Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 10

On the way to Little Puddleton, Grace elected to sit in the back of the car, where she sprawled at a strange angle and, after a few moments of heavy traffic out of the town, declared herself to be feeling just the tiniest bit green.

“Would you like me to stop the car?” asked the Major, though he could only manage a half-hearted attempt at sincerity. It was getting close to three and he did not want to disappoint Roger by being late. He accelerated as the road became clear and ran the heavy car effortlessly up over the crest of the hill.

“No, no, I’ll just rest my eyes,” said Grace in a faint whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

“I have some eau de cologne wipes in my bag,” said Mrs. Ali. She rummaged in her tote and handed back to Grace a small jeweled bag. The light scent of flowers in alcohol invaded the car.

“These are wonderful,” said Grace. “I’ll feel right as rain in just a jiffy, and then I can’t wait to show you the new alpaca yarns, Mrs. Ali. It’ll be the highlight of our afternoon.”

“I am to be converted to the joys of knitting,” said Mrs. Ali, smiling at the Major.

“My condolences,” he said.

As they made the long slow swoop downhill into Little Puddle-ton, the Major tried keep up a good speed and ignore the stifled groans from the backseat. He was sure Grace would feel much better once he dropped them both off at the craft shop. Just the sight of all that colored yarn would no doubt cheer her up.

The village green was as obsessively manicured as the Major remembered. Wooden posts with a fresh coat of whitewash held up a knee-high chain all around the edges of the cropped grass. Bronze signs warned people to keep off except for concert afternoons. Gravel paths curved this way and that like some strange Venn diagram. The gazebo at one end looked across the elliptical duck pond, on which floated three bleached-looking swans. There were always just three and it fascinated the Major to try to work out which was the odd one out and why it stuck around. The cottages and houses of the village huddled together companionably. An army of topiaries in terracotta pots guarded pastel front doors. Window boxes foamed with painterly foliage. Windows twinkled with custom double glazing.

The shops occupied a small street running away from the green. The Major pulled the car up in front of the Ginger Nook. Its brimming windows offered a cornucopia of cushion covers waiting to be cross-stitched; dolls’ houses awaiting paint and furniture, and baskets of wool skeins in a rainbow of colors.

“Here we are,” said the Major in what he hoped was a jolly, rallying tone. “Shall we say I’ll come back for you in one hour?” There was only a groan from the backseat. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of a gray face in which Grace’s pink lipstick stood out like new bricks.

“Or I can try to be quicker,” he said. “My son just wants me to have a look at a cottage with him. Seems to think I could help make a good impression.”

“Grace, I think you’ll feel much better in the fresh air,” added Mrs. Ali, who had turned around in her seat and was staring with concern. “I’ll come around and help you out.”

“No, no,” whispered Grace. “I can’t get out here, not in front of everybody.” To the Major, the road appeared largely deserted. The Ginger Nook itself seemed to have only a couple of ladies browsing.

“What should we do?” he asked Mrs. Ali. The clock on the church steeple was pointing to three and he was beginning to panic. “I am already expected at Apple Cottage.”

“Why don’t we go there?” said Mrs. Ali. “You can go in, and I’ll walk with Grace in the lane. Would that be all right, Grace?” There was another indistinct groan from the backseat.

“Wouldn’t you be happier sitting on the Green?” asked the Major, horrified. “There are some lovely benches by the pond.”

“She might get cold,” said Mrs. Ali. “It would be better if we stay near the car, I think.” She looked at him rather sternly. “If our presence in the vicinity won’t spoil your good impression, of course?”

“Not at all,” said the Major, who could already imagine Roger’s raised eyebrows. Perhaps, he hoped, he could park a little away from the cottage and walk there.

Apple Cottage was at the end of a small lane, which ended in a five-bar gate and a field. The Major was already upon the place before he had time to stop and park. Sandy’s Jaguar was parked by the field, leaving room for another car directly in front of the cottage’s front gate. The Major had no choice but to pull up there. He could see Roger’s brown head over the hedge next to Sandy’s shiny blond hair. The top of a brown felt hat indicated the presence of a third person: the widow Augerspier, he assumed. His son was looking up at the cottage roof and nodding as if he had some expertise in the evaluation of rotting thatch.

