Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 11

If there was one trait the Major despised in men, it was inconstancy. The habit of changing one’s mind on a whim, or at the faintest breath of opposition; the taking up and putting down of hobbies, with the attendant bags of unused golf clubs in the garage and rusting weed trimmers leaning against sheds; the maneuverings of politicians in ways that sent uneven ripples of bother through the country. Such flailing about was anathema to the Major’s sense of order. Yet in the days following his excursion with Mrs. Ali and Grace, he found himself tempted to switch directions himself. Not only had he allowed himself to be drawn into a ridiculous situation with regard to the dance, but perhaps he was behaving like a fool with regard to Mrs. Ali as well. He had thought of their friendship as being set apart from the rest of the village, and yet now here she was, plunging into the ordinary activities of the other village ladies. Of course, one tea did not signal a complete assimilation by the female social machine; but it made him depressed anyway.

As Sunday afternoon dragged its weary hours, he sat alone with Kipling’s masterpiece, Kim, unopened on his knee and tried not to imagine her laughing over her teacup as Grace twirled and paraded in a froth of sequined and embroidered costumes. On Tuesday, when he ran out of milk, he avoided the shop and drove instead to the filling station for petrol and bought his milk from the refrigerator next to a display of oil cans. When Alec called about golf on Thursday, he tried to beg off by complaining of a mild backache.

“If you sit about, it’ll only knot up worse,” said Alec. “A leisurely round is just the thing to get the kinks out. How about just nine holes and lunch?”

“Truth is, I’m not feeling very sociable,” said the Major. Alec gave a loud snort of laughter.

“If you’re worried about running into the ladies’ dance committee, I shouldn’t worry. Daisy has whisked Alma off to London to look at costumes. I told Alma if she gets me anything more than a pith helmet I’m calling in the solicitors.”

The Major allowed himself to be persuaded. To hell with women, anyway, he thought as he went to find his golf bag. How much better it was to focus on the manly friendships that were the foundation of a quiet life.

Preparations for “An Evening at the Mughal Court” were in full vulgar display as the Major arrived early for his game. In the annex beyond the Grill, where tea and coffee urns were usually set out for morning golfers, there was no urn in sight. Instead, all the tables had been pushed aside to create rehearsal space in front of the stage. The girls of the luncheon staff, their scowls deepened with concentration, were engaged in flinging scarves about with their arms and stamping their feet as if to crush earwigs. They wore anklets of tiny bells whose seamless jarring wash of sound gave away the fact that not a single dancer was moving in time with any other. Amina, the young woman from the Taj Mahal restaurant, seemed to be teaching the group. George was ensconced on top of a steep pile of chairs, drawing with a fat colored pencil in a thick sketchbook.

“Five, six, seven … hold the eight for two beats … stamp, stamp!” called Amina, leading with graceful steps from the front while the women lumbered behind her. The Major thought she might be better off turning around to watch them, but then perhaps it was too painful to look at the sweating faces and assorted large feet for an extended period. As he scanned the entire room in vain for a tea urn, trying to remain invisible, a cry went up from a large girl in the back row.

“I’m not doing this if people keep coming in looking at us. They told us it would be private.”

“Yeah, we’re in bare feet here,” said another girl. The entire troupe glared as if the Major had invaded the ladies’ locker room. George looked up from his book and waved. His stack of chairs wobbled.

“Sorry, just looking for some tea,” said the Major. The girls continued to glare. Having been relieved of their other duties in order to do whatever it was they were actually doing, they had no intention of helping a club member.

“Girls, we only have a couple of weeks to do this,” said Amina, clapping her hands together. “Let’s take a five-minute tea break and then we’ll talk about feeling the rhythm.” The Major had not expected to hear such a tone of authority coming from someone so scruffy and odd. Even more surprising was how the girls shuffled obediently through the swing doors to the kitchen with scarcely a mutter. The Major tried not to think of so many sweaty footprints on the kitchen floor.

