Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 16

He had planned to bring Mrs. Ali a dozen long-stemmed roses, swathed in tissue and a satin bow and carried casually in the crook of his arm. But now that he was to pick her up with Grace, at Grace’s cottage, the roses seemed inappropriate. He settled for bringing each of them a single rose of an apricot color on a long spidery brown stem.

He had dashed for his car in order to avoid being seen by Alice Pierce, whose protest at the shoot had been followed by a door-to-door petition drive against St. James Homes, and rallies of protest at every public appearance by either Lord Dagenham or Ferguson. The effort was not going well. The Vicar, who had been seen suddenly consulting an architect on the long overdue restoration of the steeple, had declined to speak from the pulpit, citing the church’s need to provide love and spiritual comfort to all sides in the dispute. Many people, including the Major, had been glad to accept posters that urged “Save Our Village,” but only about half thought it polite to display them. The Major put his in the side window, where it screamed its message at the garage and not at the street. Alice continued to rush about the village with her band of followers, mostly strangers who seemed to favor hand-crocheted coats. She seemed unaware that even where she was supported locally, she was also studiously avoided by anyone who was planning on attending the Golf Club dance.

Straightening his bow tie and giving a final tug to his dinner jacket, the Major knocked on the insubstantial plywood of Grace’s mock Georgian front door. It was Mrs. Ali who opened it, the light spilling out onto the step around her and her face in partial shadow. She smiled and he thought he detected the shine of lipstick.

“Major, won’t you come in,” she said and turned away in a breathless, hurried manner. Her back, receding toward the front room, was partly revealed against the deep swoop of an evening dress. Under a loosely tied chiffon wrap, her shoulder blades were sharply delineated and her bronze skin glowed between the dark stuff of the dress and the low bun at the nape of her neck. In the front room, she half pirouetted on the hearth rug and the folds of the dress billowed around her ankles and came to rest on the tips of her shoes. It was a dark blue dress of silk velvet. The deeply cut décolletage was partially hidden by the sweep of the chiffon wrap, but Mrs. Ali’s collarbones were exquisitely visible several inches above the neckline. The material fell over a swell of bosom to a loosely gathered midriff where an antique diamond brooch sparkled.

“Is Grace still getting ready, then?” he asked, unable to trust himself to comment on her dress and yet unwilling to look away.

“No, Grace had to go early and help with the setup. Mrs. Green picked her up a short while ago. I’m afraid it’s just me.” Mrs. Ali almost stammered and a blush crept into her cheekbones. The Major thought she looked like a young girl. He wished he were still a boy, with a boy’s impetuous nature. A boy could be forgiven a clumsy attempt to launch a kiss but not, he feared, a man of thinning hair and faded vigor.

“I could not be happier,” said the Major. Being also stuck on the problem of how to handle the two drooping roses in his hand, he held them out.

“Is one of those for Grace? I could put it in a vase for her.” He opened his mouth to say that she looked extremely beautiful and deserved armfuls of roses, but the words were lost in committee somewhere, shuffled aside by the parts of his head that worked full-time on avoiding ridicule.

“Wilted a bit, I’m afraid,” he said. “Color’s all wrong for the dress anyway.”

“Do you like it?” she said, turning her eyes down to the fabric. “I lent Grace an outfit and she insisted that I borrow something of hers in fair trade.”

“Very beautiful,” he said.

“It belonged to Grace’s great-aunt, who was considered quite fast and who lived alone in Baden Baden, she says, with two blind terriers and a succession of lovers.” She looked up again, her eyes anxious. “I hope the shawl is enough.”

“You look perfect.”

“I feel quite naked. But Grace told me you always wear a dinner jacket, so I just wanted to wear something to—to go with what you’re wearing.” She smiled, and the Major felt more years melt away from him. The boy’s desire to kiss her welled up again. “Besides,” she added, “A shalwar kameez isn’t exactly a costume for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look, it’s slightly gaudy and horribly crowded, but there’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said. “Personally I’d be happy to skip it, but Grace will be looking for you and I’ve promised to be there to accept the silly award thing as part of the entertainment.” He stopped, feeling that these were stupid ways to encourage her. “I don’t want to burden you,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Costumes ran the full array from the expensively rented to the quickly improvised. Near a tall column decked in trailing vines, they met Hugh Whetstone wearing a safari jacket and a coolie hat.