“Here we are,” said the Major. “I don’t expect to be too long. I’ll leave the car unlocked for you.”

“Yes, please go ahead,” said Mrs. Ali. “Grace will feel much better after a walk, I’m sure.” As the Major got out of the car, Grace was still groaning. He hurried through the gate of the cottage and hoped her groans wouldn’t carry too far on the still afternoon air.

Mrs. Augerspier was from Bournemouth. She had a long face set in a slight frown, and lips that seemed thinned by sourness. She wore a stiff suit of black wool. Her hat boasted black feathers sweeping in serried rows across her sunken forehead.

“Ah, my father was a colonel in the military,” she said when introduced. She did not specify which military. “But he made his money in hats,” she added. “After the war, there was much demand for European hats. My husband took over the business when my father died.”

“From military to millinery,” said the Major. Roger glared at him as if he had flung an insult and then turned a wide smile toward the dead crow on the widow’s brow.

“They certainly don’t make hats the way they used to,” he said. He held the smile as if waiting for a photo to be taken. His teeth seemed larger and whiter than the Major remembered, but perhaps it was just an illusion caused by the artificial stretch of the lips.

“You are so right, young man,” said the widow. “When I was married I had a hat covered entirely in swan’s feathers. But of course, you can’t get the wings now. It’s a great pity.” The Major thought of amputee swans paddling on the Little Puddleton pond.

“Is that a real vintage hat?” asked Sandy. “I just have to send a picture to my editor friend at Vogue magazine.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it is now,” said the widow, tipping her head at a coquettish angle while Sandy snapped pictures with her diminutive cell phone. “My father made it for my mother’s funeral. She looked so beautiful. And after, he gave it to me to remember her by. Last month I wore it to my aunt’s funeral.” She took out a small, lace-edged handkerchief and wiped her nose.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” said Roger.

“She could never wear a hat properly,” said the widow. “She was not a lady in the same way as my mother. My mother would never use the telephone, you know. And she would chase away a tradesman with a broom if he came to the front door instead of the service door.”

“Isn’t hat-making a trade?” asked Sandy. “Did she make her husband come in the back door too?”

“Of course not,” said the widow. The feathers quivered and Roger looked slightly sick. “Why, my father made hats for the nobility.”

“May we see the inside of the cottage now?” asked Roger, trying to glare at Sandy without the widow seeing. “I’m sure Sandy would love to talk hats with you for hours, Mrs. Augerspier, but we would like to see it in the afternoon light.”

As far as the Major could determine, the cottage was a damp and unsuitable mess. The plaster bubbled suspiciously in several corners. The beams looked wormy and the floors downstairs seemed to be made of uneven garden pavers. An inglenook fireplace had more soot on the outside of the oak Bessemer than in the flue. The windows were original, but the panes were buckled and twisted as if the handmade glass might pop from the heavy leading with the slightest rattle of wind.

“It might be possible that I will sell some of the furnishings to the new tenants,” said Mrs. Augerspier, smoothing a lace doily over the back of a tattered armchair. “If I get the right sort of people, of course.” The Major wondered why Roger nodded with such enthusiasm. The dead aunt’s possessions ran to cheap pine furniture, seaside knickknacks, and a collection of plates featuring scenes from famous movies. There did not seem to be a single item that would suit Roger and Sandy’s taste, yet his son examined everything.

In the large empty kitchen, a boxy extension from the 1950s with cheap beams added to a textured plaster ceiling, the Major peered around an open door into a mousy larder and counted eleven boxes of dried chicken soup on the otherwise empty shelves. It seemed very sad that life should have gradually thinned out until so little remained. He shut the door quietly on the evidence.

“Oh, I wouldn’t change a thing,” Sandy was saying loudly to Mrs. Augerspier. “Only maybe I could fit a regular U.S.-sized refrigerator into that back corner.”

