Major Pettigrew''s Last Stand

“It’s just a small view,” he said, “but for some reason I never tire of coming out in the evening to watch the sun leaving the fields.”

  “I don’t believe the greatest views in the world are great because they are vast or exotic,” she said. “I think their power comes from the knowledge that they do not change. You look at them and you know they have been the same for a thousand years.”

  “And yet how suddenly they can become new again when you see them through someone else’s eyes,” he said. “The eyes of a new friend, for example.” She turned to look at him, her face in shadow; the moment hung between them.

  “It’s funny,” she said, “to be suddenly presented with the possibility of making new friends. One begins to accept, at a certain age, that one has already made all the friends to which one is entitled. One becomes used to them as a static set—with some attrition, of course. People move far away, they become busy with their lives …”

  “Sometimes they leave us for good,” added the Major, feeling his throat constrict. “Dashed inconsiderate of them, I say.” She made a small gesture, reaching out as if to lay a hand on his sleeve, but circled her hand away. He pressed the tip of his shoe into the soil of the flower bed as if he had spotted a thistle.

  After a few moments, she said: “I should be going, at least temporarily.”

  “As long as you promise to come back,” he said. They began to walk back to the house, Mrs. Ali drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders as the light faded from the garden.

  “When Ahmed died, I realized that we had become almost alone together,” she added. “Being busy with the shop, happy with each other’s company—we had stopped making much of an effort to keep up with friends.”

  “I suppose one does fall into a bit of a rut,” agreed the Major. “Of course, I always had Bertie. He was a great comfort to me.” As he said this, he realized it was true. Incongruous as it might seem, given how little time he and Bertie had spent together in recent decades, he had always felt they remained close, as they had been when they were two grubby-kneed boys pummeling each other behind the greenhouse. It also occurred to him that perhaps this only meant that the less he saw of people, the more kindly he felt toward them, and that this might explain his current mild exasperation with his many condolence-offering acquaintances.

  “You are lucky to have many friends in the village,” said Mrs. Ali. “I envy you that.”

  “I suppose you could put it that way,” said the Major, opening the tall gate that led directly into the front garden. He stood aside and let Mrs. Ali pass.

  “And now, just when I am being asked to consider how and where I will spend the next chapter of my life,” she continued, “I have not only had the pleasure of discussing books with you, but I have also been asked by Miss DeVere to assist her and her friends with this dance at a golf club?” She made her statement a question, but he could not begin to think quite what it was or what answer she expected. He felt a strong inclination to warn her away from any such social entanglements.

  “The ladies are tireless,” he said. It didn’t sound much of a compliment. “Many, many good works and all that sort of thing.” Mrs. Ali’s smile indicated that she understood him.

  “I was told you suggested my name,” she said. “And Grace DeVere has always been very polite. I suppose I am wondering whether this might be a small opening for me to participate in the community. A way to spread some more roots.” They were at the front gate already, and the garden and lane were almost dark. Down the hill, a single band of tangerine light hung low in a gap between the trees. The Major sensed that Mrs. Ali was tethered to the village by only the slightest of connections. A little more pressure from her husband’s family, another slight from an ungrateful villager, and she might be ripped away. Most people would not even take the time to notice. If they did, it would be only to enjoy complaining that her nephew’s morose proprietorship was yet another sign of what the world was coming to. To persuade her to stay, just for the pleasure of having her nearby, seemed utterly selfish. He could not, in good conscience, promote any association with Daisy Green and her band of ladies. He could more easily recommend gang membership or fence-hopping into the polar bear enclosure at the Regents Park zoo. She looked at him and he knew she would give his opinion weight. He fiddled with the latch of the gate.

  “I may have inadvertently pledged my cooperation, too,” said the Major at last. “There is a food tasting I appear to have agreed to attend.” He was aware of a slight constriction in his voice. Mrs. Ali looked amused. “It is a great help to Grace that you have been willing to put your expertise at her disposal,” he continued. “However, I must warn you that the committee’s overabundance of enthusiasm, combined with a complete absence of knowledge, may produce some rather theatrical effects. I would hate for you to be offended in any way.”

  “In that case, I shall tell Grace to count on us,” she said. “Between the three of us, perhaps we can save the Mughal Empire from once again being destroyed.” The Major bit his tongue. As they shook hands and promised to meet again, he did not express his conviction that Daisy Green might represent a greater menace to the Mughal Empire than the conquering Rajput princes and the East India Company combined.

