Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand (36 page)

As the music began to reach its crescendo, the Major shook all thoughts of the club from his mind and refocused on Mrs. Ali. She looked slightly puzzled, as if his slipping away into thought had registered in his expression. Cursing himself for wasting any moment of the dance, he gave her a big smile and spun them around until the floor threatened to come away from their feet.

A drumroll at the end of the dance and an enthusiastic flashing then dowsing of the main chandeliers announced the after-dinner entertainment. In the sudden dark, the room roiled with squeals, muttered oaths, and a small crash of glassware in a distant corner as people struggled to their seats. Old Mr. Percy continued to spin his partner around and had to be urged off the floor by one of the waiters. The Major did his best to navigate Mrs. Ali smoothly back to their table.

∗

A crash of cymbals from the band gave way to the flat squeal of recorded music and the whistle of a train. In the darkness, a single slide projector lit up a white scrim with sepia-toned images of India flickering and cascading almost too fast to register actual scenes. The Major felt a horrible sense of familiarity build until a brief image of himself as a boy, sitting on a small painted elephant, told him that Roger had indeed raided the tin box in the attic and put the family photographs on public display.

A scatter of applause hid the muffled jingling of ankle bells; as the lights came up again a lurid green spotlight revealed the dancers, swaying in time to a train’s motion and waving about an assortment of props including baskets, boxes, and a number of stuffed chickens. Roger sat on a trunk smoking an absurdly curly pipe as he perused a newspaper, apparently oblivious to the colourful chaos around him. At one end of the ensemble, Amina made flowing gestures toward some wide and distant horizon. With the music, the train whistle, and the flickering scrim, the Major thought it looked much more effective than he would have imagined. He decided to forgive Roger for using the photographs.

“It’s not as bad as I feared,” he said to Mrs. Ali, conscious of a small, nervous pride in his voice.

“Very lifelike, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Jakes. “Just like being in India.”

“Yes, personally I never travel by train without a chicken,” said Mrs. Ali, looking with great intent at the dancers.

“It is the End of Empire, end of the line…” As Daisy Green’s shrill voice narrated the story of the young, unsuspecting British officer returning to his barracks in Lahore on the same train as the beautiful new bride of the Maharajah, Amina danced a brief solo, her flowing veils creating arcs of light and movement.

“She’s really good, isn’t she?” said Grace as a round of applause greeted the end of the solo. “Like a real ballerina.”

“Of course, only courtesans would have danced,” said Sadie Khan to the table. “A maharajah’s wife would never have so displayed herself.”

“The line is blocked! The line is blocked!” shrieked Daisy. As the dancers stamped their jingling feet and swirled their chickens and baskets with more urgent energy, Roger continued to peruse his newspaper, oblivious to the action around him. The Major began to feel impatient. He was sure his father would have been quicker to pick up on the change of mood on the train. He was tempted to cough, to attract Roger’s attention.

“A murderous mob rains terror on the innocent train,” cried Daisy. From all the doorways of the Grill room staggered the hastily recruited boyfriends, dressed in black and flailing large sticks.

“Oh, dear,” said Grace. “Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to give them the beer and sandwiches before the performance.”

“I probably would have thought twice about the cudgels,” joked the Major. He looked to Mrs. Ali, but she did not smile at his comment. Her face, fixed on the scene, was as still as alabaster.

As the images flickered ever faster on the scrim, the men set about a series of exaggerated slow-motion attacks on the writhing women. The Major frowned at the muffled shrieking and laughter from the dancers which was not entirely covered by the wailing music. Amina engaged in a frantic dance with two attackers, who did their best to lift her and throw her away whenever she grabbed their arms. Their movements were more enthusiastic than pretty to look at, though the Major thought Amina made it look passably threatening. At last she broke free and, leaping away, spun right into Roger’s lap. Roger raised his head from the newspaper and mimed suitable astonishment.

“The Maharajah’s wife throws herself upon the protection of the British officer,” said Daisy’s voice again. “He is only one man, but by God he is an Englishman.” A round of cheers broke out in the audience.

“Isn’t it exciting?” said Mrs. Jakes. “I’ve got goose bumps.”

“Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction,” said Mrs. Ali in a mild voice. “The British Empire may cause that.”

“Disguising the Maharani as his own subaltern…” continued Daisy. The Major did not want to be critical, but he could not approve of Roger’s performance. To begin with, he had assumed a stance more James Bond than British military; furthermore, he was using a pistol, having handed Amina his trench coat and rifle. The Major thought this an unforgivable tactical error.

The sound of gunshots mingled with the music and the squealing. The spotlights flashed red and the scrim went dark.

“When help arrived, the brave Colonel, down to his last bullet, still stood guard over the Princess,” said Daisy. The lights rose on a mass of inert bodies, both male and female. Only Roger still stood, pistol in hand, the Maharani fainting in his arms. Though one or two girls could be seen to be giggling – probably the fault of the young men lying across their legs – the Major felt the whole room go quiet, as if everyone were holding their breath. The momentary hush gave way to a burst of applause as the lights went down.

When the lights rose again, a glittering final tableau featured Lord Dagenham and Gertrude on thrones, Amina at their feet. On the steps of the stage and the floor, the dancers were arrayed, now wearing gaudy necklaces and sparkling headscarves. Alec Shaw, as Vizier, was holding out an open box containing the shotguns; Roger, standing at attention, saluted the royal court. On the scrim behind them, a sepia photo showed the same scene. The Major recognised, with a sting of emotion that was equal parts pride and pain, the photo his mother had hung in a dark corner of the upstairs hallway, not wishing to appear showy.

A series of photo flashes exploded in the room, loud Asian pop music with a wailing vocalist blared over the loudspeakers, and, as the audience clapped along, the female dancers broke into a Bollywood-style routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking men from the audience to join them in their gyrations. As he blinked his dazzled eyes, the Major became dimly aware of a small man climbing onto the stage, shouting in Urdu and reaching for Daisy Green’s microphone.

“Get away from me, you horrible little man,” cried Daisy.

“Isn’t that Rasool’s father?” shouted Dr. Khan. “What on earth is he doing?”

“I have no idea,” said Mrs. Khan. “This could be a disaster for Najwa.” She sounded very happy.

“Ooh, let’s go and dance,” said Mrs. Jakes, dragging away her husband.

The doctor got to his feet. “Someone should get the old fool out of there. He will make us all look bad.”

“Please don’t get involved,” said Mrs. Khan. She did not place a hand on her husband’s sleeve to stop him but merely gestured in that direction. The Major had often noted this kind of shorthand between married people. The doctor sat down again.

“My husband is always so compassionate,” said Mrs. Khan to the table.

“Bit of an occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Khan.

Mr. Rasool Senior had the microphone now and was wagging his finger in the face of a shocked Daisy Green. He was shouting now in English, so loudly it hurt the ears to hear his voice cracking and sputtering at the limits of the sound system.

“You make a great insult to us,” they heard. “You make a mock of a people’s suffering.”.

“What is he doing?” asked Grace.

“Maybe he is upset that the atrocities of Partition should be reduced to a dinner show,” said Mrs. Ali. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like bhangra music.”

“Why would anyone be insulted?” asked Grace. “It’s the Major’s family’s proudest achievement.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Ali. She pressed the Major’s hand and he flushed with a sudden shame that perhaps she was not apologising to him but for him. “I must help Najwa’s father-in-law – he is not a well man.”

“I can’t see why it should be your responsibility,” said Sadie Khan in a malicious voice. “I think you really should leave it to the staff.” But Mrs. Ali had already risen from the table. She did not look at the Major again. He hesitated, but then hurried after her.

“Let go of him before I break your arm,” said a voice from the stage as the Major thrust through the crowd. He was in time to see Abdul Wahid at the front of a small group of waiters, advancing on a couple of the male dancers, and some band players, who were holding the senior Mr. Rasool by the arms. “Show some respect for an old man.” The men grouped themselves like a defensive wall.

“What are you doing here?” the Major thought he heard Amina ask as she tried to grab Abdul Wahid by the arm but maybe, he thought, he was only lip-reading over the continuous crashing of the music. “You were supposed to meet me outside.”

“Do not speak to me now,” said Abdul Wahid. “You have done enough damage.” Dancing couples, taking notice of the commotion, began to back away into tables.