“Major Pettigrew, right?” said Amina. “You were at the Taj Mahal with Miss DeVere and that Mrs. Ali?”

“Nice to see you and George again,” said the Major, waving at the boy and not answering the particulars of her question. “May I ask what you are attempting to do with our lovely ladies of the luncheon service?”

“I’m trying to teach them some basic folk dance routines to perform at the big dance,” said Amina with a sour laugh. “Sadie Khan told Miss DeVere that I dance, and they asked me to help.”

“Oh, dear, I’m truly sorry,” said the Major. “I can’t believe she roped you in to something so impossible.”

“If it was easy, I wouldn’t have done it,” said Amina, an ugly frown flickering across her face. “I don’t take charity.”

“No, of course not,” he said.

“Oh, who am I kidding? I really needed the money,” said Amina. “They’re not so bad if you don’t ask them to do more than three different steps. So we’ll be shaking a lot of hips, and I’m thinking of bringing bigger scarves.”

“Yes, the more veils the better, I think,” said the Major. “The naked feet will be quite alarming enough.”

“So, how well do you know Mrs. Ali?” she asked abruptly.

“Mrs. Ali runs a very nice shop,” said the Major, responding to the direct question with automatic evasiveness. “So many of our village shops are being lost today.” There was a brief pause. “May I assume you are a dancer by profession?” he added by way of turning the conversation.

“Dance, yoga, aerobics. Dance doesn’t pay very well, so I teach whatever,” she said. “Do you think she’s nice, then, Mrs. Ali?”

“You are obviously very good at what you do,” said the Major. The lunch girls were filing back into the room and he felt multiple ears listening to the conversation.

“I was hoping you could tell me more about her,” said Amina. “I was thinking of going over to see her. I heard she wants some parttime help in the shop.”

“You did?” said the Major who couldn’t see quite see her in a shop apron, stacking tins of spaghetti rings and being polite to old ladies. On the other hand, she could hardly be worse than the grumpy nephew. “I can tell you Mrs. Ali’s a lovely woman. Very nice shop,” he said again.

“Of course, it’s not what I want to do long term—shop work.” She seemed to be talking to herself, the Major thought. “And it’d have to be school hours or I’d have to bring George with me.”

“I hope you get the job,” said the Major. He looked away toward the door and raised an eyebrow to acknowledge an imaginary passing acquaintance—an invisible Alec to help him escape the room. “I must be getting along to find my partner.”

“D’you think you could give us a lift after your game?” said the young woman. The Major knew he should answer, but he found he had no idea how to parry such a bold request from a stranger. He simply stared at her. “Only it’s two different buses from here to Edgecombe,” she added. “We’ll probably have to hitchhike.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” said the Major. “Not safe at all, hitchhiking, especially with the boy.”

“Thank you, then,” she said. “I’ll wait and go with you.”

“I may be some time,” he began.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of work here,” she said as the slack-postured lunch girls filed back from the kitchen. “They’ve offered us lunch and then we can just wait for you in the lobby.” Several faces perked up as she said this and the Major had the horrible sensation of being caught making an assignation. He fled as fast as possible, determined to retrieve his golf bag and wait discreetly somewhere outside until Alec arrived.

“Ah, there you are,” said Alec. “Is there a reason you’re loitering in a hedge, and do you realize that ancient bag of yours rather gives the whole thing away?”

“I am not loitering,” said the Major. “I am simply indulging in a few moments of pastoral solitude—together with my very distinguished bag, which you covet and of which you therefore feel compelled to make fun.” They both looked at the bag, a well-oiled leather bag that had belonged to the Major’s father and that bore a small embossed leather patch from the Lahore Gymkhana Club. It reclined on a vintage wooden-wheeled carrier with a bamboo handle and was a source of some pride to the Major.

“I thought maybe you were trying to avoid the secretary. I hear he’s looking for you.”

“Why would he be looking for me?” said the Major as they set off toward the first tee.

“Probably wants to sort out about your son,” Alec said. “I hear there was some mix-up when he came in the other day?”