“Is that also from The Mikado?” asked the Major, shouting to be heard.

“Souvenir from our cruise to Hong Kong,” said Whetstone. “I refused to spend another penny on costumes after what the wife went out and spent on full maharani rig.” Together they looked around the room. The Major spotted Mrs. Whetstone in a lime-green sari talking to Mortimer Teale, who had traded his usual sober solicitor’s suit for a blazer and yellow cravat, worn over cricket pants and riding boots. He seemed to be enjoying a good leer at Mrs. Whetstone’s flesh, which emerged in doughy rolls from a brief satin blouse. She seemed to be happily explaining to Mortimer all about the temporary tattooed snake that rose out of her cleavage and over her collar bone.

“I mean, where is she ever going to wear it again?” complained Hugh. The Major shook his head, which Hugh took to be agreement but which was really the Major dismissing both Hugh, who didn’t care enough to even notice other men paying attention to his wife, and Mortimer, who never brought his wife anywhere with him if he could help it.

“Perhaps you could use it as a bedspread,” suggested Mrs. Ali.

“I’m sorry! Mrs. Ali, you know Hugh Whetstone?” The Major had hoped to avoid introductions; Hugh was already listing to one side and breathing fumes.

“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” said Hugh, obviously not recognizing her either.

“I’m usually wrapping you half a pound of streaky bacon, three ounces of Gorgonzola, and a half dozen slim panatelas,” said Mrs. Ali, raising an eyebrow.

“Good God, you’re the shop lady,” he said, leering openly now. “Remind me to up my order from now on.”

“Got to go. Must get a drink,” said the Major, making sure to put his body between Mrs. Ali and Hugh’s notorious bottom-pinching hands as he led her away. He realized with some pain that all evening he was going to have to introduce Mrs. Ali to people who had been buying their milk and newspapers from her for years. Whetstone bellowed after them: “Renting a native princess is pretty excessive, I’d say.”

Before the Major could formulate a retort, the music ended; in the rearrangement of the crowd, Daisy Green was suddenly upon them like a beagle on a fox cub. She was dressed as some kind of lady ambassador in a white gown and blue sash with many strange medals and pins. A large feathered brooch decorated one side of her head and a single peacock feather trailed backward, catching people in the face as they walked by.

“Mrs. Ali, you’re not in costume?” she said, as if pointing out a trailing petticoat or a trace of spinach on the teeth.

“Grace and I swapped costumes,” said Mrs. Ali, smiling. “She has my antique shalwar kameez, and I have her aunt’s gown.”

“How disappointing,” said Daisy. “We were so looking forward to seeing you in your beautiful national costume, weren’t we, Christopher?”

“Who?” said the Vicar, appearing from a nearby knot of people. He looked slightly disheveled in riding boots, rumpled military jacket, and safari hat. He wore a cravat made from a scrap of brightly patterned madras and looked, the Major thought, like the ambassador’s wife’s illicit drunken lover. He smiled at a stray image of Daisy and Christopher carrying on such a game at home, after the party.

“Ah, Pettigrew!” The Major shook the proffered hand. He did not attempt to have a conversation: the Vicar was notoriously unable to hear in noisy crowds. This had proved hilarious to several generations of choirboys, who delighted in all talking at once and seeing who could slip the most offensive words past the Vicar’s ears during singing practice.

“Of course, with your wonderful complexion you can wear the wildest of colors.” Daisy was still talking. “Poor Grace, on the other hand—well, lilac is such a difficult color to carry off.”

“I think Grace looks quite wonderful,” said the Major. “Mrs. Ali, too, of course—Mrs. Ali, I believe you know Father Christopher?”

“Of course,” said the Vicar, while his eyes crossed slightly, a clear indication that he had no idea who she was.

