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