“My son?” asked the Major with surprise.

“Didn’t you know he was here?” asked Alec, his eyebrows stretching like two rabbits getting up from a nap.

“Well, yes, no, of course—I mean we talked about his taking out a membership,” said the Major.

“He stopped by on Sunday. I happened to be here. I think the secretary was just a little surprised. You hadn’t mentioned it to him and then …” Alec paused, fiddling with the heads of his clubs as he chose his driver. The Major detected a small discomfort in his face. “Well, look, Pettigrew, he’s your son, so perhaps you should have a word with him.”

“ What do you mean?” asked the Major. He felt a sensation in his stomach as if he were descending in a slow lift. “Was this last Sunday?” Roger had called to apologize for not visiting, but they had been tied up all day getting the widow Augerspier moved out of the cottage. They were too exhausted, he had said, to do anything but drive straight back to London.

“Yes, Sunday afternoon. The fact is, he seemed to think he could just sign something and be done,” said Alec. “Rather got the secretary’s back up, I’d say.”

“Oh, dear,” said the Major, sighting away down the fairway with his club. “I suppose I forgot to mention anything. I’ll have to smooth things over.”

“I think it got smoothed over,” said Alec. “Lord Dagenham’s niece, Gertrude, came in and it was all kissy-kissy and so on. Secretary seemed quite mollified.”

“That was very nice of her,” said the Major. “I mean, I hardly know the woman. I suppose my help with the dance is appreciated after all.”

“At the same time, you might want to mention to Roger that we don’t allow those newfangled club heads.”

“He brought clubs with him?” asked the Major, unable to hide the dismay in his voice.

“Oh, I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to be able to play,” said Alec diplomatically. “Probably thought of running his kit by the pro, only since it was Sunday the pro shop was closed.”

“I’m sure that’s so,” said the Major, miserably wondering if there was a limit to Roger’s self-absorption. “I’ll have a chat with him.” He savaged his ball with a clout that sent it arcing high and into the rough on the right of the fairway.

“Oh, rotten luck,” said Alec and the Major wondered if he meant unlucky in golf or unlucky with offspring. Both, the Major felt, were accurate today.

Amina and George were not in the Grill when the Major finished his round. He made a halfhearted effort to look around the tables and thought he might be able to avoid all obligation with a quick dash through the lobby.

Her voice reached him through the lobby doors and caused several members to raise their heads from their chocolate sponge puddings.

“No chinless flunky in a bow tie tells my son to wait by the servants’ entrance.”

“It’s not ‘servants’,’ it’s ‘service’ entrance,” corrected the diminutive club secretary, a piggy-eyed man who wore his green club blazer like holy vestments and was now hopping from foot to foot in unseemly anger. “The main entrance is for members and their guest only, not workers.”

“No one tells my son he’s a servant, or a ‘worker’ neither!” Amina was holding George behind her and now dropped her heavy gym bag on the floor right at the secretary’s feet. He leaped back in shock. “We were asked to help out and no one is going to treat us like dirt.”

“Young woman, you are an employee,” stuttered the secretary. “You will not speak to me with such insolence, or you will be terminated with cause.”

“Bloody terminate me, then, you old git,” said Amina. “Better do it fast. From the color of your face, you’re going to drop dead any second.” The secretary’s face had indeed flushed an unusual purple, which extended up to the scalp under his thin sandy hair. It clashed with his tie. The Major was frozen to the spot with horror at the argument. Roger’s gaffe was enough earn him a stern lecture from the secretary, and now his name was linked with this young woman’s rudeness. He had not suffered such a confrontation in thirty years.

“I demand that you leave the premises immediately,” said the secretary to Amina. Puffed up to his maximum chest capacity, the Major thought he looked like a plump squirrel.

“Suits me fine,” said Amina. She picked up her bag and swung it onto her shoulder. “Come on, George, we’re out of here.” She held George’s hand and stalked out of the front door.

“But that door’s for members …” came the secretary’s feeble cry.

