Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand (17 page)

“Now, I hope Mrs. Ali has explained that we are on a strict budget?” said Grace, inching along the banquette as if it were made of Velcro. The Major tried to allow Mrs. Ali to slide in, both to be polite and because he hated to be confined, but Mrs. Rasool indicated that he should sit next to Grace. She and Mrs. Ali took the outside chairs.

“Oh, please, please,” said Mr. Rasool. “No need to talk of business. First we must hope you enjoy our humble offerings. My wife has ordered a few small samples of food for you, and my mother has ordered a few more.” He clapped his hands together and two waiters came through the kitchen doors bearing silver trays covered with domed silver lids. They were followed by a pair of musicians, one with a hand drum and one with some kind of sitar, who sat down on low stools near the booth and began a spirited atonal song.

“We have musicians for you,” said Mrs. Rasool. “And I think you will be very happy with the decorations we have sourced.” She seemed resigned now to the presence of her in-laws. The Major felt sure that negotiations between the generations were a feature of all family businesses, but he thought that Mrs. Rasool’s obvious competence must add an extra measure of irritation. The old woman wagged her finger and spoke rapidly at Mrs. Rasool.

“My mother insists that first our guests must eat,” said Mr. Rasool. “It is an offence to talk business without offering hospitality.” The mother frowned at the Major and Grace as if they had already committed some breach of decorum.

“Well, perhaps just a little taste,” said Grace, pulling from her bag a small notebook and a thin silver pen. “I really don’t eat much at lunchtime.”

The dishes came quickly, small bowls of steaming food, blurry with colour and fragrant with spices that were familiar and yet could not be readily named. Grace nibbled her way through them all, pursing her lips in determination at some of the more dark and pungent offerings. The Major watched with amusement as she wrote them all down, her writing becoming more labored as the food and several servings of punch made her sleepy.

“How do you spell ‘gosht’?” she asked for the third time. “And this one is what meat?”

“Goat,” said Mr. Rasool. “It is the most traditional of ingredients.”

“Goat gosht?” Grace manoeuvred her jaw around the words with difficulty. She blinked several times, as if she had just been told she was eating horse.

“But the chicken is very popular, too,” said Mrs. Rasool. “May we pour you another glass of lunch punch?”

The Major had detected the merest scent of juniper in the first glass of punch, which Mrs. Rasool had presented to them as a lightly alcoholic lunchtime refresher. It came in an elaborately scrolled glass pitcher garnished with cucumber slices, pineapple chunks, and pomegranate seeds. But a crook of her finger when she ordered the second round must have been a signal to lubricate the proceedings with a healthy dumping of gin. The cucumbers were positively translucent with shock and the Major himself felt a desire to fall asleep, bathed in the fragrance of the food and the iridescent light of the silk curtains. The Rasools and Mrs. Ali drank only water.

“My parents’ tradition is to serve this dish family style or buffet,” said Mr. Rasool. “A large clay platter with all the trimmings in little silver bowls around it – sunflower seeds, persimmon slices, and tamarind chutney.”

“I wonder if it might be a little spicy for the main course,” said Grace, cupping her hand around her mouth as if making a small megaphone. “What do you think, Major?”

“Anyone who doesn’t find this delicious is a fool,” said the Major. He nodded his head fiercely at Mrs. Rasool and Mrs. Ali. “However…” He was not sure how to express his firm conviction that the golf club crowd would throw a fit if served a rice-based main course instead of a hearty slab of congealing meat. Mrs. Rasool raised an eyebrow at him.

“However, it is perhaps not foolproof, so to speak?” she asked. The Major could only smile in vague apology.

“I understand perfectly,” said Mrs. Rasool. She waved her hand and a waiter hurried into the kitchen. The band stopped abruptly as if the wave included them. They followed the waiters out of the room.

“It’s certainly a very interesting flavour,” said Grace. “We don’t want to be difficult.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Rasool. “I’m sure you will approve of our more popular alternative.” The waiter returned at a run, with a silver salver that held a perfectly shaped individual Yorkshire pudding containing a fragrant slice of pinkish beef. It sat on a pool of burgundy gravy and was accompanied by a dollop of cumin-scented yellow potatoes and a lettuce leaf holding slices of tomato, red onion, and star fruit. A wisp of steam rose from the beef as they contemplated it in astonished silence.

