Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 15

The sun was red, haloed in mist and barely showing over the hedgerows as the Major crunched across the frost-stiffened grass. He had elected to walk up through the fields to the manor house, intending to arrive before the rest of the shooting party. In a dark holly bush a robin was tweedling a solo to the watercolor hills.

The Major had waited too long for the occasion to hurry its beginning or to arrive in a noisy clatter of smoking exhaust and splattered gravel. It was not that he feared that his Rover would make an inadequate impression among the glittering luxury vehicles and four-by-fours of a London crowd. He felt no shallow envy. He simply preferred to enjoy the ritual of the walk. He felt the balance of his guns, cracked open and cradled in the crook of his elbow. Bertie’s gun was now oiled to a deep shine, almost a match for his own gun’s patina. He enjoyed the creaking seams of his old shooting coat and the weight of his pockets. The waxed cotton bulged with brass cartridges laden with steel shot. An old game bag draped its strap and buckle across his chest and flopped on one hip. It would probably not hold game today—Dagenham would doubtless have the ducks retrieved and carried for the guns by the beaters—but it was satisfying to buckle it on, and the bag was a useful place to stash a new foil-wrapped bar of Kendal Mint Cake, his trademark snack at all the shoots he attended. The bar of mint-oil-flavored compressed sugar, which he ordered by mail from the original company in Cumbria, was a tidy food and ideal for offering around, unlike the squashed ham sandwiches some of the farmers pulled from their bags and offered to tear apart with powder-stained fingers. He was sure there would be no squashed sandwiches or lukewarm tea today.

As he swung his boots over a stile and jumped a mud patch, he was sorry that Mrs. Ali could not see him now, decked out as a hunter-gatherer. Kipling would have dressed in much the same manner, he thought, to hunt big game with Cecil Rhodes. He could almost see them, waiting ahead for him to catch up so they might gauge his opinion on Cecil’s most recent difficulties in organizing a new nation.

The Major immediately scolded himself for this momentary fancy. The age of great men, when a single mind of intelligence and vision might change the destiny of the world, was long gone. He had been born into a much smaller age, and no amount of daydreaming would change the facts. Neither would a pair of fine guns make anyone a bigger man, he reminded himself, resolving to remain humble all day despite the compliments he was bound to receive.

On the edge of what remained of the manor house parkland, he entered a short allée of elms, fuzzy with tangled branches, which constituted the truncated remains of what had once been a mile-long ride. It was clear they had not seen the services of an arborist in a decade. Underfoot, the grass was worn from sheep hooves and smelled of dung and moss. Between the trees, crude wire cages and a plastic contraption attached to a small generator bore evidence of the gamekeeper’s duck-raising. The cages were empty now. They would be refilled with hand-raised eggs and chicks in the spring. The gamekeeper, who was also a general maintenance man for the house and grounds, was not to be seen. The Major was disappointed. He had hoped for a discussion about the state of this year’s flock and the layout of the line today. He had entertained a mild thought that after such a talk, he might approach the main gravel courtyard with the gamekeeper in tow and so show the London types immediately that he was a local expert. A rustle in an overgrown wall of rhododendron revived his hopes, but as he assembled a smile and appropriate words of casual greeting, a small pale boy popped out of the hedge and stood staring transfixed at the Major’s guns.

“Hullo, who are you then?” said the Major. He tried not to look pained by the boy’s sloppy school uniform, which featured a frayed shirt collar, stringy tie, and a sweatshirt instead of a proper jumper or blazer. The boy looked about five or six and the Major remembered arguing with Nancy about sending Roger away to school at eleven. She would have had much to say, he thought, about this school and its tiny pupils. He spoke carefully to the boy. “Not a good idea to be playing hide and seek when there’s a shoot about to happen,” he said. “Are you lost?”

The boy screamed. It was a scream like a power saw through corrugated iron. The Major almost dropped his guns in fright.

“I say, there’s no call to go on so,” he said. The boy could not hear him over the roiling of his own howls. The Major stepped back but could not seem to get himself to walk away. The screaming boy seemed to skewer him on sound waves. Overhead, a cloud of ducks flew up like a feathered elevator straight into the sky. The pond was close and the boy’s scream had launched the entire duck brigade aloft.

“Quiet, now,” said the Major, trying for a raised tone of calm authority. “Let’s not frighten the ducks.” The boy’s face began to turn purple. The Major wondered whether he should make a run for the house but he feared the boy would follow.

“What’s going on?” asked a familiar female voice from the other side of the hedge. After some rustling, Alice Pierce pushed her way through, a few twigs catching at the knobby orange and purple yarn flowers that made up an enormous woolly poncho. Alice’s hair was partly controlled by a rolled scarf of brilliant green, and beneath the poncho the Major caught a glimpse of wide green trousers over scuffed black sheepskin boots. “What are you doing here, Thomas?” she asked the boy as she took him gently by the arm. The boy clapped shut his mouth and pointed at the Major. Alice frowned.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Alice,” said the Major. “He just started screaming for no reason.”

“You don’t think a strange man with a pair of huge shotguns might constitute a reason, then?” She raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, hugging the boy hard to her ample poncho. The boy whimpered under his breath and the Major hoped he was being comforted rather than suffocated. The Major was not about to argue with Alice. “Why aren’t you on the bus, Thomas?” she asked, and stroked his hair.

“I’m so very sorry, young man,” said the Major. “I had no intention of frightening you.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here, Major,” said Alice. She looked worried.

“You mean shooting?” asked the Major. “I expect you don’t approve?” Alice said nothing. She just frowned as if thinking something through.

“What are you doing here?” asked the Major. “Are you chaperoning the children?”

“Not really,” said Alice, with an obvious vagueness. “That is to say, I had better get Thomas back to Matron right away.”

There was a further rustling in the hedge and Lord Dagenham and the keeper popped out.

“What the hell was all the racket?” asked Dagenham.

“The Major here frightened Thomas with his guns,” said Alice. “But it’s all right now—we’ve made friends, haven’t we, Thomas?” The boy peeked at the Major from under Alice’s arm and stuck out his tongue.

