Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand (33 page)

The Major reached a spontaneous compromise with himself and reached for her hand. He raised it to his lips and closed his eyes while kissing her knuckles. She smelled of rose water and some spicy clean scent that might, he thought, be lime blossom. When he opened his eyes, her head was turned away, but she did not try to pull her hand from his grasp.

“I hope I have not offended you,” he said. “Man is rash in the face of beauty.”

“I am not offended,” she said. “But perhaps we had better go to the dance?”

“If we must,” said the Major, giving a stubborn push past the fear of ridicule. “Though anyone would be just as content to sit and gaze at you across this empty room all evening.”

“If you insist on paying me such lavish compliments, Major,” said Mrs. Ali, blushing again, “my conscience will force me to change into a large black jumper and perhaps a wool hat.”

“In that case, let us leave immediately so we can put that horrible option out of reach,” he said.

∗

Sandy was waiting for them under the tiny porch by the front door of the Augerspier cottage. As they pulled up, she came down the path, a large wool coat hugged tightly around her. Her face, in the dim light of the car as she slid into the back, seemed more ivory than usual and her blood-red lipstick was stark. Her shiny hair was pulled into a series of lacquered ripples and finished with a narrow ribbon under one ear. A frill of silver chiffon peeked from the turned-up collar of her thick coat. She looked, thought the Major, like a porcelain doll.

“I’m so sorry you had to come out of your way,” she said. “I told Roger I’d take a cab.”

“Not at all,” said the Major, who had been extremely put out by Roger’s request. “It is inconceivable that you should have to arrive unescorted.” His son had pleaded a need to arrive early for a dress rehearsal. He insisted that Gertrude felt his assistance was crucial in directing the troupe of male friends of the staff who had agreed to appear in the performance in exchange for a free supper of sandwiches and beer.

“I’m doing this for you, Dad,” he had pleaded. “And Gertrude needs me if we’re to make anything at all of the production.”

“I’d be happier if the ‘thing’ were cancelled,” the Major had replied. “I still can’t believe you agreed to participate.”

“Look, if it’s a problem, Sandy’ll just have to take a taxi,” said Roger. The Major was appalled that his son would allow his fiancée to be transported to the dance in one of the local taxis with their tobacco-stained, torn interiors and their rough drivers, who could not be relied upon to be more sober than the passengers. He had agreed to pick her up.

“Sorry Roger dumped me on you,” she said now. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the seat. “I thought about staying home, but that would be too easy.” The acid in her voice painted a broad stroke of awkwardness between them.

“I hope you and your fiancé are happy with the cottage?” asked Mrs. Ali. The Major, who had successfully tamped down any anxiety about the evening, was suddenly worried about Roger and his capacity for thinly disguised rudeness.

“It turned out beautifully,” said Sandy. “Of course, it’s just a rental – we’re not planning on getting too attached.” The Major saw her, in the mirror, settling further into the folds of her coat. She looked intently at the window, where only the darkness pressed in on the glass. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

∗

The golf club had abandoned its usual discreet demeanor and now, like a blowsy dowager on a cheap holiday in Tenerife, it blazed and sparkled on its small hill. Lights filled every door and window; floodlights bathed the plain stucco façade and strings of fairy lights danced in trees and bushes.

“Looks like a cruise ship,” said Sandy. “I warned them to go easy on the floods.”

“I hope the fuse box holds,” said the Major as they walked up the gravel driveway, which was outlined in flaming torches. Rounding a corner, they were startled by a half-naked man in an eye mask wearing a large python around his neck. A second man capered at the edge of the drive, blowing enthusiastically into a wooden flute. Tucked between two fifty-year-old rhododendron bushes, a third man swallowed small sticks of fire with all the concern of a taxi driver eating chips.

“Good God, it’s a circus,” said the Major as they approached the fountain, which was lit with orange floodlights and filled with violently coloured water lilies.

“I believe Mr. Rasool loaned the lilies,” said Mrs. Ali. She choked back a giggle.

“I think I went to a wedding in New Jersey that looked just like this,” said Sandy. “I did warn Roger about the line between opulence and bad taste.”

“That was your mistake,” said the Major. “They are the same thing, my dear.”

“Touche,” said Sandy. “Look, I’m going to run ahead and find Roger. You two should make your fabulous entrance together.”