“Grace’s aunt was quite legendary for her expensive tastes,” said Daisy, looking up and down Mrs. Ali’s dress as if measuring out a few alterations. “Grace told me she could never get up the nerve to wear any of the dresses. She is so sensitive to even the suggestion of impropriety. But you, my dear, carry it off so well. Do enjoy yourself as much as you can, won’t you.” She was already sweeping away. “Come along Christopher.”

“Who are all these people?” asked the Vicar.

“It is a good thing I don’t drink,” said Mrs. Ali as they pushed on around the crowd.

“Yes, Daisy has that effect on many people,” said the Major. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, please don’t apologize.”

“Sorry,” said the Major before he could stop himself. “Look, I think the bar is just beyond that palm tree.”

There was almost a small opening in the crowd at the bar, but the space between the Major and a welcome gin-and-tonic was occupied by a rather unhappy-looking Sadie Khan and her husband, the doctor. The doctor looked stiff to the point of rigor mortis, thought the Major. He was a handsome man with thick short hair and large brown eyes, but his head was slightly small and was stuck well into the air as if the man were afraid of his own shirt collar. He wore a white military uniform with a short scarlet cloak and a close-fitting hat adorned with medals. The Major could immediately see him as a photo in the newspaper of some minor royalty recently executed during a coup. Mrs. Khan wore an elaborately embroidered coat as thick as a carpet and several strands of pearls.

“Jasmina,” said Mrs. Khan.

“Saadia,” said Mrs. Ali.

“My goodness, Mrs. Ali, you look quite ravishing,” said the doctor, giving a low bow.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Ali gathered an end of her wrap and tossed a second layer across her neck under the pressure of the doctor’s admiring gaze. Sadie Khan pursed her lips.

“Major Pettigrew, may I present my husband, Dr. Khan.”

“Delighted,” said the Major, and leaned across to shake Dr. Khan’s hand.

“Major Pettigrew, I believe we are all to be seated together this evening,” said Sadie. “Are you at table six?”

“I can’t say I know.” He fumbled in his pocket for the card that Grace had handed to him in the foyer and peered with disappointment at the curly “Six” written on it in green ink.

“And your friend Grace DeVere is also going to be joining us this evening, I believe,” said Sadie, leaning past Mrs. Ali to read his card. “Such a lovely lady.” The emphasis on the word “lady” was almost undetectable, but the Major saw Mrs. Ali flush, and a small twitch along her jaw line betrayed her tension.

“Would anyone care for champagne?” said one of Mrs. Rasool’s catering waiters, who had glided up with a tray of assorted glasses. “Or the pink stuff is fruit punch,” he added in a quiet voice to Mrs. Ali.

“Fruit punch all round, then, and keep ’em coming?” asked the Major. He assumed none of them drank and wanted to be polite, though he wondered how he was to get through the evening on a child’s beverage.

“Actually, I’ll get another gin-and-tonic,” said Dr. Khan. “Care to join me, Major?”

“Oh, you naughty men must have your little drink, I know,” said Sadie, smacking her husband’s arm lightly with a large alligator clutch bag. “Do go ahead, Major.” There was an uncomfortable pause in conversation as they all watched the drinks being poured.

“You must be very excited about the ‘dance divertissement’ before dessert,” said Sadie Khan at last, waving the thick white program labeled “A Night at the Maharajah’s Palace Souvenir Journal.” She held it open with a thick thumb adorned with a citrine ring and the Major read over her long thumbnail:

An interpretive dance performance incorporating historic Mughal folk dance traditions, which tells the true story of the brave stand in which local hero Colonel Arthur Pettigrew, of the British army in India, held off a train full of murderous thugs to rescue a local Maharajah’s youngest wife.

For his heroism, the Colonel was awarded a British Order of Merit and personally presented with a pair of fine English sporting guns by the grateful Maharajah. After partition, the Maharajah was forced to give up his province but was happily resettled in Geneva with his wives and extended family.