“They were all supposed to be on the bus ten minutes ago,” said Dagenham. “My guests are arriving now.”

“No harm done,” offered the Major.

“I’m sure it’s not as easy as all that,” said Alice, drawing herself up. “The children are all understandably upset this morning.”

“Good God, I’m giving them a trip to the bowling alley and an ice cream party on the pier,” said Dagenham. “What on earth do they have to be upset about?” Alice narrowed her eyes in a way the Major recognized as being dangerous.

“They know about the ducks,” she whispered, leading the boy away. He went with her but the whimpering started again. “They’re young, but they’re not stupid, you know,” she added in a louder voice.

“There’ll be duck soup for dinner,” said Dagenham under his breath. Alice gave him a look of pure poison as she and the boy disappeared through the hedge again. “Thank God it was only you, Major. Could have been rather embarrassing otherwise.”

“Glad to have headed them off, then,” said the Major, deciding to take Dagenham’s remark as a compliment.

“Thought it might be protesters from the damn ‘Save Our Village’ picket line, down the road,” said Dagenham. “Height of bad manners, throwing themselves in front of my guests’ cars like that. I was afraid they were infiltrating the grounds.”

“I hope no one is getting hurt,” said the Major.

“Oh, no, quite a solid front grill on those limousines,” said Dagenham. “Hardly a scratch.”

“Glad to hear it,” said the Major absently as he worried about whether Alice had been “infiltrating” and what else she might be up to.

“Shall we get along up to the house?” said Dagenham. “I’m hoping Morris’s wife has it all aired out by now.” The gamekeeper, Morris, nodded his head.

“We started opening windows about five A.M.,” he said. “Matron weren’t too pleased but I told her, no one was never ‘armed by a bit of fresh air.”

As they strode up toward the house, Dagenham added, “I had no idea that fee-paying pupils would smell bad. I really thought the school would be preferable to a nursing home, but I was wrong.” He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “At least with the old dears you can keep them all sedated and no one cares. The kids are so awake. That art teacher is the worst. She encourages them. Always sticking up their pictures in the hallways. Sticky tape and drawing-pin holes all over the plaster. I told the Matron they ought to be learning something useful like Greek or Latin. I don’t care if they’re only five or six, it’s never too early.” He paused and straightened his shoulders to take a deep breath of chill morning air. The Major felt queasy, thinking that he ought to say something in Alice’s defense—at least to let it be known that she was a friend and neighbor. However, he could not think how to do this without offending Lord Dagenham. So he said nothing.

As the three men emerged into the courtyard of the mellow stone Georgian manor house, the Major realized he had obtained his wish. There was a small group of men, drinking coffee and munching on plates of food, and the last of the luxury cars were pulling in at the driveway just in time to see him arriving with both the keeper and the master of the house. The moment would have been perfect, but for two incongruities. One was the old green bus pulling away through the same gates, the windows filled with the glass-squashed faces of small, angry children. Alice Pierce strode along behind them, waving as she went. The other was the sight of Roger, emerging from someone’s car dressed in a stiff new shooting jacket with a small tag still swinging from the hem. Roger did not appear to see his own father but busied himself greeting a second car full of guests. The Major gratefully decided not to see Roger, either; he had a vague hope that in the next half hour Roger’s coat and moleskin breeches might at least develop a few respectable creases around the elbows and knees.

“Good morning, Major. You will step in and get a cup of tea and a bacon roll before we start, won’t you?” The Major found Dagenham’s niece at his elbow, looking slightly anxious. “I’m afraid I rather overdid the light breakfast.” She pulled him into the lofty entrance hall, where a fire burning in the white marble fireplace could only lay an illusion of heat over the cold that rose from the black-and-white stone floor and traveled unimpeded in and out of the old thin panes of the vast windows. The room was empty of furniture save two immense carved wooden chairs, too heavy, or maybe just too tastelessly overwrought, to bother removing.

A buffet table to one side held a tray, which overflowed with pyramids of bacon rolls. A large oval platter of sausages and a basket of tumescent American-style muffins rounded out the “light” fare. A huge tea samovar and several thermos jugs of coffee were arrayed as if waiting a crowd several times the size of the gathering party, which looked to number about twenty in all. The smell of damp tweed mingled with the not quite vanished smells of institutional cabbage and bleach. “My uncle seems to think it’s a bit lavish, given that there’ll be a full breakfast after the shooting,” said Gertrude.

“They seem to be tucking in,” said the Major. Indeed, the remaining London bankers were filling up their plates as if they had not eaten in recent days. The Major wondered how they intended to swing a heavy gun barrel on such a full stomach; he accepted only a cup of tea and the smallest bacon roll he could find. As he savored his roll, a cream-colored Bentley pulled up at the open door and disgorged Ferguson, the American.

The Major ceased to chew as he took in the sight of Ferguson shaking hands with some people on the steps. The American was dressed in a shooting jacket of a tartan with which the Major was unfamiliar. Blinding puce, crossed with lines of green and orange, the wool fabric itself was of a thickness more akin to an army blanket than to single tweed. With this the American wore reddish breeches and cream stockings tucked into shiny new boots. He wore a flat shooting cap in too bright a green and a yellow cravat tucked into a cream silk shirt. He resembled a circus barker, thought the Major, or a down-at-heels actor playing a country squire in a summer stock revival of an Oscar Wilde play. He was shadowed by a pale young chap in impeccably rumpled clothes but overly shiny boots who wore a fedora instead of a cap. There was a momentary hush as they swept into the room; even the bankers paused in their foraging to stare. Ferguson took off his cap and gave a general wave.

“Good morning, all,” he said. He spotted Dagenham and shook the cap at him like a dog showing off with a rabbit. “I say, Double D, I hope that wasn’t our ducks I just saw taking off over the Downs toward France?” There was a general murmur of laughter around the room as the assembled men seemed to make a group decision to ignore Ferguson’s outlandish getup. There was a palpable easing of tension and a deliberate turning away, back into small groups of conversation. Dagenham was slightly slower than the rest to wipe the look of astonishment from his face as he shook Ferguson’s hand and was loudly introduced to the young associate, a Mr. Sterling. The Major took this to be a sign that good breeding still ran in Lord Dagenham’s veins.

