Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand (7 page)

“I go to the library in town, of course,” said Mrs. Ali, calmly overtaking a towering hay wagon on the briefest stretch of open road between two blind curves, “but even then I have to order most of what I want.”

“I’ve tried to order a book once or twice,” said the Major. “I remember I was trying to track down a particular edition of Samuel Johnson’s essays for the
Rambler
, not widely available, and was quite disappointed that the librarian didn’t seem to appreciate my request at all. You’d think that after stamping the flyleaves of cheap novels all day, they’d relish the challenge of tracking down some wonderful old classic, wouldn’t you?”

“Try ordering foreign languages,” said Mrs. Ali. “There’s one librarian who peers at me as if I’m committing treason.”

“You speak other languages besides French?” asked the Major.

“My French is very bad,” she said. “I’m more fluent in German. And Urdu, of course.”

“Your family’s first language?” said the Major.

“No, I’d say English was my family’s first language,” she said. “My father insisted on European languages. He hated it when my mother and grandmother would gossip in Urdu. I remember when I was a young girl, my father had this unshakable belief that the United Nations would evolve into a world government.” She shook her head and then raised her left hand from the wheel to waggle a finger at the windscreen. “‘We will speak the languages of diplomacy and take our rightful places as world citizens’,” she said, in a serious singsong. Then she sighed. “He died still believing this, and my sister and I learned six languages between us in honour of his memory.”

“That’s very impressive,” said the Major.

“And generally quite useless in the running of a small shop,” said Mrs. Ali with a sad smile.

“There’s nothing useless about reading the classics,” said the Major, weighing the books in his hand. “I salute your continued efforts. Too few people today appreciate and pursue the delights of civilised culture for their own sake.”

“Yes, it can be a lonely pursuit,” she said.

“Then we – the happy few – must stick together,” said the Major. She laughed, and the Major turned his head to look out of the window at the fog-soaked hedges of the lanes. He was aware that he no longer felt chilled. The hedges, far from being grim and soggy were edged to the last leaf in drops like diamonds. The earth steamed and a horse under a tree shook its mane like a dog and bent to nibble freshly moistened dandelions. The car broke from the hedged lane and crested the last rise of the hill, where the road widened. The town spread down the folded valley, opening out along the coastal plain. The sea lay gray and infinite beyond the sharp edge of the beach. In the sky, a rent in the fog let down pale shafts of sunlight to gleam on the water. It was as beautiful and absurd as an illustrated Victorian hymnal, lacking only a descending archangel trailing putti and rose garlands. The little car picked up speed as it headed down and the Major felt that the afternoon was somehow already a success.

∗

“Where would you like me to drop you?” she asked as they joined the slow curl of traffic into town.

“Oh, anywhere convenient.” As he said this he felt somewhat flustered. It actually mattered a great deal to him where she set him down – or rather, where they would later meet and whether he might have the opportunity to ask her to join him for tea – but he felt it would be rude to be too specific.

“I usually go to the library and then I run my errands and do some shopping up on Myrtle Street,” she said. He wasn’t quite sure which was Myrtle Street, but he thought it was up on the hill, at the poorer end of town, probably just beyond the popular Vinda Linda’s Curry House Take-Away by the hospital. “But I can drop you anywhere, as long as we pick somewhere before I have to go round again.”

“Ah yes, the dreaded one-way system,” he said. “I remember my wife and I were trapped in the one at Exeter once. She broke her finger falling off a horse and we spent an hour circling around looking at the hospital, but not able to find an entrance from our direction. Trapped like a ball bearing in a plastic maze.” He and Nancy had laughed later, imagining Dante redesigning Purgatory into a one-way system offering occasional glimpses of St. Peter and the pearly gates over two separate sets of dividing concrete barriers. As he spoke, he noticed, with a twinge of conscience, that it had already become comfortable to speak of his wife to Mrs. Ali – that their shared loss had become a useful connection.

“How about the shopping centre?” suggested Mrs. Ali.