After the dance, a Silver Tea Tray of recognition will be awarded to the family of the late Colonel by our distinguished Honorary Event Chair, Lord Daniel Dagenham.

“Relative of yours?” asked Dr. Khan.

“My father,” said the Major.

“Such an honor,” said Mrs. Khan. “You must be very thrilled.”

“The whole thing’s a bit embarrassing,” said the Major, who could not quell a small bubble of satisfaction. He looked at Mrs. Ali to see whether she was at all impressed. She smiled, but she seemed to be biting her lip to keep from chuckling.

“It is absurd the fuss they make,” said Mrs. Khan. “My husband is quite appalled at the way they’ve splashed the sponsors all over the cover.” They all looked at the front cover, where the sponsors were listed in descending type size, beginning with “St. James Executive Homes” in a bold headline and finishing up, behind “Jakes and Sons Commercial Lawn Supplies,” with a tiny italic reference to “Premiere League Plastic Surgery.” This last was Dr. Khan’s practice, the Major surmised.

“Who on earth is ‘St. James Executive Homes’?” said Dr. Khan. The Major did not feel like enlightening him. However, the mystery of the decorative extravagance was now clear: Ferguson had made another shrewd move toward controlling the locals.

“They want to build big houses all over Edgecombe St. Mary,” said Mrs. Ali. “Only the rich and the well-connected will be allowed to buy.”

“What a clever idea,” said Mrs. Khan to her husband. “We should look into how big a house is permitted.”

“It’s Lord Dagenham’s doing,” added Mrs. Ali.

“I understand Lord Dagenham is to present the award to you himself tonight,” said Mrs. Khan to the Major. “My husband was so relieved not to be asked. He loves to contribute, but he hates the limelight.”

“Of course, when you’re a lord, you don’t have to come up with any cash,” said Dr. Khan. He took a long drink from his small glass of gin and tried in vain to signal for another round.

“My husband is very generous,” added Mrs. Khan.

A small drumroll interrupted their conversation. Alec Shaw, turban once again quivering on his head, announced the arrival of the Maharajah himself, accompanied by his royal court. The orchestra broke into a vaguely recognizable processional piece.

“Is that Elgar?” asked the Major.

“I think it’s from The King and I or something similar,” said Mrs. Ali. She was actively chuckling now.

The crowd pressed to the sides of the dance floor. The Major found himself pinned uncomfortably between the doctor’s sword hilt and Mrs. Khan’s upholstered hip. He stood as tall as possible so as to shrink away from any contact. Mrs. Ali looked equally uncomfortable trapped on the other side of the doctor.

From the lobby, down the crimson carpet, there came two waiters carrying long banners, followed by Lord Dagenham and his niece dressed in sumptuous costumes. Dagenham, in purple tunic and turban, seemed to be having some difficulty in not snagging his scimitar on his spurred boots, while Gertrude, who had obviously been instructed to wave her arms about to display her flowing sleeves, held them at a stiff thirty degrees from her body and clumped down the length of the room as if still wearing wellies instead of satin slippers. Two lines of dancing girls—the lunch ladies—trudged after them, led by the light-footed Amina in a peacock blue pajama costume. She had hidden her hair under a tight satin wrap and though her face, below kohl-ringed eyes, was obscured behind a voluminous chiffon veil, she looked surprisingly beautiful. There was a distinct symmetry to her troupe: and as they passed, it came to the Major that they had been arranged in order of their willingness to participate, the lead girls wriggling their arms with abandon while those in the back trudged with sullen embarrassment.

Two drummers and a silent sitar player followed the girls, then two more waiters with flags, the fire-eater, and finally a tumbling acrobat, who did a few spins in place to give the procession time to exit. The flag bearers had some difficulty getting through the door stage left and the Major noticed a faint singed smell that suggested the fire-eater had been impatient. Lord Dagenham and his niece mounted the stage from opposite sides and came together behind Alec, who gave them a low bow and almost tumbled the microphone stand. Lord Dagenham made a small leap to steady it.

“I declare this wonderful evening officially open,” he said. “Dinner is served!”