The Major, who had been frozen to the spot, now became aware that to the diners behind him, he might seem to be cowering behind the Grill door. He feigned peering at his watch and then patted his pockets as if he might be looking for some forgotten item and turned on his heel to go back through the Grill and out onto the terrace. His only hope was to bundle the girl and her son into his car and leave without anyone seeing.

Amina was waiting for him in the car park, leaning on a concrete post with her arms wrapped across her chest. He noticed that she was not wearing a warm enough coat and her hair had begun to wilt in the chill drizzle. George was squatting at her feet, trying to protect his book from the rain. There was no avoiding her, so the Major waved as if nothing had happened. Amina hoisted the huge gym bag onto her thin shoulder and joined him at his car.

“I thought you had gone,” he said as he unlocked the car. “I looked all over for you.”

“Got kicked out,” she said, tossing her heavy, clinking bag in the boot on top of his clubs. “Some flunky in a bow tie suggested we wait by the servants’ entrance.”

“Oh dear, I’m sure he wasn’t trying to be offensive,” said the Major, who was sure of no such thing. “I’m so sorry you felt …” He searched for the right word; “excluded” and “unwelcome” were too accurate to provide the comfortable vagueness he sought. “… bad.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t have space in my head to put up with harmless old gits trying to make me feel bad,” said Amina, folding her arms. “I’ve learned to tell the difference between the people who can really hurt you and those who just want to look down their noses.”

“If they’re harmless, why confront them?” asked the Major, thinking again of the seething tea lady on the seafront.

“Because they’re bullies, and I’m teaching George not to put up with bullies—right, George?” she said.

“Bullies have no brains,” repeated George from the backseat. The scribble of pencil against paper indicated that he was still drawing.

“They expect you to slink away or tip your cap or something,” said Amina. “When you spit back at them, they get all flustered. Bet you’ve never tried it, have you?”

“No, I suppose I was raised to believe in politeness above all,” said the Major.

“You ought to try it sometime,” she said. “It can be really funny.” There was a weary tone to her voice that made the Major doubt she found it as amusing as she claimed. They drove in silence for a while and then she shifted in her seat to look at him. “You’re not going to ask me about George, are you?” she asked in a low voice.

“None of my business, young lady.” He tried to keep any judgment out of his tone.

“Women always ask,” she said. “My aunt Noreen is having migraine attacks from all the scandalized ladies dropping by to ask her about me.”

“Nasty things, migraines,” said the Major.

“Men never ask, but you can see they’ve made up a whole story about me and George in their heads.” She turned away and placed her fingers where the rain ran sideways along the glass of her window. The Major’s first impulse was to claim he had never given it a thought, but she was very observant. He wondered what truthful comment he could make.

“I’m not going to answer for men, or women, in general,” he said after a moment. “But in my own case, I believe there is a great deal too much mutual confession going on today, as if sharing one’s problems somehow makes them go away. All it really does, of course, is increase the number of people who have to worry about a particular issue.” He paused while he negotiated a particularly tricky, right-hand turn across the busy road and into the shortcut of a narrow back lane. “Personally, I have never sought to burden other people with my life history and I have no intention of meddling in theirs,” he added.

“But you’re making judgments about people all the time—and if you don’t know the whole story …”

“My dear young woman, we are complete strangers, are we not?” he said. “Of course we will make shallow and quite possibly erroneous judgments about each other. I’m sure, for example, that you already have me pegged as an old git too, do you not?” She said nothing and he thought he detected a guilty smirk.

“But we have no right to demand more of each other, do we?” he continued. “I mean, I’m sure your life is very complicated, but I’m equally sure that I have no incentive to give it any thought and you have no right to demand it of me.”

“I think everyone has the right to be shown respect,” she said.

“Ah well, there you go.” He shook his head. “Young people are always demanding respect instead of trying to earn it. In my day, respect was something to strive for. Something to be given, not taken.”

“You know, you should be an old git,” she said with a faint smile, “but for some reason I like you.”

