Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 17

Table six was placed in a very visible spot along the window side of the dance floor, and toward the middle of the room; the Khans seemed satisfied with their prominence.

“So happy to meet another sponsor,” said Mrs. Khan to the couple already there, who had proved to be Mr. and Mrs. Jakes. They were already tucking into the bread basket.

“We always give them a good discount on the weed killer come spring, so they invite us. The wife likes a bit of a dance now and then,” said Mr. Jakes. He was wearing a plain beige shalwar kameez with dark socks and a pair of wingtip shoes. His wife wore a matching outfit but with gold wedge sandals and a large gold headband. The Major thought they looked as if they were wearing surgical scrubs.

“Ooh, they’re playing the mambo,” said Mrs. Jakes, jumping up in a way that made the silverware tinkle. The Major hurried to stand up. “Excuse us, won’t you?” The couple scurried off to dance. The Major sat down again, wishing it were possible to ask Mrs. Ali to dance.

Grace arrived at the table and introduced Sterling, who was wearing a long antique military coat in yellow with black lace and frogging and a black cap with a yellow-and-black scarf hanging down the back.

“Oh, you’re American,” said Mrs. Khan, holding out her hand. “What a charming costume.”

“The Bengal Lancers were apparently a famous Anglo-Indian regiment,” said the young man. He pulled at his thighs to display the full ballooning of the white jodhpurs. “Though how the Brits conquered the empire wearing clown pants is beyond me.”

“From the nation that conquered the West wearing leather chaps and hats made of dead squirrel,” said the Major.

“So nice to see you again, Major,” said the young man, extending a hand. “Always a hoot.”

“And where is Mr. Ferguson?” asked Grace.

“He likes to come late for security reasons,” said Sterling. “Keep things low key.” Just then, Ferguson appeared at the door. He was dressed in a military uniform so sumptuous as to look almost real. It was topped with a scarlet cloak trimmed and lined with ermine. Under his left arm he carried a tall cocked hat and with his right hand he was checking text on his phone. Sandy, in a column of dove-gray chiffon and pink gloves, was holding his elbow.

“Oh, look, Major, isn’t that Roger coming in with Mr. Ferguson?” asked Grace. Indeed he was: buttoned too tight into his grandfather’s army jacket and conversing in an eager terrier manner with Ferguson’s broad back. He almost bumped into Ferguson as the American paused to look for his table. Sandy seemed to be struggling to keep her pale, diplomatic smile.

“Mr. Ferguson has quite outdone even our Maharajah in magnificence,” said Mrs. Khan.

“Where on earth did he get such a rig?” said Dr. Khan. His face showed quite clearly that he was no longer as happy with his own costume.

“Isn’t it fabulous?” said Grace. “It’s Lord Mountbatten’s viceroy uniform.”

“How historically appropriate.” A slight stiffness crept into Mrs. Ali’s voice. “You are joking, I hope.”

“Not the real thing, of course,” said Sterling. “Borrowed it from some BBC production, I think.”

“Major, is that your son playing Mountbatten’s man?” asked Dr. Khan.

“My son—” began the Major, making a serious attempt to control the urge to splutter. “My son is dressed as Colonel Arthur Pettigrew, whom he will portray in tonight’s entertainment.” There was a small silence around the table. Across the room, Roger continued to shuffle behind Ferguson in a way that did suggest an orderly more than a leader of men. Roger was by no means a bulky man and the way he filled the uniform so tightly gave the Major the unpleasant sensation that his own father must have been more slight and insubstantial than he remembered.

“Roger looks so handsome in uniform,” said Grace. “You must be so proud.” She caught Roger’s eye and waved. Roger, with a smile that expressed more reluctance than pleasure, started across the dance floor toward them. As he approached, the Major tried to focus on pride as a primary emotion. A certain embarrassment attached to seeing his son wearing a uniform to which he was not entitled. Roger had been so adamant in his refusal to join the army: the Major remembered the discussion they had had one blustery Easter weekend. Roger, home from college with a box full of economics textbooks and a new dream to become a financier, had cut a sharp slice through the Major’s discreet inquiries.

“The army is for bureaucrats and blockheads,” said Roger. “Careers grow about as fast as moss and there’s no room for breakout success.”

“It’s a matter of serving one’s country,” the Major had said.

“It’s a recipe for getting stuck in the same box as one’s father.” Roger’s face had been pale but there was no hint of shame or apology in his eyes. The Major felt the pain of the words expand on impact, like a blow from a lead cosh in a wool sock.