“So how d’you like the new duds?” Ferguson gave a half turn to allow a better view of his outfit. “I’m reviving the old family tartan.”

“Very sporting,” said Dagenham. He had the grace to look a little sick.

“I know it’s a bit much for a day of blasting duck in the south, but I wanted to check out the feel. I’m thinking of starting a whole line of technical shooting clothes.” He raised his arms to show stretchy green side panels that resembled a medical corset; the Major swallowed his tea the wrong way and began to choke.

“Ah, there’s the Major,” said Ferguson, taking two large strides and sticking out his hand. The Major was forced to control his coughing, move the bacon roll to his saucer, and shake hands all in one move. “You’re old school, Major. Say, how do you like my neoprene sweat panels?” He smacked the Major on the back with his free hand.

“Do those assist one in swimming after the ducks, perhaps?” asked the Major.

“That’s what I love about this guy, Sterling,” said Ferguson. “His dry sense of humor. Major, you’re an original.”

“Thank you,” said the Major, who could not help but be aware that there were many ears tuned in to the conversation. He felt himself being sized up and there was a vibration of approval in the room. He noticed Roger frowning at an inquiry from an older man. He hoped his son was being asked about the very distinguished gentleman who was laughing with Dagenham and Ferguson.

“Speaking of originals, how about giving me a look at those Churchills of yours?” said Ferguson.

“Oh, yes, we’re all dying to get a look at the famous Pettigrew Churchills—gift of the grateful Maharajah,” said Dagenham. “Shall we get started, gentlemen?”

The Major, who had dreamed of such a moment for years, found himself surrounded by the small crowd following him out to the temporary rack where they had left their guns. He was offered many hands to shake, not that he had any hope of distinguishing one wax-coated banker from the next, and at one point found himself shaking hands with his own son.

“Father, if you have a minute I want you to come and meet my boss, Norman Swithers,” said Roger, indicating a well-fed barrel of a man in rumpled shooting attire and promotional bank-logo socks who waved and managed to raise his pendulous jowls into a brief smile. Roger’s usual air of condescension seemed to have been replaced by an attitude of genuine respect and the Major felt a moment of triumph as he allowed himself to be led over to meet the man. The moment was swiftly curtailed as Roger added, “Why didn’t you tell me you were so friendly with Frank Ferguson?”

A line had been established behind a waist-high hedge that ran along a narrow field to the east of the pond’s edge. Thick woods shaded the opposite side of the field. The field itself provided an open flightway for the ducks to the small dewpond, which was almost circular and fringed on the western side by a straggly copse of trees and some dense, untended undergrowth. Behind this showed the tops of the elm allée where the ducklings were bred. As they walked down to the hedge, the Major could see that both the pond and the copse were thick with ducks. Green ropes divided the stands and, in what the Major considered rather a departure from the usual rules, the pulling of pegs from a bag had been forgone and instead names had been drawn in marker on wooden stakes to show each man his position. A folding stool and a crate for dead game were provided and young men, drawn from local farms, stood ready to act as loaders. As etiquette demanded, conversation ceased as the men came toward their spots.

“Good luck,” whispered a nervous Roger, from his own spot near the pond. The Major continued down the line toward the more favored end. He was both gratified and annoyed to find his own name on a prime spot next to Ferguson’s. He was not altogether pleased by the prospect of having Ferguson’s beady eyes fixed on his Churchills all morning. He feared the American might be so crass as to ask to borrow them. The Major nodded at his red-haired young loader and silently passed him one gun and a box of cartridges.

“Comfy there, are you, Pettigrew?” asked Lord Dagenham in a low voice, clapping him on the back as he went by. “Show our American friend how it’s done, will you?”

As the assembled guns waited quietly, the Major inhaled cold air and felt his spirits soar. The grass of the field had begun to steam in the strengthening sunlight and the adrenaline of the impending sport began to sing in his extremities. He thought of Mrs. Ali still tucked up in bed, dreaming behind her flowered curtains. She would awaken soon to the sound of the guns popping above the valley. He allowed himself to imagine striding into her shop at the end of the day, smelling of gunpowder and rain-misted leather, a magnificent rainbow-hued drake spilling from his game bag. It would be a primal offering of food from man to woman and a satisfyingly primitive declaration of intent. However, he mused, one could never be sure these days who would be offended by being handed a dead mallard bleeding from a breast full of tooth-breaking shot and sticky about the neck with dog saliva.

A loud rattling sound from behind the pond launched the ducks, almost vertically. It was Morris the keeper, thrashing the inside of an old oil barrel with a cricket bat—an alarm to which all the ducks had been trained to fly away. South behind the wood they disappeared, their cries, like old hinges, growing faint. The Major loaded cartridges in his gun. As he raised the gun to his shoulder, he felt as if the whole world were holding its breath. He took deliberate care to breathe out and in slowly, relaxing his shoulders and his fingers.

The sound of ducks began again in the distance and grew until a chorus of calls came in waves down the field, followed by the urgent flapping of wings. The whole squadron curved over the wood and began their descent along the field, heading for their home pond. The first gun barked and soon the entire line was popping at the blur of wings. The smell of powder hung over the line and small bundles began to thud into the rough grass. The Major lost his shot at a fat drake as Ferguson, having missed it, took an extra shot well out of his own line. The Major waited a fraction of a second for the next duck to come by. Sighting at the target he moved his gun smoothly into the lead, squeezed the trigger, absorbed the hard recoil into the shoulder as he followed through, and watched with satisfaction as the bird fell dead. Ferguson potted a second duck flying at the lowest limit of what any man would consider a sporting height. The Major swung his own gun high and squeezed off a difficult shot at a bird soaring up and slightly away. The bird fell on the far side of the field and the Major marked it before reaching back to hand his empty weapon to his loader and retrieve his second gun, Bertie’s gun. His third shot missed but the gun worked smoothly and felt perfectly balanced and solid in his hands. He thought of how much these guns had meant to his father. He thought of Bertie and how the two of them had perhaps been as separated as these two guns in the last, wasted years. He tracked another duck but did not fire; whether because the flock was thinning out or because he was overcome with strong emotion, he could not say. Ferguson shot a straggler, who was flapping in slowly at the end of the line as if resigned to his own death.