“No really,” began the Major, but Sandy was already hurrying up the steps and into the blazing interior.

“She seems like a nice young lady,” said Mrs. Ali in a small voice. “Is she always so pale?”

“I don’t know her well enough to say,” said the Major, a little embarrassed that his son had kept him at arm’s length from both of them. “Shall we throw ourselves into the festivities?”

“I suppose that is what comes next,” she said. She did not move, however, but hung back just on the edge of where the lights pooled on the gravel. The Major, feeling her slight pressure on his arm, paused too. Her body telegraphed inertia, feet planted at rest on the driveway.

“I suppose one can make the case that this is the most wonderful part of any party,” he said. “The moment just before one is swallowed up?” He heard a waltz strike up in the Grill and was relieved that there was to be real music.

“I didn’t know I would be so anxious,” she said.

“My dear lady, what is there to fear?” he said. “Except putting the other ladies quite in the shade.” A murmur like the sea swelled from the open doors of the club, where a hundred men were no doubt already jostling for champagne at the long bar, a hundred women discussing costumes and kissing cheeks. “It does sound like it’s a bit of a crush in there,” he added. “I’m a little frightened myself.”

“You’re making fun of me,” said Mrs. Ali. “But you must know that it will not be the same as sharing books or walking by the sea.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean.” The Major took her by the hand and pulled her to one side, nodding at a couple who passed them. The couple gave them an odd stare and then bobbed their heads in reply as they went up the steps. The Major was quite sure that this was exactly what she had meant.

“I don’t even dance,” she said. “Not in public.” She was trembling, he noticed. She was like a bird under a cat’s paw, completely still but singing in every sinew with the need to escape. He dared not let go of her hand.

“Look, it’s slightly gaudy and horribly crowded, but there’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said. “Personally I’d be happy to skip it, but Grace will be looking for you and I’ve promised to be there to accept the silly award thing as part of the entertainment.” He stopped, feeling that these were stupid ways to encourage her.

“I don’t want to burden you,” she said.

“Then don’t make me go in there alone, like a spare part,” he said. “When they hand me my silver plate, I want to walk back and sit with the most elegant woman in the room.” She gave him a small smile and straightened her back.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m being such a fool.” He tucked his arm under her elbow and she allowed him to lead her up the steps, moving fast enough that she would not have time to change her mind.

∗

The doors to the Grill had been pinned back by two large brass planters containing palm trees. Scarlet fabric looped from the door surround, caught up in swags by gold braid, fat tassels, and strings of bamboo beads. In an alcove, a large, fully decorated Christmas tree, complete with fairy on the top, attempted to disguise its incongruity with lots of tiny Indian slipper ornaments and presents wrapped in Taj Mahal wrapping paper.

In the centre of the vestibule, Grace was handing out dinner cards and programmes. She was dressed in a long embroidered coat and py-jama bottoms in a deep lilac hue, and her feet were tucked into jewelled sandals. Her hair seemed softer around her jaw than usual, and for once she seemed to have left off the creased caking of face powder.

“Grace, you really look enchanting this evening,” said the Major and he felt the joy of being able to offer a compliment he actually meant.

“Daisy tried to ruin it with a garland of paper flowers.” Grace appeared to be speaking more to Mrs. Ali than him. “I had to dump them in a flower pot.”

“Good move,” said Mrs. Ali. “You look perfect.”

“So do you,” said Grace. “I wasn’t sure about adding a shawl, but you’ve made the dress even more seductive, my dear. You look like a queen.”

“Are you coming in with us?” asked the Major, looking at the heaving Technicolor mass that was the crowd in the Grill.

“Daisy has me on duty here another half hour,” said Grace. “Do go in and let our Grand Vizier announce you.”

Mrs. Ali gripped his arm as if she were afraid of tripping and gave him a smile that was more determination than happiness. As they crossed the Rubicon of the short crimson entrance carpet he whispered, “Grand Vizier – good God, what have they done?”

At the end of the carpet Alec Shaw stood waiting for them, frowning in a large yellow turban. An embroidered silk dressing gown and curly slippers, from which his heels hung out the back, were complemented by a long braided beard. He looked unhappy.

“Don’t even speak,” he said, raising an arm. “You’re the last bloody people I’m doing. Daisy can get some other idiot to stand around looking ridiculous.”