“It’s quite perfect,” breathed Grace. “Are the potatoes spicy?” The elder Mr. Rasool muttered something to his son. Mrs. Rasool gave a sharp laugh that was almost a hiss.

“Not at all. I will give you pictures to take back with you,” she said. “I think we have agreed on the chicken skewers, samosas, and chicken wings as passed hors d’oeuvres, and then the beef, and I suggest trifle for dessert.”

“Trifle?” said the Major. He had been hoping for some samples of dessert.

“One of the more agreeable traditions that you left us,” said Mrs. Rasool. “We spice ours with tamarind jam.”

“Roast beef and trifle,” said Grace in a daze of food and punch. “And all authentically Mughal, you say?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Rasool. “Everyone will be very happy to dine like the Emperor Shah Jehan and no one will find it too spicy.”

The Major could detect no hint of derision in Mrs. Rasool’s tone. She seemed completely happy to accommodate. Mr. Rasool also nodded and made a few calculations in his black book. Only the old couple looked rather stern.

“Now, what about the music?” asked Mrs. Rasool. “Do you need to hear more from the sitar or would you prefer to arrange a dance band?”

“Oh, no more sitar, please,” said Grace. The Major breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs. Rasool and Grace began to discuss the difficulty of finding a quiet band that knew all the standards and yet could impart an exotic air to the evening.

The Major felt he was not obliged to participate in the discussion. Instead, he took the opportunity of the relative quiet to lean across to talk to Mrs. Ali.

“When I was a small boy in Lahore, we always had rasmalai for our special dessert,” he whispered. It was the only local dish he remembered his mother allowing in the cool white villa. Mostly they had jam puddings and meat pies and thick gravy like the rest of their friends. “Our cook always used rose petals and saffron in the syrup and there was a goat in the service yard to get the milk for cheese.” He saw a brief image of the goat, a grumpy animal with a crooked back leg and pieces of dung always caught in its stringy tail. He seemed to remember that there was also a boy, around his own age, who lived in the yard and took care of the goat. The Major decided not to share this recollection with Mrs. Ali. “Whenever I order it now, it never seems to taste quite as I remember.”

“Ah, the foods of childhood,” said Mrs. Ali, breaking into a smile. “I believe the impossibility of recreating such dishes may be due more to an unfortunate stubbornness of memory than any inherent failure of preparation, but still we pursue them.” She turned to Mrs. Rasool and touched her sleeve. “Najwa, could the Major try some of your mother-in-law’s famous homemade rasmalai?” she asked.

Over the Major’s protestations that he could not eat another thing, the waiters brought bowls of cheese curds floating in bright pink syrup.

“My mother-in-law makes this herself,” said Mrs. Rasool. “She likes to keep a small presence in the kitchen.”

“You must be very talented,” said Grace to the old woman, speaking loud and slow as if to a deaf person. “I always wish I had the time to cook.” The old woman glared at her.

“It is mostly a matter of watching cheese drip dry,” said Mrs. Rasool. “But it allows her to keep an eye on everything else in the kitchen, doesn’t it, Mummy?”

“My parents are a big help to us,” added Mr. Rasool, patting his wife on the arm in a tentative way.

The Major took a spoonful of dessert and felt the pleasure of the smooth cheese and the light syrup: a thrill of recognition in the lightness, the taste more scent than flavour.

“This is almost it,” he said quietly to Mrs. Ali. “Very close.”

“Lovely,” said Grace puckering her lips around the tiniest spoonful of cheese. “But I do think the trifle is a better idea.” She pushed away her dish and drank from her glass of punch. “Now, what can you suggest about decorations?”

“I was looking into it, as Mrs. Ali asked,” said Mrs. Rasool, “and I was afraid it would all be very expensive.”

“But then we struck on a lucky coincidence,” added Mr. Rasool. “A distinguished friend offered to help.”

“Oh, really?” said Grace. “Because our budget, as you know…”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Rasool. “So let me introduce you to my friend Mrs. Khan. She is the wife of Dr. Khan, a specialist at Hill Hospital. One of our most prominent families. She has her own decorating business.” He waved his hand and the Major looked to see the two ladies from the window table getting up. The older one waved back and spoke to her companion, who hurried out of the restaurant.

“Saadia Khan?” asked Mrs. Ali quietly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Najwa?” Najwa Rasool gave a pained smile.