A great splashing on the pond indicated that many ducks had made it through the barrage and were quarrelling over their options like politicians. In a matter of a few minutes, Morris would bang the oil can again and send them all aloft to repeat their suicidal mission. Meanwhile the hired youths went out to comb the field, enthusiastically competing to collect the small green and blue bodies and toss them over the hedge to the right gun. The red-haired youth gave the Major a wink as he tossed Ferguson’s drake at the Major’s feet.

“I think this was actually your kill,” he said, picking it up by the neck and handing it to the American.

“Afraid I poached your airspace on that one,” said Ferguson, his face alight with cheer as he took the dead bundle and tossed it in a crate. “Couldn’t bear to let him get the better of me.”

“Not a problem. We keep things fairly informal down here,” said the Major, who wished to be polite while also delivering a clear rebuke.

“You’ll have to come shoot with me in Scotland and show them how to keep it loose,” said Ferguson. “I’ve had my own ghillie scream at me in front of my guests for shooting over the line.”

“My father is very knowledgeable about shooting,” said Roger, appearing out of nowhere and sticking out his hand. “Roger Pettigrew. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh my God, there are multiple generations of you,” said Ferguson, shaking hands. “How does anybody survive the onslaught of humor?”

“Oh, Roger claims he doesn’t have any,” said the Major, checking and reloading his gun. He wiped his hands on the special rag he kept in the pocket of his shooting jacket. “He thinks it detracts from a man’s sense of importance.”

“I’m with Chelsea Equity Partners,” said Roger. “We did an underwrite for you on the Thames effluent plant deal.”

“Oh, one of Crazy Norm’s boys,” said Ferguson. The Major could not imagine what Roger’s imposing and taciturn boss could possibly have done to be tagged with such an offensive nickname—unless, perhaps, he wore ridiculous socks every day. “Didn’t I meet you at the closing dinner?” continued Ferguson. “You had a broken arm from your diving accident on the Great Barrier Reef.” The Major watched with miserable fascination as his son’s face worked through several contortions that indicated he was inclined to accept Ferguson’s suggestion.

“No, I wasn’t actually at the dinner,” said Roger, honesty or fear of discovery winning out. “But I’m hoping we get to do another one soon.” The Major breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, I may have a deal for you sooner than you expect,” said Ferguson. He put an arm around Roger’s shoulders. “I think you’re just the man to negotiate my next acquisition for me.”

“I am? I mean, whatever you need,” said Roger, beaming.

“The seller’s pretty stubborn,” said Ferguson, grinning at the Major. “I don’t think it’s just gonna be about the price with this one.” Roger beamed as if he was being put in charge of buying a small country and the Major was irritated by the both of them.

“I think Mr. Ferguson is hoping you can persuade me to sell him my guns,” said the Major. “I can assure you, Mr. Ferguson, you’ll have Roger’s full cooperation on that score.”

“What—oh, of course.” Roger blushed. “You’re the American buyer.”

“I sure hope to be,” said Ferguson. “Bring me home that deal, son, and I’ll make sure Crazy Norm puts you in charge of his entire deal team.”

The cricket bat resounded in the barrel again and in the cacophony of fleeing ducks, men all along the line dropped their conversations abruptly.

“Of course, I would be delighted to help you with anything you need,” said Roger, hovering as Ferguson struggled to stuff cartridges into his gun.

“Roger, get to your position,” said the Major in a terse whisper. “Talk later.”

“Oh, right, must bag another couple of ducks,” said Roger. The Major felt sure by his tone that he had failed to hit anything so far.

“Don’t forget to get a lead on them,” said the Major and his son nodded, looking momentarily grateful for the advice as he hurried away.

“Eager youngster,” said Ferguson. “Is he any kind of shot?”

“Bagged a prime bird on his first ever outing,” said the Major, mentally asking pardon of the long-dead woodpecker.

“My first shoot, I shot the guide in the butt,” said Ferguson. “Cost my dad a fortune to shut the guy up and he took out every dime on my hide. My aim got much better real quick after that.”

“Here they come,” said the Major, privately wondering whether further spanking might have kept the American from potting other people’s birds.

As the guns were raised and the squawking cloud of ducks wheeled in over the far trees, the Major caught sight of movement at the lower edge of his vision. Refocusing he saw, with horror, that small figures were emerging all along the woods and beginning to run, in stumbling fashion, across the field.

“Hold your fire, hold your fire!” shouted the Major. “Children on the field!” Ferguson pulled his trigger and blasted a duck from the sky. One or two other shots rang out and there were screams from the field as uniformed children ducked and zigzagged. A separate group of people, some carrying signs that could not be read at such a distance, came marching, in a flanking action, from the direction of the copse. Alice Pierce, in all her orange and green glory, dropped her sign, broke from the group and began shouting and waving her hands as she ran toward the children.

“Hold your fire!” bellowed the Major, dropping his own gun and moving to push up Ferguson’s gun barrel.

“What the hell!” said Ferguson, removing a large orange earplug. “Children on the field!” shouted the Major.

“Hold fire,” called Morris the gamekeeper. He sent his dogs racing along the hedge, which seemed to catch the attention of the shooting party better than the mass of crying and running children.