“Thank you,” he said, surprised. He was equally surprised to find that he felt pleased. There was something about this prickly young person that he also liked. He was not about to tell her so, however, in case she took it as an invitation to tell him more about her life. It was with a feeling of relief that he pulled up the car in front of Mrs. Ali’s shop and let his passengers out.

“Do they have comics?” asked George.

“I’ve got no money, so just be a good boy and maybe when we get home I’ll make you a cake,” said Amina.

“Good luck,” the Major called though the window as Amina paused in front of the shop, holding George by the hand. The face she turned to him was quite gray and frightened. He felt a dawning of suspicion that she was not going to the shop for a mere job interview. Whatever she was up to, she seemed more frightened of Mrs. Ali than she had been of the club secretary.

He had returned home and had put the tea in the pot but not yet poured a cup, when his uneasiness about dropping the strange young woman and her son on Mrs. Ali’s doorstep was compounded by the horrible sensation that it was the third Thursday of the month. He went to the calendar to check and his fears were realized. On the third Thursday in every month, the bus company shifted all the afternoon buses to some mysterious other duties. Even the Parish Council had been unable to get a clear answer as to where they went. The company would only say it was a “rationalization” of service to allow “increased presence in underserved markets.” Since buses came to Edgecombe only every two hours on a normal day, the Major and others had voiced the opinion that the village was itself underserved, but the matter had not been resolved. While his neighbor Alice had suggested protests on the steps of the county hall, he and most of the other village leaders had been content to retreat to the comfort of their cars. Alec had even gone out and bought a four-wheel drive, claiming that he would regard it as a vital community resource now that buses could not be counted upon in an emergency.

The Major was sure that Amina had told George the truth when she said she had no money. He was certain she could not afford a taxi. With great reluctance, tinged with curiosity, he put the cozy on the pot and fetched his coat. He would have to at least offer to drive the pair back to town.

Through the distortion of the plate glass window he could see Mrs. Ali leaning against the counter as if she were slightly faint. Her nephew stood rigid, which was hardly unusual, but he was staring past the Major’s shoulder at some distant point outside the window. Amina looked down at her bright crimson boots, her shoulders sunk into an old woman’s hunch that telegraphed defeat. This was no job interview. The Major was just thinking about sneaking away again when he was accosted by a loud voice.

“Major, yoo-hoo!” He turned around and was greeted with the sight of Daisy, Alma, Grace, and Lord Dagenham’s niece, Gertrude, crammed into Daisy’s Mercedes with so many overstuffed and billowing bags and packages that they looked like four china figurines packed in a gift box. “So happy to have spotted you, you’re just the man we wanted to see,” added Daisy, as the four ladies did their best to emerge from the car without spilling their purchases into the street. It was not the most dignified scene. The Major held the car door for Alma and tried not to look at her plump knees as he bent to rescue a large yellow satin turban that had almost tumbled into a puddle.

“I see Alec is all taken care of,” he said.

“I’m so glad we spotted you,” repeated Daisy. “We couldn’t wait to tell you all about the exciting new plan we came up with,”

“It involves you!” said Alma, as if the Major should feel pleased.

“Major, we have been debating whether our folk dancing was enough to set the theme of our evening,” said Daisy. “Then this morning, while we were breakfasting at Lord Dagenham’s, we came up with a delightful proposition.”

“It was a lovely breakfast, Gertrude,” said Alma to the niece. “Such a delightful start to the day.”

“Thank you,” said Gertrude. “I’m more used to grabbing a bacon sandwich in the stables than entertaining other ladies. I’m so sorry about the kippers.”

“Nonsense,” said Alma. “Quite my own fault for gobbling them up so fast.”

“I was standing by to attempt the Heimlich, but I’m more experienced with horse choke.”

“Ladies, ladies,” said Daisy. “If we could stay on point?” She paused for effect. “We’ve settled on a series of scenes—very tasteful—and we were discussing how to make them relevant.”

