Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 2

Bertie’s house—he supposed he should have to start thinking of it as Marjorie’s house now—was a boxy split-level that she had managed to torque into some semblance of a Spanish villa. The lumpy brick pergola and wrought-iron railings of a rooftop patio crowned the attached double garage. An attic extension with a brick-arched picture window presented a sort of flamenco wink at the seaside town that sprawled below. The front garden was given over mostly to a gravel driveway as big as a car park and the cars were lined up two abreast around a spindly copper fountain in the shape of a very thin, naked young girl. The late afternoon was growing chilly, the clouds swelling in from the sea, but upstairs on the second floor, Marjorie still had the doors from the tiled living room open to the rooftop patio. The Major stayed as deep into the room as possible, trying to suck some warmth from lukewarm tea in a small polystyrene cup. Marjorie’s idea of “nothing elaborate” was a huge banquet of spoon-dripping food—egg salad, lasagna, a wine-soaked chicken stew—served entirely on paper plates. All around the room people cradled sagging plates in their palms, plastic glasses and cups of tea set down haphazardly on window ledges and the top of a large television.

Across the room he caught an undulation in the crowd and followed the stir to see Marjorie embracing Roger. Major Pettigrew’s heart jumped to see his tall brown-haired son. So he had come after all.

Roger made copious apologies for his lateness and a solemn promise to help Marjorie and Jemima select a headstone for Uncle Bertie. He was charming and smooth in an expensive, dark suit, unsuitable gaudy tie, and narrow, highly polished shoes too dapper to be anything but Italian. London had polished him to an almost continental urbanity. The Major tried not to disapprove.

“Listen, Dad, Jemima had a word with me about Uncle Bertie’s shotgun,” said Roger when they had a moment to sit down on a hard leather sofa to talk. He twitched at his lapel and adjusted the knees of his trousers.

“Yes, I was meaning to talk to Marjorie about it. But it’s not really the time, is it?” He had not forgotten about the question of the gun, but it didn’t seem important today.

“They understand perfectly about the value of it. Jemima is quite up on the subject.”

“It’s not a question of the money, of course,” said the Major sternly. “Our father was quite clear in his intentions that the pair be reunited. Family heirlooms, family patrimony.”

“Yes, Jemima feels that the pair should be reunited,” said Roger. “A little restoration may be needed, of course.”

“Mine is in perfect condition,” said the Major. “I don’t believe Bertie quite took the time with his that I did. Not much of a shooting man.”

“Well, anyway,” said Roger, “Jemima says the market is red hot right now. There aren’t Churchills of this quality to be had for love or money. The Americans are signing up for waiting lists.” The Major felt a slow tightening in the muscles of his cheeks. His small smile became quite rigid as he inferred the blow that was to come. “So, Jemima and I think the most sensible course of action would be to sell them as a pair right now. Of course, it would be your money, Dad, but since you are planning to pass it on to me eventually, I assume, I could really use it now.”

The Major said nothing. He concentrated on breathing. He had never really noticed how much mechanical effort was involved in maintaining the slow in-and-out of the lungs, the smooth passage of oxygen through the nose. Roger had the decency to squirm in his chair. He knew, thought the Major, exactly what he was asking.

“Excuse me, Ernest, there’s a strange woman outside who says she’s waiting for you?” said Marjorie, appearing suddenly and putting her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, coughing to hide his wet eyes. “Are you expecting a dark woman in a small Honda?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “that’s Mrs. Ali come to pick me up.”

“A woman taxi driver?” said Roger. “You hate women drivers.”

“She’s not a taxi service,” snapped the Major. “She’s a friend of mine. She owns the village shop.”

“In that case, you’d better have her come in and have some tea,” said Marjorie, her lips tight with disapproval. She looked vaguely at the buffet. “I’m sure she’d like a piece of Madeira cake—everyone likes Madeira cake, don’t they?”

“I’ll do that, thank you,” said the Major, rising to his feet.

“Actually, Dad, I was hoping I could drive you home,” said Roger. The Major was confused.

“But you came by train,” he said.

“Yes, that was the plan,” said Roger, “but things changed. Sandy and I decided to drive down together. She’s out looking at weekend cottages right now.”

“Weekend cottages?” It was too much to take in.

“Yes, Sandy thought since I had to come down anyway … I’ve been on at her about getting a place down here. We could be nearer to you.”

“A weekend cottage,” repeated the Major, still struggling with the implications of this person named Sandy.

“I’m dying for you to meet her. She should be here any minute.” Roger scanned the room in case she had suddenly come in. “She’s American, from New York. She has a rather important job in the fashion business.”

“Mrs. Ali is waiting for me,” said the Major. “It would be rude—”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand,” interrupted Roger.

Outside the air was chill. The view of the town and the sea beyond was smudged around the edges with darkness. Mrs. Ali had parked her Honda just inside the curly iron gates with their depictions of flying dolphins. She waved and stepped from the car to greet him. She was holding a paperback and half a cheeseburger wrapped in its garish, oily paper. The Major was venomously opposed to the awful fast-food places that were gradually taking over the ugly stretch of road between the hospital and the seafront, but he was prepared to find her indulgence charmingly out of character.

“Mrs. Ali, won’t you come in and have some tea?” he said.

“No, thank you, Major, I don’t want to intrude,” she said. “But please don’t rush on my account. I’m quite fine here.” She indicated the book in her hand.

“We have quite a buffet inside,” offered the Major. “We even have homemade Madeira cake.”

“I’m quite happy, really,” she said, smiling at him. “You take your time with your family and I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.”

The Major was miserably confused. He was tempted to climb in the car and go right now. It would be early enough when they got back to invite Mrs. Ali in for tea. They could discuss her new book. Perhaps she might listen to some of the funnier aspects of the day.

“You’re going to think me impossibly rude,” he said. “But my son managed to come down after all, by car.”

“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 hint that they were living together.

“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 smooth move. The key grated across the plate and spun out of his fingers. There was the clunk of brass on brick and then an ominous quiet thud as the key landed somewhere in soft dirt.

“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.

Alone in the house he felt the full weight of exhaustion settle on him like iron shackles. He considered stopping in the living room for a reviving brandy, but there was no fire in the grate and the house suddenly seemed chill and dark. He decided to go straight to bed. The small staircase, with its faded oriental runner, loomed as steep and impassable as Everest’s Hillary Steps. He braced his arm on the polished walnut banister and began to haul himself up the narrow treads. He considered himself to be generally in good health and made a point of doing a full set of stretching exercises every day, including several deep knee bends. Yet today—overcome by the strain, he supposed—he had to pause halfway up the stairs to catch his breath. It occurred to him to wonder what would happen if he passed out and fell. He saw himself lying splayed out across the bottom treads, head down and blue in the face. It might be days before he was found. He had never thought of this before. He shook his shoulders and straightened up his back. It was ridiculous to think of it now, he reprimanded himself. No good acting like a poor old man just because Bertie had died. He took the remaining stairs with as regular and fluid a step as he could manage and did not allow himself to puff and pant until he had gained his bedroom and sunk down on the soft wide bed in relief.