“What the devil is going on?” asked Dagenham, from his place in the line. “Morris, what on earth are they doing?” Morris gave a signal and the farmhands ran out and begun trying to corral the children like unruly sheep. The Major saw a beefy young man tackle a skinny boy to the ground in none too gentle a fashion. Alice Pierce gave a cry of rage and threw herself on the young man like a woolly boulder. There was a general cry of outrage from the adults on the field who began chasing the farm youths, jabbing about with their signs like pitchforks. The dogs barked and dodged, snapping at ankles until Morris’s piercing whistle called them away. The Major recognized the landlord from the pub, running closer to the hedge. He carried a sign that read “Don’t Destroy Us.” A woman the Major now recognized with horror as Grace, in a sensible coat and neat brown leather gloves, flapped at a young man with her sign, which read “Peace, Not Progress.” Hanging back by the pond, removed from the general mêlée, stood two figures who the Major was almost sure were the Vicar and Daisy. They did not carry signs and they seemed to be arguing with each other.

“Goddamnit, the protesters are rioting,” said Ferguson. “I’ll call the security people.” He fumbled in his pocket and stuck an earpiece in his ear.

“Morris, tell those people they’re trespassing,” cried Dagenham. “I want them all arrested.”

“Maybe we should just shoot them,” said a banker somewhere down the line. A chorus of approval followed and one or two men leveled their guns at the field.

“Steady there, gentlemen,” said Morris, walking the hedge.

“Too many idiots wanting to shut down our way of life these days!” shouted a loud voice. Someone fired both barrels of his shotgun into the air. There were screams from the field as farm workers and protesters ceased battling to throw themselves to the ground. The Major heard cheers and jeers from along the line of guns. The children continued to wander about, most of them crying. Thomas stood in the middle of the field. His continuous scream, like a siren, seemed to play havoc with the ducks’ central nervous systems and they flapped up and down the field in haphazard, spiky loops.

“Are you quite mad?” shouted the Major. He laid down his gun and began to cross the green ropes, waving his hands and grabbing by the arm men who had not uncocked their guns. “Put up your guns. Put up your guns.” He was dimly aware of Morris doing the same thing from the opposite side of the hedge.

“Watch who you’re shoving,” said Swithers. The Major understood that it was he who had fired into the air. He gave him a withering look of contempt and Swithers had the grace to look slightly ashamed and lower his gun.

“For God’s sake, man, there are women and children out there,” said the Major. “Stand down, everyone.”

“No one’s shooting at anybody,” said Roger with a faint derision designed to let everyone know he was not responsible for his father’s actions. “Only trying to put the wind up them a little bit. No need to be upset.”

“Morris, I want those trespassers arrested now,” said Dagenham, red in the face with anger and embarrassment. “Don’t just stand there waving, man, get it done.”

“Until these gentlemen put away their guns, I can’t hardly be calling the constable,” said Morris. He turned to the field and gave a piercing whistle that caused the farm workers to lift their heads from the dirt. “Come away, boys, leave them children alone now.”

“May I suggest a prompt retreat to the house,” said Ferguson, coming up to Lord Dagenham. “Cool tempers and so on.”

“I’ll be damned if I’ll be forced to retreat from my own land,” said Dagenham. “What the hell is Morris doing?” he added as the gamekeeper headed off to meet his men. The protesters sent up a feeble cheer and began to pick themselves up from the ground. The bankers gathered in a huddle, guns broken over their arms. There was a low murmur of discussion.

“If I may agree with Mr. Ferguson, returning to the house would not be a question of retreat,” said the Major. “Completely the moral high ground—keeping the peace and ensuring the safety of women and children and so on.”

“They killed our duckies,” came a wail from a child holding up a bloody carcass. The protesters abandoned their signs and set about trying to gather the children into a loose group. From the woods, the figure of their matron hurried into view, followed by a man who was quite possibly a bus driver.

“I really think your guests would be happier back at the house,” said the Major.

“He’s right,” said Ferguson.

“Oh, very well,” said Lord Dagenham. “Everybody down to the house, please. Breakfast is served.” The bankers trotted away, looking grateful for the excuse. The Major saw Roger was at the front of the departing crowd.

“Major Pettigrew, are you there?” came the distinct cry of Alice Pierce, who was resolutely advancing on the hedge waving a large and rather grubby white handkerchief. As she came closer the Major could see she was shivering.

“I’m here, Alice, and so is Lord Dagenham,” said the Major. “You’re quite safe.” Lord Dagenham gave a snort but did not contradict him.

“Oh, Major, the poor children,” she said. “The matron says they escaped from the bus and she had no idea they were going to come here.”

“Oh, please,” said Lord Dagenham. “I’ll have you all brought up on negligence charges for letting innocent children join in such a riot.”

“Negligence?” said Alice. “You shot at them.”

“We did not shoot at them,” said Dagenham. “For God’s sake, woman, they ran into the guns. Besides, you’re all trespassing.”

“The children are not trespassing; they live here,” said Alice. Matron hurried up to say that they needed to get the children home right away and perhaps have the doctor in.

“We only stopped a moment for the picket line,” she said. “Then Thomas started being sick and he threw up on the bus driver, so we got out for a minute and before we knew it, they just all ran from the bus and scattered and we didn’t know where to find them.” She paused to breathe, holding a bony hand against her narrow chest. “They always get attached to the ducks, what with feeding them every day and keeping the ducklings in the classroom under heat lamps, but we’ve never had a problem like this before.” Alice looked carefully neutral. The Major had no doubt as to who had used her art lessons to impart a few lessons in truth to the children.

“Someone put the little beggars up to it,” said the bus driver. “Who’s going to pay for my dry cleaning?”

“I’ll help you get them back in the school,” said Alice to the matron.

“Can’t have them back in the house. I’m hosting a breakfast for my guests,” said Dagenham, stepping between the matron and the path to the house. “Put them back on the bus.”

The Major cleared his throat and caught Dagenham’s eye. “Might I suggest, Lord Dagenham, that you allow the children, under the good care of their matron, to take some food in their rooms and have a rest?”

“Oh, very well,” said Lord Dagenham. “But for goodness’ sake, Matron, take them in the back door and keep them quiet.”

“Let’s go,” said Alice, and she and the matron went off to escort the children away down the lane to the house.