“How about the seafront? Would that take you out of your way?” He knew that of course it would. The seafront was steps away on foot, but the traffic system demanded an extra turn to the left followed by a long loop down through the old town to the fishing strand. Her errands lay well inland and uphill from here. Everyone’s life was inland and uphill these days, as if the whole town had turned its back on the sea.

“The seafront will be fine,” she said, and very soon pulled the car into the small pay-and-display car park right behind the beach. She left the engine running and added, “Pick you up in an hour and a half?”

“That will be perfect,” he said, handing her the books and reaching to open the door. His mind raced with casual ways of requesting that she join him for tea, but he did not seem able to bring any of them to actual speech. He cursed himself for an idiot as she sped away again, waving.

∗

The offices of Tewkesbury and Teale, Solicitors, were in a lemon-coloured Regency villa fronting onto a small square two streets behind the sea. The centre of the square featured a tightly pruned garden, complete with dry fountain and small rope-edged lawn, smug behind high wrought-iron fence and gates. The villas, now offices, seemed to contain just the same sort of people for whom they were originally built. They were lawyers, accountants, and the occasional actress beyond her prime, all of whom cultivated an air of establishment that was slightly marred by the almost audible hum of social ambition. Mortimer Teale had the same, slightly appalling character.

The Major, who was early for his appointment, watched the bow window of the adjacent interior design shop, where a stout woman in a green brocade suit punched and prodded at a cornucopia of overstuffed pillows. Two small yapping dogs with beards darted and snatched at the braids and tassels. The Major worried that if he watched too long he would see one of them choke on a silk-covered button. He strolled a few doors down; at a strawberry-pink villa full of accountants, a youngish man, wearing a loud chalk-stripe suit and talking into a mobile phone the size of a lipstick case, ran out to a smart black sports car. The Major noted that his vigorous wave of gelled black hair was actually swept back to hide a balding patch on the back of his head. Somehow the man reminded him, uncomfortably, of Roger.

Old Mr. Tewkesbury, Mortimer’s father-in-law, had represented, if not a different breed entirely, then at least a happily mellowed and more intelligent version of the square’s inhabitants. The Tewkesburys had been lawyers here since before the turn of the century and had been the Pettigrew family lawyers for nearly as long. They had grown in stature along the way by performing admirably in their work and declining all opportunities at self-aggrandisement. Father, son, and grandson had quietly given of their time to civic duties (free legal advice to the town council being just one of their causes) but had resisted all calls to stand for office, lead a committee, or appear in the paper. As a boy, he remembered, he had been impressed by Tewkesbury’s unhurried speech, sober clothes, and heavy silver fob watch.

He had been puzzled, as had Bertie, when Tewkesbury took in Mortimer Teale as an associate. Teale had come out of nowhere to attach himself to the Tewkesbury daughter and only heir, Elizabeth. People said he was from London, which they mentioned with a twist of the lips as if London were the back alleys of Calcutta or some notorious penal colony, like Australia. Mortimer favoured loud ties, liked his food to the point of fussiness, and bowed and scraped in front of clients in a way that gave the Major his only opportunity, outside of the
Sunday Times
crossword, to use the word ‘oleaginous’. He had married Elizabeth, and had squatted like a well-fed cuckoo in the midst of the Tewkesbury clan until he had managed to bury old Tewkesbury. Rumor was that he had added his name to the brass doorplate while the family was at the funeral.

The Major had considered finding himself a new solicitor but had not wanted to break with his own family’s tradition. In more honest moments, he admitted to himself that he had not wanted to face telling Mortimer. Instead, he had reminded himself that Mortimer had done nothing but excellent work, which was true, and that it was uncharitable to dislike a man for wearing purple spotted pocket squares and having sweaty palms.

∗

“Ah, Major, so nice to see you even under such sad, sad conditions,” said Mortimer, advancing across the deep green office carpet to clasp the Major’s hand.

“Thank you.”

“Your brother was a fine, fine man and it was a privilege to call him a friend.” Mortimer threw a glance at the wall, where pictures of himself with various local officials and minor dignitaries were hung in gilded frames. “I was telling Marjorie only yesterday that he was a man who could have achieved much prominence if he had had the inclination.”