“So your grandfather was a colonel?” asked Mrs. Khan as Roger was introduced. “And how wonderful that you are following the family tradition.”

“Tradition is so important,” added the doctor, shaking hands. “Actually, Roger works in the City,” said the Major. “Banking.”

“Though it often feels like we’re down in the trenches,” said Roger. “Earning our scars in the fight against the markets.”

“Banking is so important nowadays,” said Dr. Khan, switching gears with the poise of a politician. “You certainly have the opportunity to make important connections.” They watched as Lord Dagenham’s table assembled in the center of the room, mounting the low dais.

“I saw Marjorie,” said the Major, pulling Roger aside. “Did you invite her?”

“Heavens, no,” said Roger. “Ferguson did. She said she got a lovely note, inviting her to be his guest.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“I expect he’s looking to pressure us over the guns,” Roger said. “Stand firm, Dad.”

“I intend to,” said the Major.

Dinner proceeded as an exercise in barely contained chaos. Waiters forced their way through the aisles as guests refused to remain seated. There was a full complement on the dance floor, but many people merely pretended to be going to or fro; they wandered from table to table greeting friends and promoting their own self-importance. Even the Khans, who excused themselves for a cha-cha, were to be seen hovering in the small group around Lord Dagenham. The crowd was so thick that the Major could see Sandy, sitting between Dagenham and Ferguson, signal a waiter to hand her dinner across the expanse of table rather than try to serve over her shoulder. During the main course, it became clear that the waiters were far too busy pouring wine to bother fetching fruit punch for Mrs. Ali.

“I’ll make a quick dash for the bar, if you’ll be all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” said Mrs. Ali. “Grace and I will sit and gossip about all the flesh on display.”

“Nothing for me,” said Grace. “I’ll stick to my single glass of wine.” She then gathered her evening bag and hastily excused herself to visit the ladies’ lounge.

“Perhaps we should tell her that every time she looks away, the waiter manages to top up her Chardonnay,” said the Major.

Forcing his way back from the bar, the Major paused in a quiet spot behind a palm fern and took a moment to observe Mrs. Ali, who sat quite alone, dwarfed by the large expanse of the table. Her face was a polite blank, her eyes fixed on the dancing. The Major felt she did not look as confident in this warm room as she did on a blustery promenade in the rain and he had to admit that, as he had noticed many times before, people who were alone and ignored often appeared less attractive than when surrounded by admiring companions. As he peered harder, Mrs. Ali’s face broke into a wide smile that restored all her beauty. Alec Shaw had leaned in to talk to her and, to the Major’s surprise, she then rose from her chair, accepting an invitation to a rather fast foxtrot. As Alec took her hand and passed his arm about her slender waist, someone slapped the Major’s shoulder and demanded his attention.

“Having a good time, Major?” Ferguson was carrying a glass of Scotch and chewing on an unlit cigar. “I was on my way out for a smoke.”

“Very good, thank you,” said the Major, who was trying to follow Alec’s head through the crowd as he twirled Mrs. Ali around the room with rather an excessive number of spins.

“I was glad your sister-in-law could make it,” said Ferguson.

“I’m sorry—what?” asked the Major still looking at the dancers. She was as light on her feet as he had dreamed, and her dress flew around her ankles like blue waves.

“She told me all about her plans to take a cruise when she has the money,” he said.

“What money?” asked the Major. He was torn between a sudden urge to throttle Alec and a small voice that told him to pay attention to Ferguson. With great difficulty, he dragged his eyes from the dance floor.

“Not to worry.” Ferguson now also seemed to be watching Mrs. Ali spinning though the crowd of dancers like a brilliant blue flame. “I’m ready to deal square with you if you’re square with me.” The cigar moved up and down like an insult. Ferguson turned to face him and added. “As I told Sterling, sure I could just pay the widow a big premium for her gun now, then take it out of Pettigrew’s hide later, but why would I do that? I respect the Major too much as a gentleman and a sport to pull a fast one.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You invited her to the dance,” said the Major.

“Least I could do, old chap,” said Ferguson, slapping him again on the back. “Got to have the whole Pettigrew family to witness your receiving this award.”

“Of course,” said the Major, feeling sick.

“You might want to grab those guns quick after the show,” Ferguson added as he moved away. “She did seem very interested to know they were here.”

