fit it in before I dropped Roger off at the church. The estate agent messed things up royally.”
“Yes, I’m going to call that agent tomorrow and let her know just how offended I am that she made me so late,” said Roger.
“No need to cause a ruckus, darling. Your aunt Marjorie was extremely gracious about it.” Sandy put a hand on Roger’s arm and smiled back at the Major. “You all were.” The Major tried but failed to summon his rage. In his sleepy state, he could only come up with the thought that this young woman must be very good at her public relations job.
“Touring cottages,” he murmured.
“We shouldn’t have gone, I know, but these cottages get snapped right up,” said Sandy. “Remember that cute place near Cromer?”
“We’ve only looked at a few places,” said Roger, his eyes giving an anxious glance in the rearview mirror. “But this area is our priority.”
“I admit it’s more convenient than the Norfolk Broads or the Cotswolds,” said Sandy. “And of course for Roger you’re the big attraction.”
“An attraction?” said the Major. “If I’m to outrank Norfolk, perhaps I’d better start offering cream teas in the garden.”
“Dad!”
“Oh, your father is so funny,” said Sandy. “I just love that dry humor.”
“Oh, he’s a joke a minute, aren’t you, Dad?” said Roger.
The Major said nothing. He relaxed his head against the leather seat and gave himself up to the soothing vibrations of the road. He felt like a child again as he dozed and listened to Roger and Sandy talking together in low voices. They might have been his parents, their soft voices fading in and out, as they drove the long miles home from his boarding school for the holidays.
They had always made a point of coming to pick him up, while most of the other boys took the train. They thought it made them good parents, and besides, the headmaster always held a lovely reception for the parents who came, mostly ones who lived nearby. His parents enjoyed the mingling and were always jubilant if they managed to secure an invitation to Sunday luncheon at some grand house. Leaving late in the afternoon, sleepy with roast beef and trifle, they had to drive long into the night to get home. He would fall asleep in the back. No matter how angry he was at them for sticking him with lunch at the home of some boy who was equally eager to be free of such obligations, he always found the trip soothing; the dark, the glow of the headlamps tunneling a road, his parents’ voices held low so as not to disturb him. It always felt like love.
“Here we are,” said Roger. His voice was brisk. The Major blinked his eyes and struggled to pretend he had been awake the whole time. He had forgotten to leave a light on and the brick and tile façade of Rose Lodge was barely visible in the sliver of moonlight.
“What a charming house,” said Sandy. “It’s bigger than I expected.”
“Yes, there were what the Georgians called ‘improvements’ to the original seventeenth-century house which make it look more imposing than it is,” said the Major. “You’ll come in and have some tea, of course,” he added, opening his door.
“Actually, we won’t come in, if you don’t mind,” said Roger. “We’ve got to get back to London to meet some friends for dinner.”
“But it’ll be ten o’clock before you get there,” said the Major, feeling a ghost of indigestion just at the thought of eating so late.
Roger laughed. “Not the way Sandy drives. But we won’t make it unless we leave now. I’ll see you to the door, though.” He hopped out of the car. Sandy slid over the gear shift into the driver’s seat, legs flashing like scimitars. She pressed something and the window whirred down.
“Good night, Ernest,” she said, holding out her hand. “It was a pleasure.”
“Thank you,” said the Major. He dropped her hand and turned on his heel. Roger scurried behind him down the path.
“See you again soon,” called Sandy. The window whirred shut on any further communication.
“I can hardly wait,” mumbled the Major.
“Mind your step on the path, Dad,” said Roger behind him. “You ought to get a security light, you know. One of those motion-activated ones.”
“What a splendid idea,” he replied. “With all the rabbits around here, not to mention our neighborhood badger, it’ll be like one of those discos you used to frequent.” He reached his door and, key ready, tried to locate the lock in one
“Damn and blast it,” he said.
“See what I mean?” said Roger.
Roger found the key under the broad leaf of a hosta, snapping several quilted leaves in the process, and opened the door with no effort. The Major passed into the dark hallway and, a prayer on his lips, found the light switch at first snap.
“Will you be okay, Dad?” He watched Roger hesitate, one hand on the doorjamb, his face showing the nervous uncertainty of a child who knows he has behaved badly.
“I’ll be perfectly fine, thank you,” he said. Roger averted his eyes but continued to linger, almost as if waiting to be called to account for his actions today or to have some demands made of him. The Major said nothing. Let Roger spend a couple of long nights tossing with a prickling conscience along with those infernal and shiny American legs. It was a satisfaction to know that Roger had not yet lost all sense of right and wrong. The Major was in no mind to grant any speedy absolutions.
“Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I want to,” insisted Roger. He stepped forward and the Major found himself teetering in an awkward angular hug. He clung to the heavy door with one hand, both to keep it open and to prevent himself falling. With the other he gave a couple of tentative pats to the part of Roger’s back he could reach. Then he rested his hand for a moment and felt, in his son’s knobby shoulder blade, the small child he had always loved.
“You’d better hurry now,” he said, blinking hard. “It’s a long drive back to town.”
“I do worry about you, Dad.” Roger stepped away and became again the strange adult who existed mostly at the end of the telephone. “I’ll call you. Sandy and I will work out our schedules so we can come down and see you in a couple of weeks.”
“Sandy? Oh, right. That would be delightful.” His son grinned and waved as he left, which reassured the Major that his dryness of tone had remained undetected. He waved back and watched his son leaving happy, convinced that his aging father would be buoyed up by the prospect of the visit to come.