nervous fretting irritating in an otherwise sensible woman. “We were just talking about local connections to India and I happened to mention your father. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.”
“My father?” asked the Major.
“If I might explain,” said Daisy, quelling Grace with a lifted eyebrow. “We were reminded of the story of your father and his brave service to the Maharajah. We’ve decided to do it in three or four scenes. It’ll be the perfect core of our entertainment.”
“No, no, no,” the Major said. He felt quite faint at the idea. “My father was in India in the thirties and early forties.”
“Yes?” said Daisy.
“The Mughal Empire died out around 1750,” said the Major, his exasperation overcoming his politeness. “So you see it doesn’t go at all.”
“Well, it’s all the same thing,” said Daisy. “It’s all India, isn’t it?”
“But it’s not the same at all,” said the Major. “The Mughals—that’s Shah Jehan and the Taj Mahal. My father served at Partition. That’s the end of the English in India.”
“So much the better,” said Daisy. “We’ll just change ‘Mughal’ to ‘Maharajah’ and celebrate how we gave India and Pakistan their independence. Dawn of a new era and all that. I think it’s the only sensitive option.”
“That would solve the costume problem for a lot of people,” said Alma. “I was trying to tell Hugh Whetstone that pith helmets weren’t fully developed until the nineteenth century, but he didn’t want to hear it. If we add an element of ‘Last Days,’ they can wear their ‘Charles Dickens’ summer dresses if they prefer.”
“Though ‘Last Days’ is what got us in trouble last year,” ventured Grace.
“We needn’t be so specific,” snapped Alma.
“Partition was 1947,” said the Major. “People wore uniforms and short frocks.”
“We’re not trying to be rigidly historical, Major,” said Daisy. “Now I understand you do have possession of your father’s guns? And what about some kind of dress uniform? I understand he was at least a colonel, wasn’t he?”
“We’ll need to find someone younger than you, Major, to play him, of course,” said Alma. “And we’ll need some men to play the murderous mob.”
“Maybe Roger, your son, would do it?” said Gertrude. “That would be very appropriate.”
“To be a murderous mob?” asked the Major.
“No, to be the Colonel, of course,” said Gertrude.
“I’m sure the lunch girls have a few murderous-looking boyfriends between them to be our mob,” said Daisy.
“My father was a very private man,” said the Major. He almost stammered under the sense that all around him were losing their reason. That the ladies could imagine that he or Roger would consent to appear in any sort of theatrical was beyond comprehension.
“My father thinks it’s a wonderful story,” added Gertrude. “He wants to present you with some kind of silver plate at the end of the evening’s speeches. Recognition of the Pettigrews’ proud history, and so on. He’ll be so disappointed if I have to tell him you declined his honor.” She looked at him with wide eyes and he noticed she held her cell phone ready as if to call on a moment’s notice. The Major fumbled for words.
“Perhaps we should give the Major some time to absorb the idea,” said Grace, speaking up. Her feet ceased to move and became planted as she defended him. “It’s rather a big honor, after all.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Daisy. “We’ll say no more right now, Major.” She looked at the windows of the shop and waved at Mrs. Ali inside. “Let’s go in and secure Mrs. Ali’s help for the dance, shall we, ladies?”
“Why, that’s Amina, the girl who’s teaching our waitresses to dance,” said Gertrude also looking in the window. “I wonder what on earth she’s doing here in Edgecombe.”
“Oh, it’s a small community,” said Alma with the sweeping certainty reserved for the ignorant. “They’re all related in some way or another.”
“Perhaps now is not the best time,” said the Major, anxious to spare Mrs. Ali an assault by the ladies. “I believe they have business together.”
“It’s the perfect opportunity to speak to both of them,” said Daisy. “Everybody in, in, in!” The Major was obliged to hold the door open and found himself herded inside the shop along with the ladies. It was a tight squeeze around the counter area, and the Major found himself standing so close to Mrs. Ali that it was difficult to raise his hat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I could not dissuade them from coming in.”
“Those that will come, will come,” she said in a tired voice. “It is not in our power to prevent them.” She looked at Amina, to whom Daisy was talking.
“What luck that you are here as well,” said Daisy. “How is the dancing coming along?”
“Considering they all have two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it was going quite well,” said Amina. “But I don’t think your club manager will be letting me back in anytime soon.”
“You mean the secretary?” said Gertrude. “Yes, he was quite apoplectic on the phone.” She stopped to chuckle. “But don’t you worry about the little man. I told him he must have more patience, considering your unfortunate circumstances and our pressing need for your talent.”
“My circumstances?” said Amina.
“You know, single mother and all that,” said Gertrude. “Afraid I laid it on a bit thick but we do hope you’ll carry on. I think we can approve a little more money, given the bigger scope of the project.”
“You’re dancing for money?” asked Mrs. Ali’s nephew.
“I’m only teaching a few routines,” she said. “You mustn’t think of it as dancing.” He said no more, but his scowl deepened, and the Major marveled anew at the way so many people were willing to spend time and energy on the adverse judgment of others.
“Oh, she’s teaching all our girls how to shake those hips,” said Alma. “Such a wonderful display of your culture.” She smiled at Mrs. Ali and her nephew. The nephew turned an ugly copper color and rage flickered under his skin.
“Now, Mrs. Ali, we were wondering whether we could prevail on you to attend the dance.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Ali. A sudden, shy pleasure lit her face.
“My aunt will not engage in public dancing,” said Abdul Wahid. The Major could tell that his voice bubbled with rage, but Daisy only peered at him with condescension suitable for shop assistants who might unwittingly forget their manners.
“We were not expecting her to dance,” she said.
“We wanted kind of a welcoming goddess, stationed in the niche where we keep the hat stand,” said Alma. “And Mrs. Ali is so quintessentially Indian, or at least quintessentially Pakistani, in the best sense.”
“Actually, I’m from Cambridge,” said Mrs. Ali in a mild voice. “The municipal hospital, ward three. Never been further abroad than the Isle of Wight.”
“But no one would know that,” said Alma.
“Mrs. Khan feels we need someone to welcome and to take the hats and coats,” said Daisy. “She and her husband, Dr. Khan, are coming as guests, so they can’t do it. She suggested you, Mrs. Ali.” Mrs. Ali’s face grew pale and the Major felt a rage climbing into his own throat.
“My aunt does not work at parties—” began the nephew, but the Major cleared his throat loudly enough that the young man stopped in surprise.
“She won’t be available,” he said, feeling his face redden. They all looked at him, and he felt torn between a desire to run for the door and the urgent need to stand up for his friend.
“I have already asked Mrs. Ali to attend as my guest,” he said.
“How extraordinary,” said Daisy, and she paused as if fully expecting him to reconsider. Mrs. Ali’s nephew looked at the Major as if he were a strange bug discovered in the bathtub. Alma could not disguise a look of shock; Grace turned away and appeared suddenly struck by some important headline in the rack of local newspapers. Mrs. Ali blushed but held her chin in the air and looked straight at Daisy.
“I’m sure Mrs. Ali will add a decorative note to the room anyway,” said Gertrude, stepping blunt but welcome into the awkward silence. “We will be happy to have her as an ambassador at large, representing both Pakistan and Cambridge.” She smiled, and the Major thought perhaps he had underestimated the redheaded young woman’s character. She seemed to have a certain authority and an edge of diplomacy that might drive Daisy insane