“Oh, you tell him, Grace—it was partly your idea,” added Alma.

“Oh, no, no,” said Grace. She stood a little apart, shifting slightly from foot to foot. The Major found this nervous fretting irritating in an otherwise sensible woman. “We were just talking about local connections to India and I happened to mention your father. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.”

“My father?” asked the Major.

“If I might explain,” said Daisy, quelling Grace with a lifted eyebrow. “We were reminded of the story of your father and his brave service to the Maharajah. We’ve decided to do it in three or four scenes. It’ll be the perfect core of our entertainment.”

“No, no, no,” the Major said. He felt quite faint at the idea. “My father was in India in the thirties and early forties.”

“Yes?” said Daisy.

“The Mughal Empire died out around 1750,” said the Major, his exasperation overcoming his politeness. “So you see it doesn’t go at all.”

“Well, it’s all the same thing,” said Daisy. “It’s all India, isn’t it?”

“But it’s not the same at all,” said the Major. “The Mughals—that’s Shah Jehan and the Taj Mahal. My father served at Partition. That’s the end of the English in India.”

“So much the better,” said Daisy. “We’ll just change ‘Mughal’ to ‘Maharajah’ and celebrate how we gave India and Pakistan their independence. Dawn of a new era and all that. I think it’s the only sensitive option.”

“That would solve the costume problem for a lot of people,” said Alma. “I was trying to tell Hugh Whetstone that pith helmets weren’t fully developed until the nineteenth century, but he didn’t want to hear it. If we add an element of ‘Last Days,’ they can wear their ‘Charles Dickens’ summer dresses if they prefer.”

“Though ‘Last Days’ is what got us in trouble last year,” ventured Grace.

“We needn’t be so specific,” snapped Alma.

“Partition was 1947,” said the Major. “People wore uniforms and short frocks.”

“We’re not trying to be rigidly historical, Major,” said Daisy. “Now I understand you do have possession of your father’s guns? And what about some kind of dress uniform? I understand he was at least a colonel, wasn’t he?”

“We’ll need to find someone younger than you, Major, to play him, of course,” said Alma. “And we’ll need some men to play the murderous mob.”

“Maybe Roger, your son, would do it?” said Gertrude. “That would be very appropriate.”

“To be a murderous mob?” asked the Major.

“No, to be the Colonel, of course,” said Gertrude.

“I’m sure the lunch girls have a few murderous-looking boyfriends between them to be our mob,” said Daisy.

“My father was a very private man,” said the Major. He almost stammered under the sense that all around him were losing their reason. That the ladies could imagine that he or Roger would consent to appear in any sort of theatrical was beyond comprehension.

“My father thinks it’s a wonderful story,” added Gertrude. “He wants to present you with some kind of silver plate at the end of the evening’s speeches. Recognition of the Pettigrews’ proud history, and so on. He’ll be so disappointed if I have to tell him you declined his honor.” She looked at him with wide eyes and he noticed she held her cell phone ready as if to call on a moment’s notice. The Major fumbled for words.

“Perhaps we should give the Major some time to absorb the idea,” said Grace, speaking up. Her feet ceased to move and became planted as she defended him. “It’s rather a big honor, after all.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said Daisy. “We’ll say no more right now, Major.” She looked at the windows of the shop and waved at Mrs. Ali inside. “Let’s go in and secure Mrs. Ali’s help for the dance, shall we, ladies?”

“Why, that’s Amina, the girl who’s teaching our waitresses to dance,” said Gertrude also looking in the window. “I wonder what on earth she’s doing here in Edgecombe.”

“Oh, it’s a small community,” said Alma with the sweeping certainty reserved for the ignorant. “They’re all related in some way or another.”

“Perhaps now is not the best time,” said the Major, anxious to spare Mrs. Ali an assault by the ladies. “I believe they have business together.”