  Chapter 9

  The Taj Mahal Palace occupied a former police station in the middle of a long stretch of Myrtle Street. The redbrick building still bore the word “Police” carved into the stone lintel of the front door but it had been partially covered by a neon sign that flashed in succession the words “Late Nite—Take Out—Drinks.” A blue martini glass adorned with a yellow umbrella promised a sophistication the Major found quite implausible. A large painted sign bore the restaurant name and offered Sunday buffet lunches, halal meat, and weddings. In order to back the car into a narrow space between a plumbing truck and a motor scooter, the Major put his arm across the back of the passenger seat, a maneuver that caused Grace to shrink and blush as if he had dropped a hand on her thigh. Mrs. Ali smiled at him from the back, where she had chosen to sit after Grace’s long and flustered monologue as to who should sit where and why it didn’t matter to her if she sat in the back, only the Major should not sit alone up front like a taxi driver. The Major had tried to suggest they drive separately, since he had to meet Roger right after, but Grace had expressed an immediate need to visit Little Puddleton’s famous yarn shop, the Ginger Nook, and had insisted on making an outing of it. The Major prayed he might now fit the car into the space in a single move.

  A well-upholstered woman with a wide, smiling face and a flowing mustard-colored shawl stood waiting for them in the glass doorway. Her feet in high-heeled shoes were so tiny that the Major wondered how she managed to balance, but as she tripped forward to meet them she carried herself with the lightness of a helium balloon. She waved a plump hand full of heavy rings and smiled.

  “Ah and here is my friend Mrs. Rasool to greet us,” said Mrs. Ali. She waved back and prepared to get out of the car. “She and her husband own two restaurants and a travel agency. They are quite the business tycoons.”

  “Really?” Grace seemed overwhelmed by the woman now bobbing on tiptoes in front of her door. “I suppose that requires a lot of energy.”

  “Oh yes, Najwa is very enthusiastic.” Mrs. Ali laughed. “She is also the toughest businessperson I know—but don’t let her know I told you. She always pretends that her husband is in complete charge.” Mrs. Ali got out of the car and immediately disappeared into a vast mustard-colored hug.

  “Najwa, I’d like you to meet Major Pettigrew and Miss Grace DeVere,” said Mrs. Ali, her arm still tucked in that of her friend.

  “My husband, Mr. Rasool, and I are delighted to have you grace our humble restaurant and catering hall,” said Mrs. Rasool, greeting them with an enthusiastic grasping of both hands. “We are quite the small operation—all hands-on and homemade, you know—but we do silver service for five hundred people here and everything piping hot and fresh. You must come in and see for yourself ??
?” And she was already sweeping into the restaurant waving for them to follow. The Major held the door for the ladies and followed them in.

  Several tables in the cavernous restaurant were occupied. Two women lunching by the window nodded at Mrs. Ali, but only one of them smiled. The Major felt other patrons taking surreptitious looks. He concentrated on examining the tiled floor and tried not to feel out of place.

  The tiles bore scars of the former police station. The outline of a booking desk ran across the middle of the room like a blueprint and in the back several large booths were built into cubicles that might once have been cells or interrogation rooms. Raising his gaze, he noted the walls were a cheerful orange—no doubt the paint cans had been labeled “Mango” or “Persimmon”—and bright saffron silk curtains swagged the large iron-framed windows, which still had bars on the lower portions. To the Major’s eye, the effect of the grand room was marred only by the effusive use of obviously plastic flowers in jarring chemical shades. They swooped in swags of pink and mauve roses across the ceiling and crammed cement floor urns. Orange water lilies floated in the central tiled fountain, collecting by the overflow valve like dead koi.

  “How cheerful it is in here,” said Grace, craning her neck to view the giant iron chandeliers with their collars of ivy and stiff lilies. Her genuine delight in all the color seemed incongruous, thought the Major, in a woman who preferred mushroom-brown tweeds. Today’s dull burgundy and black blouse and dark green stockings would have rendered her invisible in any mildly wet woodland.

  “Yes, I’m afraid my husband is very adamant about being generous with the floral displays,” said Mrs. Rasool. “Please come this way and let me introduce you.”

  She led the way back to a large booth, partially screened by a carved wood panel and another huge silk curtain. As they approached, a thin man with sparse hair and a shirt starched as stiff as a shell stood up from where he was sitting with an elderly couple. He gave them a reserved bow.

  “Mr. Rasool, these are our guests, Major Pettigrew and Ms. DeVere,” said Mrs. Rasool.

  “Most welcome,” said Mr. Rasool. “And may I introduce to you my parents and the founders of our business, Mr. and Mrs. Rasool.” The old couple stood up and bowed.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the Major, leaning with difficulty across the wide table to shake hands. The Rasools bobbed their heads and mumbled a greeting. The Major thought they resembled two halves of a walnut, charming in their wrinkled symmetry.

  “Please sit down with us,” said Mr. Rasool.

  “Do we need to tire your mother and father with a long meeting?” said Mrs. Rasool to her husband. Her clipped tone and raised eyebrow gave the Major the impression that the old people had not been invited.

  “My parents are honored to assist with such important clients,” said Mr. Rasool, addressing himself to the Major and refusing to meet his wife’s eyes. He slid onto the banquette next to his mother and waved them to the other side of the booth. “Do join us.”

  “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 offense 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 color 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 maneuvered 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 flavor,” 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.”