“My aunt always found the refrigerator perfectly adequate,” said Mrs. Augerspier pulling aside the check curtains under the counter to show a small green fridge with a fringe of rust. “But then young people today will insist on all that convenience food.”

“Oh, we’re going to shop all the local farm shops,” said Roger. “There’s nothing quite like fresh vegetables, is there?”

“Horribly overpriced, of course,” said the widow. “Designed to rob the weekenders from London. I refuse to shop in them.”

“Oh,” said Roger. He flung a hopeless glance at the Major, who could only stifle a laugh.

“This is a very good table,” continued Mrs. Augerspier, knocking on the plastic. It was still covered with a checked oilcloth. “I would be willing to sell the table.”

“I think we’re going to commission a handmade oak table and a couple of traditional English settles,” said Sandy, turning the dull sink taps and examining the trickle of brown water that was produced. “An art director friend of mine knows this great craftsman.”

“I would like to think of the table remaining here,” said the widow, as if she had not heard. “I think it fits here.”

“Absolutely,” said Roger. “We could have an oak table in the dining room instead, couldn’t we, Sandy?”

“I will show you the dining room,” said the widow. “But it already has a very nice modern dining set.” She unlatched a door and waved them to follow her. Roger followed; as the Major stepped back to allow Sandy to pass, they heard the widow saying, “I would be willing to consider selling the dining set.”

“Do you think the aunt died in her bed here?” whispered Sandy, grinning, as she went by. “And do you think she’ll let us buy the mattress?” The Major could not suppress a laugh.

As they prepared to mount the crooked stairs to the upper floor, Roger shot him a look like a Jack Russell terrier with urgent business. The Major recognized an appeal and was pleased to find he could still read his son’s facial communications.

“My dear Mrs. Augerspier,” said the Major, “I was wondering whether you might consent to show me the garden. I’m sure these young people can manage to look around upstairs by themselves.” The widow looked suspicious.

“That would be so great,” said Sandy, warmly. “We’d love the chance to talk things over as we go.”

“I don’t usually let people go unaccompanied,” Mrs. Augerspier said. “You can’t be certain of anyone these days.”

“If I might vouch for the complete integrity of these particular young people,” said the Major. “It would be so kind of you to indulge me with your companionship.” He extended an arm and resisted the urge to stroke his mustache. He was afraid his deliberately charming smile might look more like a leer.

“I suppose it would be acceptable,” said the widow, taking his arm. “One gets so few opportunities for refined conversation these days.”

“After you,” said the Major.

Coming from the musty cottage, the air smelled like pure oxygen. The Major took a grateful breath and was rewarded with the scent of box and hawthorn underlaid with a hint of damp oak leaves. Mrs. Augerspier turned right along the mossy flagstones and led the way to the main stretch of garden, which rose gently to one side of the cottage. Under a small arbor at the far end, Mrs. Ali sat with Grace who, the Major noticed with alarm, was slumped with closed eyes against the lichen-covered teak seat. Mrs. Ali seemed to be taking her pulse.

“People are so rude to keep coming without an appointment,” said Mrs. Augerspier, hurrying over the grass. “And always they are not suitable,” she added.

“Oh, they’re not here about the house,” said the Major, but the widow wasn’t listening.

“The house is not available,” she called flapping her hands as if to shoo away recalcitrant chickens. “I must ask you to go now.” Grace opened her eyes and shrank back against the seat. Mrs. Ali patted her hand and stood up, stepping forward as if to shield her from the angry bobbing figure rushing across the grass.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Augerspier,” said the Major, catching up at last. “They’re with me.” Grace threw him a grateful look, but Mrs. Ali continued to look at the widow.

“My friend Grace needed to sit down,” she said. “We didn’t think anyone would mind.” Grace hiccupped loudly and sank her face in her handkerchief.

“Well,” said the widow. “Only I get the strangest people wandering in from the road. One couple walked right into the kitchen and then said they thought the house was empty.”