The Major was so dazed by the implied threat that he sank back into the shadow of the door’s curtain to recover his composure. He was just in time to escape the notice of Daisy Green, who promenaded by with Alma. She, too, had noticed Alec and Mrs. Ali dancing, for she paused and took Alma by the arm.

“I see she’s ensnared your husband.”

“Oh, doesn’t she look pretty,” said Alma. “I asked Alec to make sure she wasn’t left out.”

“I’m just saying that maybe if Grace showed a bit more cleavage, he wouldn’t have been led on by more exotic charms.”

“You mean Alec?” asked Alma.

“No, of course I don’t mean Alec, you ninny.”

“I think Grace is worried about neck wrinkles,” said Alma, smoothing her own neck, which was swathed in a purple satin scarf with orange glass balls clicking on the fringed ends. She wore a Victorian high-buttoned blouse set over a voluminous and crumpled velvet skirt that seemed to have sustained many a moth.

“She’ll have more to worry about when her so-called friend snaps him up and rubs all our noses in it,” hissed Daisy.

“If she marries him, I suppose we should invite her into the garden club?” asked Alma.

“We must all do our Christian duty, of course,” said Daisy.

“His wife wasn’t much of a joiner,” said Alma. “Maybe she won’t be, either.”

“Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask her to join in activity related to the church.” Daisy gave an unpleasant smile. “I think that keeps her off most of the committees.”

“Maybe she’ll convert.” Alma giggled.

“Don’t even joke like that,” said Daisy. “Let’s just hope it’s just a last fling.”

“One last small bag of wild oats found in the back of the shed, so to speak?” said Alma. The two women laughed and moved away deeper into the hot, crowded room.

It was a moment before the Major could move his body, which seemed to have stuck itself to the cold glass of the French door and was strangely numb. A brief thought that perhaps he should not have invited Mrs. Ali to the dance made him ashamed of himself and he instantly changed to being angry at Daisy and Alma. It was astonishing that they would consider making up such stories about Mrs. Ali and him.

He had always assumed gossip to be the malicious whispering of uncomfortable truths, not the fabrication of absurdities. How was one to protect oneself against people making up things? Was a life of careful, impeccable behavior not enough in a world where inventions were passed around as fact? He looked around at the high-ceilinged room filled with people he considered to be his friends and neighbors. For a moment he saw them as complete strangers; drunk strangers, in fact. He stared into the palm tree but found only a label that identified it as plastic and made in China.

Returning to the table, he was in time to see Alec depositing Mrs. Ali in her seat with a flourish.

“Now, remember what I told you,” said Alec. “Don’t you pay them any attention.” With that he added, “Your lady is a wonderful dancer, Ernest,” and disappeared to find his dinner.

“What was he talking about?” asked the Major as he set down their drinks and took his seat at her side.

“I think he was trying to be reassuring,” she said, laughing. “He told me not to worry if some of your friends seemed a bit stiff at first.”

“What friends?” asked the Major.

“Don’t you have any?” she asked. “Then who are all these people?”

“Blessed if I know,” he said and added: “I didn’t think you danced, or I would have asked you myself.”

“Will you ask me now?” she said. “Or are you going to have seconds on the roast beef?” Mrs. Rasool’s waiters were circling with vast platters.

“Will you please do me the honor?” He led her to the floor as the dance band struck up a slow waltz.

Dancing, the Major thought, was a strange thing. He had forgotten how this vaguely pleasant exercise and social obligation could become something electric when the right woman stepped into one’s arms. Now he could understand why the waltz had once been as frowned upon as the wild gyrations that today’s young people called dance. He felt that he existed only in the gliding circle they made, parting the other dancers like water. There was no room beyond her smiling eyes; there were no people beyond the two of them. He felt the small of her back and her smooth palm under his hands and his body felt a charge that made him stand taller and spin faster than he would have ever thought possible.

He did not see the two men who gossiped at his back as he swung past the stage and the bar but he heard, in a brief silence between cascades of melody, a man ask, “Do you really think they’ll ask him to resign from the club?” and then a second voice, speaking a little loud over the sound of the music: “Of course I wouldn’t, but the club secretary says it does seem like George Tobin all over again.”

The Major’s face burned; by the time he risked a glance at the bar, the men had turned away and he could not be sure whom they had been talking about. As the Major looked around for any other impropriety that might suggest censure, Old Mr. Percy swept by with his lady companion in his stiff arms. Her strapless dress had turned quite around so that her ample bosom threatened to burst from the top of the zipper, while on her back two boned protuberances suggested the buds of undeveloped wings. The Major sighed with relief and thought that perhaps the club would benefit from certain tighter standards.