“I think you’re rather convincing,” said the Major. “You’re sort of Fu Manchu on an exotic holiday.”

“I told Alma the beard was all wrong,” said Alec. “But she’s been saving it ever since they did
The Mikado
and she glued it on so tight I may have to shave it off.”

“Perhaps if you soak it in a large glass of gin, the glue will soften,” said Mrs. Ali.

“Your companion is obviously a lady of intelligence as well as beauty.”

“Mrs. Ali, I believe you know Mr. Shaw,” said the Major. Mrs. Ali nodded, but Alec peered from under the slipping turban as if unsure.

“Good heavens,” he said, and turned a red that clashed with the mustard-yellow collar of his gown. “I mean, Alma said you were coming, but I would never have recognized you – I mean, out of context.”

“Look, can we skip the announcements and just all go and find a drink?” said the Major.

“Certainly not,” said Alec. “I haven’t had anyone interesting to announce in half an hour. Watch me turn their heads with this one.” Taking up a small brass megaphone wrapped in paper flowers, Alec bellowed over the sound of the orchestra.

“Major Ernest Pettigrew, costumed as the rare Indian subcontinental penguin, accompanied by the exquisite queen of comestibles from Edgecombe St. Mary, Mrs. Ali.” The orchestra embarked on a choppy segue into its next tune and, as the dancers paused to pick up the new rhythm, many turned their heads to peer at the new arrivals.

The Major nodded and smiled as he scanned the blur of faces. He acknowledged a wave from Old Mr. Percy, who winked as he danced with a tanned woman in a strapless gown. Two couples he knew from the club nodded at him, but then whispered to each other from the sides of their mouths and the Major felt his face flush. In the thick of the dancing crowd he caught a glimpse of a familiar hairdo and wondered whether it was some trick of the psyche that he should see his sister-in-law, Marjorie. He had always found excuses not to invite her and Bertie, fearing that she would unleash her loud voice and money questions on all his friends. It seemed unimaginable that she would be here now. He blinked, however, and there she was, twirling under the arm of a portly member who was known at the club for his lively temper and who held the record for most golf clubs thrown into the sea. As the dancers turned away into a fast swing, Alec said, “I’ll be off now,” and took off his turban to run a hand over his sweaty head. “If he’s not good company, just come and find me and I’ll take care of you,” he added, holding out his damp hand. Mrs. Ali took it without shrinking and the Major wondered where she found such reserves.

“Let’s plunge in, shall we?” he said over the rising exuberance of the music. “This way, I think.”

The room was uncomfortably full. To the east, the folding doors had been flung back and the small orchestra sawed away on the stage set against the far wall. Around the edge of the dance floor, people were packed in tight conversational clumps between the dancers and the crowded rows of round tables, each decorated with a centrepiece of yellow flowers and a candle lantern in the shape of a minaret. Groups of people jostled in every available aisle. Waiters squeezed in and out of the crowd, carrying tilting trays of hors d’oeuvres high above everyone’s head as if competing to make it the length of the room and back without dispensing a single puff pastry. The room was redolent with a smell like orchids, and slightly humid, either from perspiration or from the tropical ferns that dripped from many sizes and shapes of Styrofoam column.

Mrs. Ali waved to Mrs. Rasool, who could be seen dispensing waiters from the kitchen door as if she were sending messengers to and from a battlefield. As they watched, she dispensed Mr. Rasool the elder; he wobbled out with a tray held dangerously low and made it no farther than the first set of tables before being picked clean. Mrs. Rasool hurried forward and, with practised discretion, pulled him back to the safety of the kitchen.

The Major steered Mrs. Ali into a slow circle around the dance floor. As the main bar, next to the kitchen, was invisible behind the battalion of thirsty guests waving for drinks, he had decided to steer for a secondary bar, set up in the lee of the stage, hoping that he might then navigate them into the relative quiet of the enclosed sun porch. The Major had forgotten how difficult it was to navigate such a crush while protecting a lady from both the indifferent backs of the chatting groups and the jousting elbows of enthusiastic dancers. The benefit however, of needing to keep Mrs. Ali’s arm tucked close against his side was almost compensation enough. He had a fleeting hope that someone might knock her over into his arms.