Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

Chapter 4

Thursday morning, the Major surfaced from sleep to the sound of rain hammering at the eaves like fists. It was also dripping, in an infuriatingly random and unmusical pattern, onto the weak spot on the windowsill where the wood was beginning to soften. The bedroom swam in blue darkness and from the stuffy cocoon of his blankets he could picture the clouds dropping their heavy loads of water as they bumped against the flank of the Downs. The room, with its heavy beams, seemed to be actively sucking in all the damp. The blue-striped wallpaper looked yellow in the strange rainy light and ready to peel itself off the thick plaster walls under the weight of the moist air. He lay in a stupor, sunk in the clumped duck-down pillow, and watched his hopes for the day being washed away down the bubbled glass of the window.

He cursed himself for having assumed the weather would be sunny. Perhaps it was the result of evolution, he thought—some adaptive gene that allowed the English to go on making blithe outdoor plans in the face of almost certain rain. He remembered Bertie’s wedding, almost forty years ago: an alfresco luncheon at a small hotel with no room in the boxy dining room for fifty guests seeking shelter from a sudden thunderstorm. He seemed to remember Marjorie crying and an absurd amount of wet tulle whipped around her angular frame like a melting meringue. He was not usually such a fool about rain. When he played golf, he made sure to carry a pair of his old army gaiters with him, ready to strap them around his socks at the first sign of a shower. He kept a rolled-up yellow raincoat in the boot of his car and had a collection of stout umbrellas in the front hall rack. He had been teased at many a cricket match, on blazing hot days, for always carrying a small folding stool that held a plastic poncho in a zippered side pocket. No, he had not even considered the question of weather or so much as looked at the paper or the six o’clock news because he had wanted today to be sunny and, like King Canute demanding that the sea withdraw, he had simply willed the sun to shine.

The sun was to have been his excuse to turn a borrowed car ride into something more. An invitation to walk the seafront would have been entirely appropriate, given the beauty of the day. Now a walk was out of the question and he was afraid that an invitation to afternoon tea in a hotel would reflect too much presumption. He sat up rather suddenly and the room swam around him. What if Mrs. Ali used the rain as an excuse to telephone and cancel entirely? He would have to reschedule his meeting with Mortimer or drive himself.

Assuming she did not cancel, there were certain adjustments to be made to his grooming and wardrobe. He got up, slipped his feet into Moroccan leather slippers, and padded over to the large pine wardrobe. He had planned on a tweed jacket, wool slacks, and a splash of celebratory aftershave. However, the tweed gave off a faint odor when moist. He didn’t want to fill Mrs. Ali’s small car with a smell like wet sheep dipped in bay rum. He stood for a moment and ruminated.

In the dresser mirror on the opposite wall he caught the dark image of his face, barely lit by the dull morning. He peered closer, rubbing his short, bristled hair and wondering how he could possibly have become so damn old looking. He tried a smile, which got rid of the dour look and slight jowls but crinkled the skin around his blue eyes. He was partly convinced that it made an improvement and tried several degrees of smile before he realized he was being absurd. Nancy would never have put up with him being so vain and neither, he was sure, would Mrs. Ali.

Reconsidering his wardrobe possibilities, he decided that today would be the perfect opportunity to wear the expensive acrylic sweater that Roger had given him last Christmas. He had thought its slim fit and black-on-black diamond pattern too young, but Roger had been enthusiastic.

“I got this directly from an Italian designer we financed,” he had said. “All over London there are waiting lists for his pieces.” The Major, who had bought Roger a waxed-cotton rain hat from Liberty and a rather smart leather edition of Sir Edmund Hillary’s account of Everest, thanked Roger graciously for the wonderful thought. He thought it rude to air his opinion of men who would put their name on a waiting list for a jumper, and besides, it was obviously a big sacrifice for Roger to give it away. After the New Year, he had consigned the pink-and-green-striped box to the top shelf of the wardrobe. Today, he felt that a little youthful style might be just the thing to counter a potentially damp social setting.