Dagenham was surveying the field, where the protesters had reorganized themselves into lines. They now began to advance on the hedge, chanting “Down with Dagenham” and “Don’t pillage our village.” The Major found the latter rather interesting and wondered who had come up with it.

“Where are the damn police?” said Dagenham. “I want these people arrested.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Double D, better to keep the cops out of it,” said Ferguson. “We don’t need that kind of attention. Not that we’re in the wrong, mind you, but the publicity isn’t what the project needs right now.” He clapped Dagenham on the back. “You gave us a dash of excitement. Now come and give us a good breakfast.”

“What do I do about them?” said Dagenham, nodding to where the protesters were slowly advancing on the hedge.

“Oh, let ’em protest and get it out of their system,” said Ferguson. “My guys’ll keep ’em away from the house and take plenty of pictures. Generally I find it best to let people think they’re making a difference.”

“You sound as if you’ve had plenty of experience,” said the Major.

“Can’t build a billion square feet these days without riling up the local hornets’ nest,” said Ferguson, quite oblivious to the slight distaste in the Major’s voice. “I have a whole system of control, containment, and just-plain-make-it-go-away.”

“Major, you’re a good man to have around,” said Dagenham. “I think, Ferguson, that we should invite the Major to the private briefing after breakfast. You’ll stay behind, won’t you, Major?”

“I’d be more than happy to,” said the Major, puzzled as to what might be worthy of a briefing but enjoying a small expansion of pride in his chest at being invited.

“I’m with you on that,” said Ferguson. “And maybe the Major’d like to have that bright son of his sit in, too?”

As they walked back to the house for breakfast, the cries of the protesters growing dim behind them, the Major’s pleasure was diminished only by a small nagging worry that Alice Pierce would not approve. He did not usually seek Alice’s approval for anything, so the feeling was new and entirely unexpected. They passed two security guards dressed in black and sitting in a large black four-by-four. Ferguson nodded and the idling car pulled across to block the path behind them. Containment of the locals had obviously begun.

The breakfast, eaten in an elegant parlor overlooking the terrace, was hearty and fueled by large quantities of Bloody Marys and hot punch. On the long buffet table in the hall, the bacon rolls had been replaced with steaming globes containing bacon, sausage, and scrambled eggs, along with an entire side of smoked salmon and a marble board of cold meats and pungent cheeses. A giant baron of beef, surrounded by roast potatoes and individual Yorkshire puddings, sat in unapologetic dinner-menu magnificence under a heat lamp, being sliced in thick bloody pieces by a white-gloved server. A tower of cut fruit and an iced bowl of yogurt were going all but untouched.

Gertrude did not sit down to breakfast but stomped in and out checking on the service from the temporary waiters and shaking hands here and there; she whispered an apology to the Major for the beef being a bit pink. Only Lord Dagenham, however, complained, sending his underdone slice to the kitchen to be microwaved to a deep muddy brown. The bankers were so loud, outstripping each other in the length and ribaldry of their anecdotes, that there was no disturbance to the party at all from the presence of children overhead.

“Don’t know why I bothered all these years, sending them off to the seaside at my expense,” said Dagenham over the trifle and chocolate éclairs that followed the breakfast buffet. “Never knew I could just as well lock ’em in with a ham sandwich and a few crayons.” He laughed. “Not that one minds being generous, of course. Only one’s funds get so eroded by the government’s constant demands these days.” Gertrude came in again and said, “The villagers in the lane said thank you very much for the ham sandwiches and hot toddies, Uncle.”

“What the devil do you mean sending them food?” asked Dagenham.

“It was Roger Pettigrew, actually, who mentioned that it might be a nice gesture given the earlier confrontation,” she said, smiling down the table toward Roger. Roger raised a glass in her direction.

“Very shrewd operators those Pettigrews,” said Ferguson, winking at the Major.

“The constable thought it was a sign of great consideration,” added Gertrude. “He’s down there having a sandwich, and whoever called him is too polite to make any complaints while eating.”

“I told you Gertrude was a smart girl, Ferguson,” said Dagenham. “Her mother, my sister, was a wonderful woman. No one loved her like I did.” He dabbed the corner of his eye with his napkin. The Major found this claim unexpected: it was well known in the village that May Dagenham had run off with a singer at a young age and had been largely disowned by the family. Gertrude displayed no obvious response to her uncle’s remark, but her lips pressed together more firmly and the Major saw some flicker of expression in her eyes that might, he thought, be anger. In that expression, he saw again the gawky young girl who had hung around the lane, in her shapeless smock and leggings, waiting to bump into Roger. He looked down the table at his own son, who was regaling his colleagues with some exaggerated tale of how Swithers had pushed an insolent golf caddy into a water hazard. The Major found for once that he was more understanding of his son. He might be obnoxious, but his ambition demonstrated some spark of life; some refusal to bow before adversity. He thought it was preferable to Gertrude’s quiet pain.

“Family is everything to you Brits,” said Ferguson. “I’m still hoping to pick one up one of these days.” This occasioned more laughter around the table, and the breakfast party moved on to coffee and cigars.

After breakfast, which went so long as to bleed imperceptibly into lunch, most of the bankers left. Roger was saying goodbye to Gertrude when Swithers tapped him on the shoulder and indicated with a certain gruffness that he was to stay. Roger looked delighted and came over directly to the Major.

“I’m to stay for some hush-hush business with Ferguson,” he said. “Just us senior bankers. I think he’s going to unveil his next project.” His chest seemed to puff up and the Major thought he might pop with delight. “Do you have a lift home?” added Roger.

“I’m invited to stay myself, thank you,” said the Major, careful to keep a neutral tone and not to claim credit for Roger’s invitation in case it spoiled his son’s obvious pleasure.

“Really? I can’t imagine you’ll understand much of it,” said Roger. “Stay close to me and I’ll try to explain some of the technical terms to you if you like.”

“That’s exactly what I told Lord Dagenham and his American colleague when they asked me if you should be invited,” said the Major. He was slightly ashamed that his good intentions had been so quickly abandoned, but he told himself that the fleeting glance of dismay on his son’s face was for Roger’s own good. “Shall we join the others?”