The case of George Tobin, who had married a black actress from a popular television series, still made him uneasy, though it had been considered merely a question of privacy. They had all agreed that Tobin had gone beyond the pale in exposing the club to the possible attention of paparazzi and a celebrity-hungry public by marrying a TV star. As the Major had reassured a very upset Nancy, the membership committee had vigorously denied any suggestion that color was an issue. After all, Tobin’s family had been members for several generations and had been very well accepted despite their being both Catholic and of Irish heritage. Tobin was happy to resign quietly on the understanding that his son from his previous marriage would be allowed his own membership, so the whole thing had been handled with the utmost discretion. Nancy, however, had refused to set foot in the club again, and the Major had been left feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is he doing?” asked Grace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s ruined everything!” shrieked Daisy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nonsense! No one’s leaving until we have dessert and then make our presentation to Major Pettigrew,” said Daisy. “Where is that caterer? Where is the band?”

“I am here and ready to get my team back to work,” said Mrs. Rasool, appearing at Daisy’s side. “We will finish the job in the same professional manner we began.” She turned to the waiters. “Do you hear me, boys? Get straightened up and start resetting those tables. No more nonsense now, please. Ladies—please let your young men go backstage and have a good drink and we’ll start the dessert procession.”

The band gathered and began a particularly objectionable polka; to the Major’s surprise, the waiters began to move. There were some muttered words among them, but they obeyed Mrs. Rasool, some picking up tables and the rest disappearing out into the kitchen. The lunch girls, more truculent and louder in their comments, were disinclined to leave their injured friends, but half of them complied while the others led away their aggrieved warriors to be comforted in the backstage room. The guests began to filter toward the bars, and a few club members helped to pick up tables. A groundskeeper two-stepped his way across the dance floor with a huge wet mop and disappeared through a French door into the night.

“Mrs. Rasool, you should have been a general,” said the Major, deeply impressed as the room began to assume normality and a parade of lunch ladies entered bearing tiered stands of petits fours.

“Major Pettigrew, my apologies for the disturbance,” said Mrs. Rasool, drawing him aside. “My father-in-law has been very frail lately and the sight of all the dead bodies came as a shock to him.”

“Why do you apologize?” said Abdul Wahid, startling the Major, who had not seen him approach. “Your father-in-law spoke nothing but the truth. They should be apologizing to him for making a mockery of our land’s deepest tragedy.”

“You have no right to call it a mockery,” said Amina, her voice wobbling from exhaustion and anger. “I worked like crazy to make a real story out of this piece.”

“Abdul Wahid, I think you should take Amina home now,” said Mrs. Ali. Abdul Wahid looked as if he had plenty more to say, and Amina hesitated. “Both of you will leave now. We will not discuss this further,” added Mrs. Ali, and some steel in her tone, which the Major had never heard before, caused them to do as she said.

“Look here, normally I’d say the show must go on,” said Lord Dagenham. “But maybe we just drop it and avoid any further controversy? Give the Major his tray on the quiet.”

“That would be fine with me,” said the Major.

“Nonsense!” said Daisy. “You can’t let some old man’s aspersions drive you from the stage, Major.”

“If you do, people may think there is some kind of truth to his view,” said Ferguson.

“Well, I don’t see how anyone could be insulted,” said Roger. “My grandfather was a hero.”

“I’m sure you can understand that many people still grieve for those who were murdered during this time,” said Mrs. Ali in a conciliatory tone. “Thousands died, including most on your grandfather’s train, it seems.”

“Well, you can’t expect one man to have defended a whole train, can you?” said Roger.

“Certainly not,” said Dagenham, clapping the Major on the back. “Personally I think he would have been quite justified in jumping out a window and saving his own skin.”

“Pity he didn’t have more warning,” said Ferguson. “He could have organized the passengers to tear up the seats and use them to barricade the windows. Maybe made some crude weapons or something.”

“You must be American,” said Mrs. Ali. She looked angry now. “I think you’ll find that works a lot better in the movies than in a real war.”

“Look, the truth belongs to the guy who’s best at sticking to his story,” said Ferguson. “We see a picture of all of us in the paper with that silver tray, Double D, then this dance was a big success and this little contretemps never happened.”

“So let’s get the tray and the guns and round up the dancers,” agreed Dagenham. “Then we make sure we include the doctor and his wife here, and Mrs. Ali who looks so lovely, and we’ll have a fine story.”