“Now that we have established our credentials, perhaps a glass of water?” asked Mrs. Ali.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Augerspier. “Wait here and I will bring it to you.” She hurried back toward the house, leaving an awkward silence.

“Dreadful woman,” said the Major at last. “I’m so sorry. I should have driven you both straight home.”

“Oh, no, please, I’m feeling very much better,” whispered Grace. “I think I just had a bit of a reaction to some of the spices.”

“I’m afraid we’re not contributing to the good impression your son was anxious to make,” said Mrs. Ali.

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” said the Major. “Don’t even think about it. Roger will be delighted to see you both.” He swung his cane absently and had taken the heads off of three late dahlias before he realized it. He looked up to see Roger jogging up the lawn with a glass of water slopping over his hand. His son wore a look of concern that closely resembled a scowl.

“Mrs. Augerspier said one of your friends needed a glass of water,” said Roger. In a quieter voice he added, “You invited people along?”

“You remember Miss DeVere, Roger,” said the Major, passing the glass of water to Grace. “And this is Mrs. Ali from the village shop.”

“How do you do,” said Mrs. Ali. “We are so sorry to intrude.”

“Not at all,” said Roger in an indifferent tone. “Only I do need to borrow my father for a few minutes.”

“I remember when you were just a little boy, Roger …” said Grace, wiping her eyes. “Such a lovely little boy with all that unruly hair.”

“Is she drunk?” whispered Roger to the Major. “Did you bring a drunken woman here?”

“Certainly not,” said the Major. “Just a little touch of something from our rather large Indian luncheon.”

“Do you remember that time you boys stayed out smoking cheroots in the woods?” asked Grace. “Your poor mother was convinced that you were trapped in an abandoned refrigerator in some ravine.”

“Sorry, got to run, ladies,” said Roger already turning away. As the Major found himself being hustled along back to the house, he heard Grace’s voice ramble on.

“Stole them from the Vicar’s coat during services and made themselves sick as dogs …”

“Roger, you were very rude,” he said.

“Rude?” said Roger. “How could you bring them here? Mrs. Augerspier is all nervous now. She keeps peering out the window.”

“What on earth for?” said the Major.

“I don’t know. But we’ve gone from being the right sort of people to being a strange bunch with a circus of hangers-on. For God’s sake, one’s Pakistani and one’s tipsy—what were you thinking?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” said the Major. “I won’t have my friends subjected to such rudeness.”

“You promised to help me,” said Roger. “I suppose I’m not as important as your friends? And since when did you count shopkeepers as friends? Are you best friends with the milkman now?”

“As you know perfectly well, there hasn’t been a milkman in Edgecombe St. Mary for twenty years,” said the Major.

“Hardly the point, Dad, hardly the point,” said Roger. He opened the cottage door and stood aside as if waiting to shepherd in a troublesome child. The Major fumed as he was marched in.

Sandy was sitting on the rickety sofa with a fixed smile on her face. Mrs. Augerspier was once again peering from the window.

“It’s just that I’ve been so nervous since that couple last week,” she said, holding her hand to her heart. Sandy nodded in apparent sympathy.

“Mrs. Augerspier was just explaining to me about a very rude couple who came to see the cottage last week.”

“I only told them that since they were used to a warmer climate, I thought they would find the cottage much too damp. They were quite unreasonable about it.”

“Where were they from?” asked Roger.

“I think you said from Birmingham, Mrs. A.?” asked Sandy, her eyes stretched to wide innocence.

“But they were from the islands originally; the West Indies,” said Mrs. Augerspier. “Such rudeness—and from doctors, too. I told them I’d report them to the medical board.”

“So naturally Mrs. Augerspier is feeling a little intimidated around strangers,” said Sandy. “But only until she knows them.”

“A lady is comfortable around all persons once properly introduced,” opined Mrs. Augerspier. “I am proud to say that I have not a bone of bias in me.”