The table in the middle of the old stone dairy wore a lumpy nylon cover, concealing something large and horizontal. There was barely room for the remaining guests to squeeze along the edges where, noticed the Major, one’s backside immediately radiated with numbing cold from the stone walls. A smelly heater of indeterminate age burned fiercely in one corner but failed to do more than take off the chill.

“Sorry about the accommodations, gentlemen, but this is more private than the house,” said Lord Dagenham. “With Mr. Ferguson’s approval—or should I say with the approval of Lord Ferguson, Laird of Loch Brae”—here Ferguson winked, and waved away the honor with a modesty that did not conceal his delight—“I will reveal to you at once the greatest advance in appropriate English countryside development since his Royal Highness’s fully planned village at Pound-bury.” He and Ferguson gripped the fabric cover and drew it gently off the table. “I give you the Twenty-first Century Enclave at Edgecombe.”

What was revealed was a model of the village. The Major could see at once the folds and creases of the familiar landscape. On one side, the model ended in an upsweep of downland, on the other it spread out into flat farm country. He could see the village green and the pub, which seemed to have been painted pale green and to have developed some carbuncular buildings on one side. He could see the lane leading up to Rose Lodge and even pick out his own garden, edged with fuzzy miniature hedges and furnished with a single architect’s model tree. The village, however, seemed to have sprouted a few too many versions of Dagenham Manor. They produced a strange mirror effect, with almost identical manor houses, each sporting a long carriage drive, squares of formal gardens, stable blocks set round with miniature cars, and even a round pond, complete with silver paint surface and three mallards each. There was one such manor in the field behind his own house and another where the bus stop should have been. The bus stop and the main road seemed to have disappeared, removed to the edge of the model, where they disappeared into the farmland. The Major peered closer at the village green, looking for the shop. The plate glass window was gone and the shop, faintly recognizable behind a new bowed window and shutters of teal blue said, “Harris Jones and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Comestibles and Patisserie.” A wicker basket of apples and an old iron dog cart containing pots of flowers stood at the new bubbled-glass door. A tea shop, a milliner’s, and a tack and gun shop had been added. The Major felt frozen to the spot.

“In looking to the future of the Dagenham estate,” said Ferguson, “my good friend Lord Dagenham asked me how he could possibly develop the site, in order to shore up the financial foundation of the estate, while also preserving the best of the English countryside.”

“I told him no shopping centers!” said Dagenham. The small cadre of bankers laughed.

“I could not answer that question until I had the chance to purchase Loch Brae Castle and experience for myself what it means to be a steward of the countryside.” Here Ferguson stopped to place a hand over his heart as if pledging allegiance. “To be responsible for the lives of all those crofters and the land itself calling out for our protection.” Now the bankers seem puzzled, as if he had started speaking another language. “So together we came up with a vision of the highest-end luxury development, unparalleled in the U.K. Taking advantage of the availability of planning permission for new, architecturally significant country estates, my company, St. James Homes, will build an entire village of prestigious manor homes and redevelop the village to service those estates.” As he paused to draw breath, the bankers bobbed and squatted to view the tabletop village from closer angles. This was not the easiest of gymnastic exercises after so large a meal, and there was much huffing and panting between questions. “Where’s the retail corridor?”

“Is there a motorway connection?”

“How’s the cost per square foot compared to Tunbridge Wells?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen—my colleague Mr. Sterling and I will be glad to take all your questions.” He was smiling, as if the deal were already completed. “I have info packets for all back in the house. May I suggest you finish looking at the model and we’ll gather back in the house to talk numbers where it’s warm?”

The Major lingered around the model after the last of the bankers had left. Alone with his village, he kept his hands inside his jacket pockets in order to resist the temptation to pluck off all the little manor houses and cover the empty spots by moving around some of the wire brush trees.

“Cigar?” He turned to find Dagenham at his side.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting a cigar and a light.

“You are, of course, appalled by all this,” said Dagenham squinting at the model like an architect’s apprentice. He was so matter-of-fact that the Major was unable to say otherwise.

“I would say I did not expect it,” said the Major in a careful tone. “It is quite—unexpected.”

“I saw your letter to the planning chappie,” said Dagenham. “I told Ferguson, the Major will be appalled. If we can’t convince him of what we’re doing, we might as well give up.” The Major flushed, confused at being confronted with this evidence of his disloyalty.

“Fact is, I’m appalled myself,” said Dagenham. He bent down and touched a fingertip to a manor house, moving it slightly deeper into a stand of trees. He squinted again and stood back up, looking at the Major with a wry smile. “Trouble is, even if I were prepared to bury myself here all year round I couldn’t save the old place, not long term.” He walked to a window and opened it slightly, blowing smoke into the stable yard.

“I’m sorry,” said the Major.

“Estates like mine are in crisis all over the country,” said Dagenham. His sigh seemed to contain genuine defeat and the Major, watching his profile, saw his jaw tighten and his face grow sad. “Can’t keep up the places on the agricultural subsidies, can’t even cut down one’s own timber without permission, hunting is banned, and shooting is under attack from all sides as you just saw. We’re forced to open tea shops or theme parks, to offer weekend tours to day-trippers or host rock festivals on the lawn. It’s all sticky ice cream wrappers and car parking in the lower fields.”

“What about the National Trust?” asked the Major.

“Oh, yes, they used to be there, didn’t they? Always hovering, waiting to take one’s house away and leave one’s heirs with a staff flat in the attic,” said Dagenham, with malice in his voice. “Only now they want a cash endowment, too.” He paused and then added, “I tell you, Major, we’re in the final decades now of this war of attrition by the tax man. One day very soon the great country families will be wiped out—extinct as the dodo.”

“Britain will be the poorer for it,” said the Major.

“You are a man of great understanding, Major.” Dagenham clapped a hand on the Major’s shoulder and looked more animated. “You can’t imagine how few people I can actually talk to about this.” He moved his hands to the edge of the model, where he set them wide apart and squinted down, like Churchill over a war map of Europe. “You may be the only one who can help me explain this to the village.”