Rummaging among the tightly packed hangers for a clean white shirt, he thought again that it was probably time he went through his wardrobe and threw some things out. He thought of Marjorie stripping her built-in closets of Bertie’s clothes. She was a practical woman, Marjorie. This was probably to be admired. He envisioned the boxes, labeled in fat black pen, full of clothes for the next church jumble sale.

He was unusually fidgety by lunchtime and jumped when the phone rang. It was Alec wondering whether he was up to playing a round of golf despite the rain.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called you before,” Alec said. “Alma gave me a full report. Said you appeared to be holding up?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

“I should have called you sooner.” The Major smiled to hear Alec strangling himself on his own awkwardness. They had all stayed away; not just Alec, but Hugh Whetstone, who lived in the next lane, and the entire golf club group. He didn’t mind. He had done the same in the past; stayed away from the nuisance of other people’s losses and let Nancy deal with it. It was understood that women dealt better with these situations. When old Mrs. Finch died, just down the lane, Nancy had brought soup or leftovers to Mr. Finch every day for two or three weeks after the funeral. The Major had only raised his hat once or twice when he met the old man while out walking. Old Finch, as emaciated as a stray cat and looking completely unfamiliar with his whereabouts, would give him a blank stare and continue walking in wobbly curves along the middle of the lane. It was quite a relief when his daughter put him in a home.

“I have to pop into town and see the family solicitor,” he said. “Maybe next week?” He tried to play golf once a week—a challenge in the unpredictable autumn weather. With Bertie’s death, he had not been near the club in nearly two weeks.

“Ground may be soggy today, anyway,” said Alec. “I’ll get us an early tee-off time for next week and we’ll see if we can’t get in a full round before lunch.”

By two o’clock the clouds had given up their roiling and simply sat down on the land, transforming the rain into a gray fog. It was like a cold steam room and it pinned in place every odor. The Major was still screwing up his nose against the ripe smell of urine long after a wandering collie dog had left his mark on the corner post of the wooden bus shelter. The rough three-sided wooden shed with its cheap asphalt roof offered no protection from the fog and leached its own smell of creosote and old vomit into the dampness. The Major cursed the human instinct for shelter that made him stand under it. He read the deeply gouged historic record left by the local youth: “Jaz and Dave;” “Mick loves Jill;” “Mick is a wanker;” “Jill and Dave.”

Finally the small blue car came up over the swell of the hill and pulled up. He saw her wide smile first and then the scarf of brilliant peacock blues and greens loose on her smooth black hair. She reached over to release the passenger door for him and he bent down to climb in.

“I’m sorry, let me just move these,” she said, and scooped two or three plastic-covered library books out of his way.

“Thank you.” He tried to settle, without too much creaking, into the seat. “Let me hold those for you.” She gave him the books and he was conscious of her long smooth fingers and short nails.

“Are we ready?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you. It’s very kind of you.” He wanted to look at her but he was very aware of the narrow confines of the car. She put the car in gear and pulled sharply away from the curb. The Major held on to the door while fixing his gaze on the books.

They were thick, the covers old and blank under the yellowed plastic. He turned them sideways: a Colette novel, de Maupassant stories, a poetry anthology. To the Major’s surprise, the de Maupassant was in French. He flicked though a few pages; there was no English translation.

“You certainly didn’t get these books from the mobile library van,” he observed. Mrs. Ali laughed and the Major thought it sounded like singing.

Every Tuesday a large green and white traveling library would take up position in a lay-by near the small estate of council houses on the edge of the village. The Major generally preferred to read from his own library, where Keats and Wordsworth were soothing companions and Samuel Johnson, though a good deal too self-important, always had something provocative to say. However, he thought the concept of the mobile library was a valuable one, so he visited regularly to show his support, in spite of having quickly exhausted the slim selection of older novels and being completely horrified by the lurid covers of the bestsellers and the large shelf of romance novels. On his last visit to the van, the Major had been browsing a fat book on local birds while a small boy with a green and dripping nose sat in the ample lap of his young mother and sounded out words in a board book about trains. The Major and the librarian were just exchanging a smile that said how nice it was to see a child doing something other than watching TV, when the boy took exception to something in the book and ripped the back cover right off. His mother, furious and blushing under the shocked look of the librarian, slapped the boy soundly. The Major, trapped behind both the prostrate child hiding under a table and the large backside of the cursing mother who was trying to drag him out where she could smack him more conveniently, could only hold on to a metal shelf himself and try to keep his sanity as the boy’s howls reverberated around the metal van like a war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” said Mortimer slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