The Major looked at Roger whose mouth was open, making slight movements but no sound. Sandy looked unperturbed. She even seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Mrs. Augerspier, you are an unvarnished original,” said Sandy. “I can’t wait to hear your opinions on—oh, on everything.”

“I must say, for an American you are very civil,” said Mrs. Augerspier. “Are your family originally from Europe?”

“Roger, are you finished looking around?” asked the Major. He hoped his tone was abrupt enough to register his disapproval of the widow without creating a direct confrontation. Mrs. Augerspier gave him a vague smile which indicated that while he had avoided any rudeness, he had failed miserably to deliver a snub.

“We really shouldn’t take up too much of your time,” said Roger. He walked over to pat Sandy on the shoulder. “Are you done, darling?” The Major flinched at the casually delivered endearment, the verbal equivalent of tossing a stranger the keys to the family house.

“I could move in right now,” said Sandy. “What’s it going to be, Mrs. A.? Are we suitable, do you think?”

Mrs. Augerspier smiled, but her eyes narrowed in an unpleasant fashion. “It is important that I find just the right people …” she began.

Sandy turned to look at Roger and patted his hand like a mother to a small boy who has forgotten his manners.

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” said Roger. He dug in his coat pocket and flourished a brown envelope. “My fiancée and I took the liberty of bringing a cashier’s check for six months’ rent just in case you could let us have it right away.” He opened the envelope and handed a check to Mrs. Augerspier, who appeared fascinated.

“Roger, are you sure you’re not being too spontaneous?” asked the Major, his mind struggling to process the word “fiancée.” He focused instead on watching the widow examine both back and front of the check. Her eyes wobbled in delight. She pursed her lips and gave him a frown.

“Well, I believe I could agree to six months—on a strictly trial basis,” she said. “But I won’t have time to effect any repairs, you know. It will take all my strength just to pack up my dear aunt’s personal effects.”

“We’ll be happy with it just as it is,” said Sandy.

The widow put the check in her jacket pocket, being careful to push it all the way down. “It will take me a few days to sort out which of the personal effects I might be able to part with.”

“Take all the time you need,” said Roger, shaking her hand. “Now, what say we all go and have a cup of tea somewhere to seal the deal?”

“That sounds very lovely,” said Mrs. Augerspier. “I believe there’s a local hotel that offers a wonderful afternoon tea—now where did I put my rental form?” The Major personally thought chewing stinging nettles and washing them down with a pint of ditch water might be more pleasant than watching the widow bob her feathers over a mountain of whipped cream.

“Major, you look as if you have some pressing engagement,” said Sandy, winking at him. Roger looked up and gave the Major a pleading glance.

“I rather think I must get the ladies home,” said the Major. “Grace is quite unwell.”

The door opened and Mrs. Ali put her head around it.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt you,” she said. “I wanted to let you know that Grace is feeling much better.” The Major experienced a sense of panic. It was all he could do to keep from shaking his head at Mrs. Ali. He must have made some small involuntary spasm because she smoothly changed her emphasis.

“However, I do think it would be preferable to get her home as soon as possible, Major.” She held out the empty water glass, which the widow hurried over to take from her.

“We’re just finished, just finished,” said Mrs. Augerspier. She hovered by the doorway as Sandy and Roger signed the form and took the carbon copy. “Of course you must get your friend home. We would not dream of dragging you to tea with us.”

Out in the lane, waiting for the widow to lock up, Roger’s enthusiasm reduced him to babble. “Isn’t it great? I mean, isn’t it the greatest cottage? I can’t believe we got it—”

“Honey, it’s a dump,” said Sandy, “but it’s our dump and I can make something of it.”

“She preferred this other place,” said Roger. “But I told her I just knew this would be the one.”

“Will you come back to the house afterward?” asked the Major. “Perhaps we could discuss your engagement?” He hoped Roger caught the acid note in his voice, but Roger just grinned at him.

“Sorry, Dad, we’ve got to get back,” he said. “But we’ll come over one weekend really soon.”

“Splendid,” said the Major.