“I understand the difficulties, but I’m not sure I can explain how all this luxury development saves what you and I love,” said the Major. He looked over the model again and could not keep disdain from giving a curl to his lip. “Won’t people be tempted to insist that this is similar to the kind of new-money brashness that is killing England?” He wondered if he had managed to express himself politely enough.

“Ah, that’s the beauty of my plan,” said Dagenham. “This village will be available only to old money. I’m building a refuge for all the country families who are being forced out of their estates by the tax man and the politicians and the EU bureaucrats.”

“They’re all coming to Edgecombe St. Mary?” asked the Major.

“Why?”

“Because they have nowhere else left to go, don’t you see?” said Dagenham. “They are being driven off their own estates, and here I am offering them a place to call their own. A house and land where they will have other families to contribute to the upkeep, and a group of neighbors with shared values.” He pointed at a large new barn on the edge of one of the village farms. “We’ll have enough people to maintain a proper hunt kennel and a shared stables here,” he said. “And over here, behind the existing school, we’re going to found a small technical college where we’ll teach the locals all the useful skills like masonry and plasterwork, stable management, hedging, butlering, and estate work. We’ll train them for service jobs around the estates and have a ready pool of labor. Can you see it?” He straightened a tree by the village green. “We’ll get the kind of shops we really want in the village, and we’ll set up an architectural committee to oversee all the exteriors. Get rid of that dreadful mini-mart-style shop frontage and add a proper chef at the pub—maybe get a Michelin star eventually.”

“What about the people who already live in the village?” asked the Major.

“We’ll keep them all, of course,” said Dagenham. “We want the authenticity.”

“What about Mrs. Ali at the shop?” asked the Major. His face felt hot as he asked; he looked very hard at the model to disguise his feelings. Dagenham gave him a considering stare. The Major struggled to remain neutral but feared his eyes were crossed with the effort.

“You see, this is just where you might advise me, Major. You are closer to the people than I am and you could help me work out such nuances,” said Dagenham. “We were looking for the right multicultural element, anyway, and I’m sure we could be flexible wherever you have—shall we say—an interest?” The Major recognized, with a lurch of disappointment, the universal suggestion of a quid pro quo. It was more subtle than some bribes he had refused in a career of overseas postings to places where such things were considered normal business, but there it lay nonetheless, like a pale viper. He wondered how much influence he might barter for his support and he could not help looking long and hard at the house squatting in the field behind Rose Lodge. “I assure you none of this is set in stone yet,” continued Dagenham. He laughed and flipped one of the model houses onto its roof with a fingertip. “Though when it is, it’ll be the best white limestone from Lincolnshire.”

A clatter outside drew their attention to the doorway. A figure in green was just disappearing around the corner of the house. “Who the devil was that, I wonder?” said Dagenham.

“Maybe one of Morris’s farm lads cleaning up,” suggested the Major, who was fairly sure it had been Alice Pierce, minus the loud poncho. He had to control a chuckle at the thought that Alice’s louder than usual getup had been a deliberate distraction and that underneath it she had worn drab green clothes suitable for slinking about like a commando in a foreign jungle.

“Damn hard trying to keep this huge model to ourselves.” Dagenham picked up the cover from the floor. “Ferguson doesn’t want to reveal anything before we have to.” The Major helped him and was grateful to watch the ruined village being swallowed in the tide of gray fabric.

“Is there really no other way?” asked the Major. Dagenham sighed.

“Maybe if Gertrude weren’t so stubbornly plain, we might have tempted our American friend to the more old-fashioned solution.”

“You mean marriage?” asked the Major.

“Her mother was such a great beauty, you know,” he said. “But she’s happiest in the stables shoveling manure. In my day that would have sufficed, but these days, men expect their wives to be as dazzling as their mistresses.”

“That’s shocking,” said the Major. “How on earth will they tell them apart?”

“My point exactly,” said Dagenham, missing the Major’s hint of irony. “Shall we march on over to the house and see if Ferguson has nailed down any offers of financing?”

“They’re probably securing houses for themselves,” said the Major as they left. He felt gloomy at the prospect.

“Oh, good God, no banker is going to be approved to live here,” said Dagenham. “Though I’m afraid we will have to swallow Ferguson.” He laughed and put an arm around the Major’s shoulder. “If you support me in this, Major, I’ll make sure Ferguson doesn’t end up in the house behind yours!”

As they crossed the courtyard toward the house, Roger came out looking for Dagenham. The bankers were apparently impatient to talk to him. After shaking hands, Dagenham hurried in and the Major was left alone with his son.

“This project is going to make my career, Dad,” said Roger. He clutched a navy blue cardboard folder emblazoned with a Dagenham crest and the words “Edgecombe St. Mary, England’s Enclave.”

“Ferguson’s being so attentive to me, my boss is going to have to put me in charge of our team on this.”

“This project is going to destroy your home,” said the Major.

“Oh, come on, we’ll be able to sell Rose Lodge for a fortune once it’s built,” said Roger. “Think of all that money.”

“There is nothing more corrosive to character than money,” said the Major, incensed. “And remember, Ferguson is only being nice because he wants to buy my guns.”

“That’s quite true,” said Roger. From the frown over his eyebrows, he seemed to be thinking hard. “Look, he mentioned inviting us both to Scotland in January to shoot pheasant. You must absolutely promise me not to sell your guns to him before then.”

“I thought you were anxious to sell,” said the Major.

“Oh, I am,” said Roger, already turning on his heel to go. “But as soon as you sell them, Ferguson will drop us like a hot potato. We must hold him off as long as we can.”

“And what about Marjorie and Jemima?” asked the Major as his son trotted away from him toward the house.

“If necessary, we’ll file a complaint in probate court just to hold things up,” called Roger, waving a hand. “After all, Father, everyone knows Uncle Bertie’s gun was supposed to be yours.” With this extraordinary remark, Roger disappeared and the Major, feeling quite dizzy with surprise, thought it best to collect his guns and retreat to home.