As they walked away, taking Roger with them to fetch the guns from backstage, Mrs. Khan touched up her hair with her hands and sidled toward Daisy.

“Oh, we don’t want to be in the limelight,” she simpered. “Perhaps just in the back row?”

“Where your presence will no doubt still radiate,” said Mrs. Ali.

“I am surprised you didn’t know the old man was unstable,” said Sadie Khan in an icy voice. “You are so intimate with the Rasools.” She leaned closer to Daisy to add: “It’s so hard to be sure about one’s suppliers these days.”

“The photographer’s almost ready,” said Roger, coming up to them, bearing the box of guns in his arms. “We’re getting set up for the presentation and pictures.”

“I will not appear in the picture,” said Mrs. Ali.

“Is that for religious reasons?” asked Roger. “Understandable, of course.”

“No, I am disinclined to be paraded for authenticity,” said Mrs. Ali. “You will have to rely on Saadia for that.”

“Oh, how very tiresome,” said Daisy Green. “It really isn’t polite to come to our party and then complain about everything.”

“Daisy, there’s no need to be rude,” said Grace. “Mrs. Ali is my good friend.”

“Well, Grace, that should tell you that you need to get out more,” said Daisy. “Next you’ll be having the gardener in for tea.” There was an instant of stunned silence and the Major felt compelled to interject a rebuke.

“I think Grace is entitled to have anyone she likes to tea,” he said. “And it’s no business of yours to tell her otherwise.”

“Of course you do,” said Daisy with an unpleasant smile. “We are all aware of your proclivities.”

The Major felt despair strike him like a blow to the ear. He had defended the wrong woman. Moreover, he had encouraged Daisy to further insult.

“Major, I wish to go home,” said Mrs. Ali in an unsteady voice. She looked at him with the smallest of painful smiles. “My nephew can drive me, of course. You must stay for your award.”

“Oh no, I insist,” he said. He knew it was imperative to persuade her, but he could not avoid a quick glance toward Roger. He was not about to abandon his gun box to Roger while both Marjorie and Ferguson were still in the building.

“You must stay with your friends and I must run and catch up with Abdul Wahid,” she said. “I need to be with my family.”

“You really can’t leave now, Dad,” said Roger, in a urgent whisper. “It would be the height of rudeness to Dagenham.”

“At least let me walk you out,” said the Major as Mrs. Ali walked away.

As he hurried after her, he heard Sadie Khan speaking. Daisy’s response, in a crystal voice, carried over the music and voices: “Yes, of course, you would be so much more suitable, my dear, only we are quite oversubscribed in the medical professions and the club works so hard to promote diversity in the membership.”

Out in the cold night, the stars were abundant in a way that increased the pain of the moment. Mrs. Ali paused on the top step and the Major stood at her shoulder, mute with humiliation at his own foolishness.

“We are always talking outside like this,” she said at last. Her breath steamed in the cold and her eyes shone, perhaps with tears.

“I made a mess of everything, didn’t I?” he said. Below them, Amina and Abdul were arguing as they walked down the driveway. Mrs. Ali sighed.

“I was in danger of doing the same,” she said. “Now I see what I must do. I must put an end to the family squabbling and see those two settled.”

“They are so different,” he said. “Do you think they can live together?”

“It is funny, isn’t it?” she said in a quiet voice. “A couple may have nothing in common but the color of their skin and the country of their ancestors, but the whole world would see them as compatible.”

“It’s not fair,” he said. “But it doesn’t have to be that way, does it?”

“Maybe, while they disagree about some big issues, they share the small pieces of their culture without thinking. Perhaps I do not give that enough weight.”

“May I come and see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“I think not,” she said. “I think I shall be busy, preparing to go to my husband’s family.”

“You can’t be serious. Just like that? What about our Sunday readings?”

“I will think of you whenever I read Mr. Kipling, Major,” she said, with a sad smile. “Thank you for trying to be my friend.” She offered her hand and he again put it to his lips. After a few moments, she tugged it gently away and stepped down to the driveway. He wanted so much to run down after her but he found himself fixed where he was, standing in the light of the doorway with the music spilling around him and the crowd waiting for him inside.

“I could come down early,” he called after her. “We could talk.”

“Go back to your party, Major,” she said. “You’ll catch cold standing in the dark.” She hurried down the driveway and as she disappeared, blue dress into deep night, he knew he was a fool. Yet at that moment, he could not find a way to be a different man.