“Yeah, there are one or two things—like my old desk and the oak trunk in the attic—I thought would go great in the cottage.”

“I get veto power on all items of furniture,” said Sandy. “I’m not getting stuck with ugly furniture just because you carved your schoolboy fantasies into it.”

“Of course,” said Roger. “Over here, Mrs. A.” The widow came down the path wrapped in a voluminous tweed coat topped with what looked like a very antique dead fox.

“Nice to meet you ladies,” called Sandy, waving at Mrs. Ali and Grace, who were already in the Major’s car. With Mrs. Augerspier ceremoniously installed in the confines of the front seat and Sandy tucked in the back, Roger revved the engine until the birds flew from the hedge.

The Major was glad that the ladies were quiet on the drive home. He felt tired and his jaw ached. He realized it was clamped shut.

“Is something the matter, Major?” asked Mrs. Ali. “You seem upset.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Long day, though.”

“Your son rented the cottage, did he not?” she said. “He seemed so full of cheer.”

“Oh, yes, yes, all signed and sealed,” said the Major. “He’s very happy about it.”

“How lovely for you,” she said.

“It was all just a bit hasty,” said the Major, taking a fast right turn in front of a tractor to dive the car into the single-track shortcut back to Edgecombe St Mary. “Apparently they’re engaged.” He looked back at Grace, hoping she would not start groaning again. The sound made it so difficult to drive. “Feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you,” said Grace, whose face still looked gray and sunken. “I offer you my congratulations, Major.”

“I just hope they know what they’re getting into,” said the Major. “All this renting cottages together. It seems so premature.”

“It seems to be the way they all go on today, even in the best families,” said Grace. “You mustn’t let anyone make you feel bad about it.” He was immediately annoyed, both by the suggestion and by the way her handkerchief fluttered like a trapped dove in his rearview mirror as she fanned herself.

“They should be able to buy the place eventually,” said the Major. “Roger tells me it will be rather a smart investment.”

“When true love combines with clear financial motive,” said Mrs. Ali, “all objections must be swept away.”

“Is that a saying in your culture?” asked Grace. “It seems very apt.”

“No, I’m just teasing the Major,” said Mrs. Ali. “I think the circumstances may prove to be less important than the fact that life has made a turn and brought your son and a future daughter-in-law closer, Major. It is an opportunity to be seized, is it not, Miss DeVere?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Grace. “I wish I had children to come and live near me.” Her voice held a hint of a pain unconnected with digestive problems.

“I have tried to see my nephew’s presence in such a light,” said Mrs. Ali. “Though the young do not always make it easy.”

“I will follow your advice and try to seize on my son’s new proximity,” said the Major as he sped up to escape the outer limits of Little Puddleton. “And I live in hope that he will want more from the relationship than a good deal of my old furniture.”

“You must bring your son and his fiancée to the dance, Major,” said Grace. “Introduce them to everyone. Everyone is always so relaxed and approachable when they’re in costume, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but they often don’t remember you the next day, I find,” said the Major. Mrs. Ali laughed.

“I suppose I’ll wear my Victorian tea dress again,” said Grace. “Maybe I can borrow a pith helmet or something.”

“If you would be interested, I would be more than happy to lend you a sari or a tunic set and shawl,” said Mrs. Ali. “I have several very formal pieces, packed away in the attic somewhere, that I never use.”

“Do you really?” said Grace. “Why, that would surprise the ladies at the club, wouldn’t it—little me in full maharani splendor.”

“I think you would carry a sari very well with your height,” added Mrs. Ali. “I will look out a few things and drop them off for you to try.”

“You are very kind,” said Grace. “You must come and have tea with me and that way you can tell me what you think—I may look like a complete fool.”

“That would be lovely,” said Mrs. Ali. “I’m usually free on Tuesday or Sunday afternoons.” The Major felt his jaw compress again as the vision of another Sunday discussing Kipling faded. He told himself to be happy that Mrs. Ali was making other friends in the village, but in his heart, he cried out at the thought of her crossing someone else’s threshold.