“It’s the perfect opportunity to speak to both of them,” said Daisy. “Everybody in, in, in!” The Major was obliged to hold the door open and found himself herded inside the shop along with the ladies. It was a tight squeeze around the counter area, and the Major found himself standing so close to Mrs. Ali that it was difficult to raise his hat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I could not dissuade them from coming in.”

“Those that will come, will come,” she said in a tired voice. “It is not in our power to prevent them.” She looked at Amina, to whom Daisy was talking.

“What luck that you are here as well,” said Daisy. “How is the dancing coming along?”

“Considering they all have two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it was going quite well,” said Amina. “But I don’t think your club manager will be letting me back in anytime soon.”

“You mean the secretary?” said Gertrude. “Yes, he was quite apoplectic on the phone.” She stopped to chuckle. “But don’t you worry about the little man. I told him he must have more patience, considering your unfortunate circumstances and our pressing need for your talent.”

“My circumstances?” said Amina.

“You know, single mother and all that,” said Gertrude. “Afraid I laid it on a bit thick but we do hope you’ll carry on. I think we can approve a little more money, given the bigger scope of the project.”

“You’re dancing for money?” asked Mrs. Ali’s nephew.

“I’m only teaching a few routines,” she said. “You mustn’t think of it as dancing.” He said no more, but his scowl deepened, and the Major marveled anew at the way so many people were willing to spend time and energy on the adverse judgment of others.

“Oh, she’s teaching all our girls how to shake those hips,” said Alma. “Such a wonderful display of your culture.” She smiled at Mrs. Ali and her nephew. The nephew turned an ugly copper color and rage flickered under his skin.

“Now, Mrs. Ali, we were wondering whether we could prevail on you to attend the dance.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Ali. A sudden, shy pleasure lit her face.

“My aunt will not engage in public dancing,” said Abdul Wahid. The Major could tell that his voice bubbled with rage, but Daisy only peered at him with condescension suitable for shop assistants who might unwittingly forget their manners.

“We were not expecting her to dance,” she said.

“We wanted kind of a welcoming goddess, stationed in the niche where we keep the hat stand,” said Alma. “And Mrs. Ali is so quintessentially Indian, or at least quintessentially Pakistani, in the best sense.”

“Actually, I’m from Cambridge,” said Mrs. Ali in a mild voice. “The municipal hospital, ward three. Never been further abroad than the Isle of Wight.”

“But no one would know that,” said Alma.

“Mrs. Khan feels we need someone to welcome and to take the hats and coats,” said Daisy. “She and her husband, Dr. Khan, are coming as guests, so they can’t do it. She suggested you, Mrs. Ali.” Mrs. Ali’s face grew pale and the Major felt a rage climbing into his own throat.

“My aunt does not work at parties—” began the nephew, but the Major cleared his throat loudly enough that the young man stopped in surprise.

“She won’t be available,” he said, feeling his face redden. They all looked at him, and he felt torn between a desire to run for the door and the urgent need to stand up for his friend.

“I have already asked Mrs. Ali to attend as my guest,” he said.

“How extraordinary,” said Daisy, and she paused as if fully expecting him to reconsider. Mrs. Ali’s nephew looked at the Major as if he were a strange bug discovered in the bathtub. Alma could not disguise a look of shock; Grace turned away and appeared suddenly struck by some important headline in the rack of local newspapers. Mrs. Ali blushed but held her chin in the air and looked straight at Daisy.

“I’m sure Mrs. Ali will add a decorative note to the room anyway,” said Gertrude, stepping blunt but welcome into the awkward silence. “We will be happy to have her as an ambassador at large, representing both Pakistan and Cambridge.” She smiled, and the Major thought perhaps he had underestimated the redheaded young woman’s character. She seemed to have a certain authority and an edge of diplomacy that might drive Daisy insane eventually. He could only look forward to that day.

“Then there’s no more to be done here,” said Daisy in a huffy voice. “We must go over the plans and we must call the Major and arrange to search his house for uniforms and so on.”

“I will call Roger; he and I can work on the Major,” said Gertrude, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “It’s my job to get more young people involved in the entertainment and, as a new member, I’m sure he’ll be itching to help.”