“My husband insists that she is very keen to help.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Khan implied she might even help out on a complimentary basis,” said Mr. Rasool. “I believe her husband has many friends among the membership of your respected club.”

“Really?” said Grace. “I haven’t heard the name. Dr. Khan, is it?”

“Yes, very prominent man. His wife is involved in many charitable efforts. She is very concerned with the welfare of our young women.”

Mrs. Khan loomed impressively over the table. She wore a tweed suit with a heavy gold brooch on the lapel and a single ring on each hand, one a plain gold band and the other an enormous sapphire in a heavy gold setting. She carried a large, stiff handbag and a tightly rolled umbrella. The Major thought her face seemed rather smooth for her age; her hair, in lacquered layers, reminded him of Britain’s former lady Prime Minister. He tried to stand up and caught his thigh painfully on the edge of the table as he struggled out of the banquette to stand by Mrs. Ali’s chair. He blinked several times. The Rasools also stood and introductions were made.

“How do you do, Major? Do call me Sadie, everyone does,” said Mrs. Khan with a big smile that did not wrinkle any other part of her face. “And Miss DeVere, I believe we met at that awful Chamber of Commerce garden party last year?”

“Yes, yes of course,” said Grace in a voice that telegraphed her complete lack of such a recollection. Mrs. Khan leaned completely across Mrs. Ali to shake Grace’s hand.

“Such a crush of people, but my husband and I feel we must support such basic institutions,” added Mrs. Khan. She stepped back and seemed to see Mrs. Ali for the first time.

“Why, Jasmina, you are here, too?” she asked. The Major recognised the use of Mrs. Ali’s first name as a deliberate slight but he was very grateful to finally hear it. It sounded enchanting even from such a raw and ill-intentioned source.

“Saadia,” said Mrs. Ali, inclining her head again.

“Why, what a treat it must be for you to be liberated from the shop counter,” added Mrs. Khan. “A small break from the frozen peas and newspapers?”.

“I think you have some fabric samples to show us?” said Mrs. Rasool.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Khan. “My assistant Noreen and her niece are bringing them now.” They watched Mrs. Khan’s lunch companion and a younger woman struggle through the heavy restaurant door with several armfuls of sample books and a small box of fabrics. A small boy followed, carrying a large book precariously in both arms. The Major recognised him immediately as the young boy from the Promenade. He felt a schoolboy flush of panic rise into his face at the possibility that he and Mrs. Ali would be exposed. Of course, there had been only public tea drinking, not some kind of debauchery. Still, as the small group came slowly across the expanse of the restaurant, running the gauntlet of curious faces, he felt miserable that he was to be discovered in his private friendship. The Major could not move. He could only clutch the back of Mrs. Ali’s chair and guess the feelings in the glossy head beside him.

“Oh, my goodness, the niece has brought her boy,” said Mrs. Khan in a loud whisper to Mrs. Rasool. “I’ll get rid of him right away – what was she thinking?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Rasool. She laid a hand on Mrs. Khan’s sleeve. “It will be perfectly all right.”

“I’m trying to help, if only for Noreen’s sake,” said Mrs. Khan. “But the young woman is very difficult.” She gave the Major and Grace an uncomfortable glance.

“What a darling little boy,” exclaimed Grace as the women dropped their heavy load onto a nearby table and the boy struggled to do the same. “What’s his name?” There was the briefest of pauses, as if introductions had not been expected. The woman named Noreen looked quite frightened. She patted her thin gray hair with a nervous hand and darted her eyes at Mrs. Khan, whose lips were pressed to a thin line.

“I couldn’t just leave him in the car,” said the young woman, also looking at Saadia Khan, but with a face as fierce as her aunt’s was meek.

“I believe his name is George,” said Mrs. Ali, dispelling the tension. She got up and went to over to shake the small boy by the hand again. “We had the pleasure of meeting in the park. Did you manage to get your ball all the way home?”

The young woman frowned and swung George up onto her hip. “He managed that day, but he lost it down a drain on the way to the shops the next day.” She said nothing to the Major, giving him only a brief nod. Today she wore a long, shapeless black dress over leggings; the tone was spoiled only by violently crimson sneakers that laced up over the ankle. Her hair was partially hidden under a stretchy bandana. She had made an obvious effort to dress more conservatively, but it seemed to the Major that she had just as deliberately measured out a stubborn resistance. She looked as out of place at the restaurant as she had done on the Promenade, when she had screamed at the tea lady.