“My brother shared Mr. Tewkesbury’s dislike of local politics,” said the Major.

“Quite right,” said Mortimer, settling back down at his mahogany desk and waving at a club chair. “It’s an appalling mess. I keep telling Elizabeth I would resign completely if they would let me.” The Major said nothing. “Well, let’s get this started, shall we?” He took a thin cream-coloured file from a desk drawer and slid it across the vast expanse between them. As he reached, his plump wrists strained out of his stiff white cuffs and his jacket wrinkled up about his shoulders. He opened the file with his thick fingertips and turned it around to face the Major. Light finger marks now decorated the plain typed page headed ‘Last Will and Testament of Robert Carroll Pettigrew’.

“As you know, Bertie has named you the executor of this will. If you are willing to serve in this capacity, I will have some forms for you to sign. As executor, you will have a couple of charitable bequests and small investment accounts to oversee. Nothing too arduous. As executor you are traditionally entitled to a small compensation, expenses and so forth, but you may wish to waive that…”

“I’ll just read it, then, shall I?” said the Major.

“Of course, of course. Just take your time.” Mortimer sat back and laced his hands across his bulging waistcoat as if preparing to take a nap, but his eyes remained sharply focused across the desk. The Major stood up.

“I’ll just take it over here and get some light on it,” he said. It was only a matter of feet to the large window overlooking the square, but the few paces created some imagined privacy.

Bertie’s will was only a page and a half, with plenty of white space between the lines. His possessions were transferred to his loving wife and he asked his brother to be his executor in order to relieve her of administrative burdens during a difficult time. There was a small investment account set up for Gregory and any other grandchildren who might arrive later. There were also bequests to three charities: their old prep school got a thousand pounds and both Bertie’s church and the parish church of St. Mary’s C of E at Edgecombe St. Mary received two thousand. The Major chuckled to see Bertie, who had long ago acceded to Marjorie and become an active Presbyterian, hedging his bets with the Almighty. When he finished reading, the Major went back and read the will again, to make sure he hadn’t missed a paragraph. Then he just pretended to be reading, in order to give himself time to quell his confusion.

The will made no mention of any bequests of personal items, to anyone, offering only a single line: “My wife may dispose of any and all personal effects as she deems fit. She knows my wishes in these matters.” This bluntness was out of keeping with the rest of the document; in its few words, the Major sensed both his brother’s capitulation to his wife and a coded apology to himself. “She knows my wishes,” he read again.

“Ah, tea; thank you, Mary.” Mortimer broke his careful silence as the thin girl who worked as secretary came in with a small gilt tray containing two cups of tea in bone china mugs and a plate with two dry biscuits. “Is the milk fresh?” he fussed, his voice signalling that it was high time Pettigrew finished his reading and got down to business. The Major turned reluctantly from the window.

“Are there not a couple of omissions?” he enquired at last.

“I think you’ll find all the required language is there,” said Mortimer. The Major could see he had no intention of helping smooth over the awkwardness of asking about the Major’s own interests.

“As you know, there is the matter of my father’s sporting guns,” he said. He could feel his face flushing with heat, but he was determined to be direct. “It was understood by all, of course, that the guns were to be reunited upon the death of either one of us.”

“Ah,” said Mortimer slowly.

“I was under the impression that Bertie’s will would contain explicit directions in this matter – as my own will does.” He stared hard. Mortimer put down his tea with care and pressed his fingertips together. He sighed.

“As you can see,” he said, “no such provision was included. I did urge Bertie to be as specific as possible about any items of value that he might wish to pass on…” His voice trailed off.

“Those guns were passed on to us in trust by my father,” the Major said, drawing himself up as far as possible. “It was his dying wish that we share in them during our lifetimes and that we reunite them to pass on down the generations. You know this as well as I.”

“Yes, that has always been my understanding,” agreed Mortimer. “However, since your father gave you the guns in person, during his illness, there was no such direction in his will and therefore no obligation…”

“But I’m sure Bertie put it in his will,” he said, annoyed to find a begging tone creeping into his voice. Mortimer did not answer at once. He gazed up at the brass chandelier as if searching for the exact parsing of his next words.