“I never understand why it’s so hard to get the men involved,” said Alma as the ladies left, talking loud plans all the way to the car.

“Thank you for your quick thinking, Major,” said Mrs. Ali. To his surprise, she seemed to be herding him toward the door also. “Did you need anything before you go? I’m going to shut the shop for a little while.”

“I just came to see if Amina needed a lift back to town,” the Major said. “There are no buses in the afternoon today.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Amina. She looked at Mrs. Ali. “I had better go if the Major is willing to drive us home.”

“No, you must stay and we will talk some more,” said Mrs. Ali.

“She should leave and go back to her mother,” said Abdul Wahid in a fierce, low voice.

“My mother died two months ago,” said Amina, speaking just to him. “Thirty years in the same street, Abdul Wahid, and only six people came to the funeral. Why do you think that was?” Her voice cracked, but she refused to look away from him. To break the painful silence, the Major asked, “Where is George?”

“George is upstairs, out of the way,” said Mrs. Ali. “I found him some books to look at.”

“I am sorry that your mother had to bear that shame,” said the nephew. “But it was none of my doing.”

“That’s what your family would say,” said the girl, tears now making tracks down her thin cheeks. She picked up her backpack. “George and I will go now and you will never have to be bothered by us again.”

“Why did you have to come here at all?” he asked.

“I had to come and see for myself that you don’t love me.” She wiped at her face with the cuff of her shirt and a streak of dirt made her look like a small child. “I never believed them when they said you left of your own accord, but I see now that you are the product of your family, Abdul Wahid.”

“You should go,” said Abdul Wahid, but his voice cracked as he turned his head away.

“No, no, you will stay and we will go upstairs with George and have something to eat,” said Mrs. Ali. “We will not leave things like this.” She looked flustered. She chewed her bottom lip and then projected toward him a smile that was painfully false. “Thank you for your offer, Major, but everything is fine here. We will make our own arrangements.”

“If you’re sure,” said the Major. He felt an unseemly fascination, like a driver who has slowed down to peer at a road accident. Mrs. Ali moved toward the door and he had no choice but to follow. He added, in a whisper, “Did I do wrong in bringing her here?”

“No, no, we are delighted to have them,” she said loudly. “It turns out that they may be related to us.” A last puzzle piece slipped into place and the Major saw in his mind an image of little George frowning and looking so much like Abdul Wahid. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Ali’s face was a mask of exhausted politeness and he did not want to say something that might break the fragile veneer.

“Extra relatives are useful, I suppose—additional bridge player at family parties, or another kidney donor,” he babbled. “I congratulate you.” A small smile lifted her weary face for a moment. He wished he could hold her hand and ask her to unburden herself to him, but the nephew was still glowering.

“Thank you also for your chivalrous deception about the dance, Major,” added Mrs. Ali. “I’m sure the ladies meant well, but I am glad to decline their request.”

“I am hoping you will not prove me a liar, Mrs. Ali,” he replied, trying to speak quietly. “It would be my honor and pleasure to escort you to the dance.”

“My aunt would not dream of attending,” said Abdul Wahid loudly. His jaw quivered. “It is not appropriate.”

“Abdul Wahid, you will not attempt to lecture me on what is appropriate,” said Mrs. Ali sharply. “I will rule my own life, thank you.” She turned to the Major and extended her hand. “Major, I accept your kind invitation.”

“I’m much honored,” said the Major.

“And I’m hoping we can continue to discuss literature,” she said in a clear voice. “I missed our Sunday appointment very much.” She did not smile as she said it and the Major felt a sting of disappointment that she was using him to wound her nephew. As he raised his hat to say goodbye, he noticed that the tension had returned. Or perhaps tension was the wrong word; as he walked away he thought that it was more like a low-grade despair. He paused at the corner and looked back. He was sure the three people in the shop had many hours of painful discussion ahead of them. The shop window revealed nothing but patchy, glittering reflections of street and sky.