“I can say very little,” he finally offered. “Let us say only that, in the broadest sense possible, the leaving of any specific assets away from a spouse may become an issue of loyalty for some couples.” He grimaced in conspiratorial fashion and the Major caught the faintest echo of Marjorie’s shrill voice ringing off the plain paneling of the office.

“My sister-in-law …?” he began. Mortimer held up a palm to stop him.

“I cannot make any comment on client discussions or enter into any suppositions, however hypothetical,” he said. “I can only say how sorry it makes me when my hands are so tied that I cannot even warn a good client that he should perhaps consider altering his own will.”

“Everyone knows that gun is mine,” said the Major. He was hurt and angry to the point of feeling faint. “It should have been mine in the first place, you know—oldest son and all that. Not that I ever begrudged Bertie his share, only he never was a shooting man.”

“Well, I think you should have a friendly chat with Marjorie about it,” said Mortimer. “I’m sure she would want to work out something. Perhaps we should hold off finalizing the executor position until this is sorted out?”

“I know my duty,” said the Major. “I will do as my brother asked of me regardless of this matter.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Mortimer. “Only it might be considered a conflict of interest were you to intend any claim against the estate.”

“You mean go to court?” said the Major. “I wouldn’t dream of dragging the Pettigrew name so low.”

“I never thought you would,” said Mortimer. “It would have been terribly awkward having to represent one side of the family against the other. Not at all in the Tewkesbury and Teale tradition.” He smiled, and the Major had the suspicion that Mortimer would love to represent Marjorie against him and would use every scrap of prior knowledge about the family to win.

“It is unthinkable,” he said.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” said Mortimer. “Just have a chat with Marjorie, will you? That way, we know there’s no conflict of interest on your part. I must get the probate filed soon, so if you could get back to me …”

“And if she doesn’t agree to give me the gun?” said the Major.

“Then, in the interest of expediting probate, I would advise you to decline the executor position.”

“I can’t do that,” said the Major. “It’s my duty to Bertie.”

“I know, I know,” said Mortimer. “You and I are men of duty, men of honor. But we live in a different world today, my dear Major, and I would be remiss as a solicitor if I did not then advise Marjorie to challenge your fitness to serve.” In an attempt to sound delicate, he squeezed the words out of his mouth like the last of the toothpaste from the tube. His face wore the glazed expression of someone calculating how much of a smile to deliver. “We need to avoid even the semblance of any dishonorable intentions. There are liability issues, you understand?”

“Apparently, I understand nothing,” said the Major.

“Just talk to Marjorie and call me as soon as you can,” said Mortimer, rising from his chair and holding out his hand. The Major also stood up. He wished he had worn a suit now, instead of this ridiculous black sweater. It would have been more difficult for Mortimer to dismiss him like a schoolboy.

“This should not have happened this way,” said the Major. “The Tewkesbury firm has represented my family’s interests for generations….”

“And it is our privilege to do so,” said Mortimer, as if the Major had complimented him. “We may have to be a bit more bound by the rule book these days, but you can be sure that Tewkesbury and Teale will always try to do their best for you.” The Major thought that perhaps after this was all settled he would do as he should have done in the first place and find himself another solicitor.

Stepping out of the office into the square he was momentarily blinded. The fog had been pushed back from the sea, and the stucco fronts of the villas were drying to pale tones in the afternoon sunshine. He felt the sudden warmth relax his face. He breathed in and the salt water in the air seemed to wash away the smell of furniture wax and avarice that was Mortimer Teale’s office.