in clumps of gold and red, but most of the roses were just hips and the mats of dianthus sprawled onto the path like blue hair. The yellowing foliage of the lilies and the cut-back stalks of cone flowers had never looked so sad.
“I’m afraid the garden is not at its finest,” he said, following Mrs. Ali as she walked slowly down the gravel path.
“Oh, but it’s quite lovely,” she said. “That purple flower on the wall is like an enormous jewel.” She pointed to where a late clematis spread its last five or six flowers. The stems were as unpleasant as rusty wire and the leaves curled and crisped, but the flowers, as big as tea plates, shone like claret-colored velvet against the old brick wall.
“It was my grandmother who collected all our clematis plants,” said the Major. “I’ve never been able to find out the name of this one but it’s quite rare. When it grew in the front garden it generated a lot of excitement among passing gardeners. My mother was very patient about people knocking on the door asking for cuttings.” An image flickered in his mind of the long green-handled scissors kept on the hallstand and a glimpse of his mother’s hand reaching for them. He tried to conjure the rest of her but she slipped away.
“Anyway, times changed,” he said. “We had to move it round the back in the late 1970s, when we caught someone prowling in the garden at midnight, secateurs in hand.”
“Plant burglary?”
“Yes, there was quite a rash of it,” he said. “Part of a larger crisis in the culture, of course. My mother always blamed it on decimalization.”
“Yes. It almost invites disaster, doesn’t it, when people are asked to count by ten instead of twelve?” she said, smiling at him before turning to examine the rough-skinned fruit on one of the twisted apple trees at the foot of the lawn.
“You know, my wife used to laugh at me in just the same manner,” he said. “She said if I maintained my aversion to change I risked being reincarnated as a granite post.”
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said.
“Not at all. I am delighted that we have progressed already to a level of…” He searched for the right word, recoiling from “intimacy” as if it were sticky with lust. “A level above mere pleasant acquaintance, perhaps?”
They were at the lower fence now, and he was aware that one of the nails he had added was bent in half and shining with evidence of his incompetence. He hoped she would see only the view beyond, where the sheep field fell away down a small fold between two hills to a copse thick with oaks. Mrs. Ali leaned her arms on the flimsy top rail and considered the trees, which were now blending to a soft indigo in the fading light. The rough grass on the western hill was already dark, while on the eastern flank it was losing the gold from its tips. The ground breathed mist and the sky showed night gathering intensity in the east.
“It is so beautiful here,” she said at last, cupping her chin in one hand.
“It’s just a small view,” he said, “but for some reason I never tire of coming out in the evening to watch the sun leaving the fields.”
“I don’t believe the greatest views in the world are great because they are vast or exotic,” she said. “I think their power comes from the knowledge that they do not change. You look at them and you know they have been the same for a thousand years.”
“And yet how suddenly they can become new again when you see them through someone else’s eyes,” he said. “The eyes of a new friend, for example.” She turned to look at him, her face in shadow; the moment hung between them.
“It’s funny,” she said, “to be suddenly presented with the possibility of making new friends. One begins to accept, at a certain age, that one has already made all the friends to which one is entitled. One becomes used to them as a static set—with some attrition, of course. People move far away, they become busy with their lives…”
“Sometimes they leave us for good,” added the Major, feeling his throat constrict. “Dashed inconsiderate of them, I say.” She made a small gesture, reaching out as if to lay a hand on his sleeve, but circled her hand away. He pressed the tip of his shoe into the soil of the flower bed as if he had spotted a thistle.
After a few moments, she said: “I should be going, at least temporarily.”
“As long as you promise to come back,” he said. They began to walk back to the house, Mrs. Ali drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders as the light faded from the garden.
“When Ahmed died, I realized that we had become almost alone together,” she added. “Being busy with the shop, happy with each other’s company—we had stopped making much of an effort to keep up with friends.”
“I suppose one does fall into a bit of a rut,” agreed the Major. “Of course, I always had Bertie. He was a great comfort to me.” As he said this, he realized it was true. Incongruous as it might seem, given how little time he and Bertie had spent together in recent decades, he had always felt they remained close, as they had been when they were two grubby-kneed boys pummeling each other behind the greenhouse. It also occurred to him that perhaps this only meant that the less he saw of people, the more kindly he felt toward them, and that this might explain his current mild exasperation with his many condolence-offering acquaintances.
“You are lucky to have many friends in the village,” said Mrs. Ali. “I envy you that.”
“I suppose you could put it that way,” said the Major, opening the tall gate that led directly into the front garden. He stood aside and let Mrs. Ali pass.
“And now, just when I am being asked to consider how and where I will spend the next chapter of my life,” she continued, “I have not only had the pleasure of discussing books with you, but I have also been asked by Miss DeVere to assist her and her friends with this dance at a golf club?” She made her statement a question, but he could not begin to think quite what it was or what answer she expected. He felt a strong inclination to warn her away from any such social entanglements.
“The ladies are tireless,” he said. It didn’t sound much of a compliment. “Many, many good works and all that sort of thing.” Mrs. Ali’s smile indicated that she understood him.
“I was told you suggested my name,” she said. “And Grace DeVere has always been very polite. I suppose I am wondering whether this might be a small opening for me to participate in the community. A way to spread some more roots.” They were at the front gate already, and the garden and lane were almost dark. Down the hill, a single band of tangerine light hung low in a gap between the trees. The Major sensed that Mrs. Ali was tethered to the village by only the slightest of connections. A little more pressure from her husband’s family, another slight from an ungrateful villager, and she might be ripped away. Most people would not even take the time to notice. If they did, it would be only to enjoy complaining that her nephew’s morose proprietorship was yet another sign of what the world was coming to. To persuade her to stay, just for the pleasure of having her nearby, seemed utterly selfish. He could not, in good conscience, promote any association with Daisy Green and her band of ladies. He could more easily recommend gang membership or fence-hopping into the polar bear enclosure at the Regents Park zoo. She looked at him and he knew she would give his opinion weight. He fiddled with the latch of the gate.
“I may have inadvertently pledged my cooperation, too,” said the Major at last. “There is a food tasting I appear to have agreed to attend.” He was aware of a slight constriction in his voice. Mrs. Ali looked amused. “It is a great help to Grace that you have been willing to put your expertise at her disposal,” he continued. “However, I must warn you that the committee’s overabundance of enthusiasm, combined with a complete absence of knowledge, may produce some rather theatrical effects. I would hate for you to be offended in any way.”
“In that case, I shall tell Grace to count on us,” she said. “Between the three of us, perhaps we can save the Mughal Empire from once again being destroyed.” The Major bit his tongue. As they shook hands and promised to meet again, he did not express his conviction that Daisy Green might represent a greater menace to the Mughal Empire than the conquering Rajput princes and the East India Company combined.
Chapter 9
The Taj Mahal Palace occupied a former police station in the middle of a long stretch of Myrtle Street. The redbrick building still bore the word “Police” carved into the stone lintel of the front door but it had been partially covered by a neon sign that flashed in succession the words “Late Nite—Take Out—Drinks.” A blue martini glass adorned with a yellow umbrella promised a sophistication the Major found quite implausible. A large painted sign
