Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson Read Free Book Online Page B

superstore and outlet centre in Kent. It was also possible to hop over to France on a cheap ferry, and he often saw his neighbours staggering home with giant boxes of washing powder and strangely shaped bottles of cheap foreign beer from the Calais hypermarket. For most people, the village shop was strictly for when one had run out of something, especially late at night. The Major noticed that they never thanked Mrs. Ali for being open until eight on weeknights and also on Sunday mornings, but they loved to mumble about the prices being high and they speculated about Mrs. Ali’s income from being an authorised lottery dealer.
    He did not hear or sense Mrs. Ali’s presence in the empty store and so, rather than scour each aisle, the Major made his way as casually as possible back toward the bulk sales area, quite ignoring the tea canisters near the front counter and cash register. Beyond this area was the shop office, a small area hidden behind a curtain of stiff vertical vinyl panels.
    He had inspected the prices on each stack of bulk items and had shifted to reviewing the ham-and-egg pies in the back-wall dairy case when Mrs. Ali finally appeared through the vinyl, carrying an armful of Halloween-themed boxes of mini apple pies.
    “Major Pettigrew,” she said with surprise.
    “Mrs. Ali,” he replied, almost distracted from his purpose by the realisation that American Halloween hoopla was making inroads into British baked goods.
    “How are you?” She looked around for somewhere to put the boxes.
    “Fine, fine,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness the other day.”
    “No, no, it was nothing.” She seemed to want to wave her hands but, encumbered by the pies, she could only waggle her fingertips.
    “And I wanted to apologise – ” he began.
    “Please don’t mention it,” she said, and her face tightened as she looked past his shoulder. The Major felt between his shoulder blades the presence of the nephew. He turned around. The nephew seemed bulkier in the narrow aisle, his face shadowed by the bright daylight from the shop front. The Major moved aside to let him pass, but the young man stopped and also stepped aside. An invisible pull invited the Major to pass him and exit the shop. His body, stubborn with the desire to stay, kept him planted where he was.
    He sensed that Mrs. Ali did not wish him to go on with his apologies in front of her nephew.
    “Again, I just wanted to thank you both for your kind condolences,” he said, particularly pleased with the ‘both’, which dropped in softly, like a perfectly putted golf ball. The nephew was forced to nod his head in appreciation.
    “Anything we can do, you must just ask, Major,” said Mrs. Ali. “Beginning, perhaps, with some fresh tea?”
    “I am running a little low,” said the Major.
    “Very well.” She lifted her chin and spoke to the nephew while looking at a space somewhere over his head. “Abdul Wahid, would you fetch the rest of the Halloween specials and I’ll take care of the Major’s tea order?” She marched past both of them with her armful of cake boxes and the Major followed, squeezing by the nephew with an apologetic smile. The nephew only scowled and then disappeared behind the vinyl curtain.
    Dumping the boxes on the counter Mrs. Ali rummaged behind it for her spiral-bound order book and began to leaf through the pages.
    “My dear lady,” began the Major. “Your kindness to me – ”
    “I would rather not discuss it in front of my nephew,” she whispered and a brief frown marred the smoothness of her oval face.
    “I don’t quite understand,” said the Major.
    “My nephew has recently returned from his studies in Pakistan and is not yet reacquainted with many things here.” She looked to make sure the nephew was out of earshot. “He is having some worries about his poor auntie’s well-being, you know. He does not like it when I drive the car.”
    “Oh.” It was slowly dawning on the Major that