“The old man is crazy,” said Daisy Green in a faint voice. “Someone call the police.”

“Oh, please, no need to call the police,” said Mrs. Rasool, collecting her father-in-law’s arm from a scowling trombonist. “My father-in-law is only a little confused. His own mother and sister died on such a train. Please forgive him.”

“He’s a lot less confused than most people here,” said Abdul Wahid in a voice that carried. “He wants you to know that your entertainment is a great insult to him.”

“Who the hell does he think he is?” said Roger. “It’s a true story.”

“Yeah, who asked him?” jeered a voice in the crowd. “Bloody Pakis.” The waiters swivelled their heads and a pale, thin man ducked behind his wife.

“I say, that’s not on,” called out Alec Shaw from underneath his teetering turban.

The Major knew, even as he witnessed the event, that he would be hard pressed later to relay the details of the fight that now erupted. He saw a short man with large feet shove Abdul Wahid, who fell against one of the waiters. He saw another waiter slap a male dancer across the face with his white arm towel, as if to challenge him to a duel. He heard Daisy Green call out, somewhat hoarsely, “People, please remain civilised,” as a riot erupted in the middle of the dance floor. Things became a blur as women screamed, men shouted, and bodies hurled themselves at one another only to crash to the ground. There was much ineffectual thumping of backs and indiscriminate kicking.

As the music segued into an even more raucous tune, the Major was astonished to see a large drunken guest whip off his turban, hand his hookah pipe to his girlfriend, and throw himself across the heaving mass of assailants as if it were all a game. The Vicar waded in to grab him by the trousers but was kicked backward and fell on Alma. He became tangled in her green sari in a way that made Mortimer Teale look quite jealous, and was rescued by Alec Shaw; he dragged them behind the bar, which Lord Dagenham and Ferguson seemed to have commandeered as if for a siege.

“Oh, please, there is no need for violence,” cried Daisy as two combatants spun out from the crowd and landed on a table which collapsed in a heap of gravy-soaked plates. Several of the fighters, already looking winded, seemed to find it more effective to kick someone else’s opponent while clutching their own with their arms to prevent being punched.

Most of the guests had been pressed into the corners of the room and the Major wondered why those nearest the door did not just run out into the night. He guessed that they had not yet been served dessert and were reluctant to leave before parting gifts had made an appearance in the vestibule.

The fight might have organised itself into something actually dangerous had not someone found the appropriate switch backstage and killed the music. In the sudden quiet, heads popped up from the heaving mass of bodies and punches hesitated in midair. Old Mr. Percy, who had been staggering around the perimeter of the mêlée, whacking indiscriminately with a stuffed chicken, now gave one final blow. The chicken burst in a wave of polystyrene beads. Combatants soaked in gravy and now covered in white polystyrene seemed to realise that perhaps they looked foolish and the fight began to lose steam.

“I am terribly sorry,” said Mrs. Rasool to Daisy as she and her husband held up the elder Mr. Rasool. “My father-in-law was only six years old when his mother and sister were killed. He didn’t mean to cause a fuss.” The old man swayed and looked as faint and translucent as parchment paper.

“He’s ruined everything!” shrieked Daisy.

“He’s obviously quite ill,” said Mrs. Ali. “He needs to get out of here.” The Major cast around for an easy exit, but combatants were still being pulled apart and the crowd, no longer held in the corners, had swelled into all the spaces not covered with gravy.

“Mrs. Rasool, why don’t we squeeze through and bring him to the porch?” said Grace, taking charge. “It’s quieter out there.”

“Is there something wrong with the kitchen?” shrieked Daisy as he was led away.

“It’s probably dementia, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Khan asked her husband loudly.

“Oh no, Daisy is always that way,” said the Major without thinking.

∗

“I guess we call it a night and get a cleaning crew in here,” said Lord Dagenham, surveying the damage. Five or six overturned tables complete with broken dishes, a palm tree cut in half, and curtains down in the entranceway seemed to be the only major damage. There were spots of blood on the dance floor from some bruised noses, and several sets of dirty footprints.

∗

“I’ll get the parting gifts and send people home,” said Gertrude.