Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand Read Online Free PDF

“Highly-strung, you know, but very intelligent. My daughter is having him tested for high IQ.” Marjorie did not seem at all offended by the interloper. In fact, she seemed to be doing her best to impress her. Marjorie always began impressing people by mentioning her gifted grandson. From there, she usually managed to work the conversation backward to herself.
    “Dad, I want you meet Sandy Dunn,” said Roger. “Sandy’s in fashion PR and special events. Her company works with all the important designers, you know.”
    “Hi,” said Sandy extending her hand. “I knew I was right about the butler thing.” The Major shook her hand, and raised his eyebrows at Roger, signalling him to continue with the introduction, even though it was all in the wrong order. Roger only gave him a big vacant smile.
    “Ernest Pettigrew,” said the Major. “Major Ernest Pettigrew, Royal Sussex, retired.” He managed a small smile and added, for emphasis: “Rose Lodge, Blackberry Lane, Edgecombe St. Mary.”
    “Oh, yes. Sorry, Dad,” said Roger.
    “It’s nice to meet you properly, Ernest,” said Sandy. The Major winced at the casual use of his first name.
    “Sandy’s father is big in the insurance industry in Ohio,” said Roger. “And her mother, Emmeline, is on the board of the Newport Art Museum.”
    “How nice for Ms. Dunn,” said the Major.
    “Roger, they don’t want to hear about me,” said Sandy. She tucked her hand through Roger’s arm. “I want to find out all about your family.”
    “We have quite a nice art gallery in the Town Hall,” said Marjorie. “Mostly local artists, you know. But they have a lovely Bouguereau painting of young girls up on the Downs. You should bring your mother.”
    “Do you live in London?” asked the Major. He waited, stiff with concern, for any hint that they were living together.
    “I have a small loft in Southwark,” she said. “It’s near the new Tate.”
    “Oh, it’s an enormous place,” said Roger. He was as excited as a small boy describing a new bike.
    For a moment, the Major saw him at eight years old again, with a shock of brown curls his mother refused to cut. The bike had been red, with thick studded tires and a seat with springs like a car suspension. Roger had seen it at the big toy store in London, where a man did tricks on it, right on a stage inside the main door. The bike had completely pushed from his mind all memory of the Science Museum. Nancy, weary from dragging a small boy around London, had shaken her head in mock despair as Roger tried to impress upon them the enormous importance of the bike and the necessity for purchasing it at once. They had, of course, said no. There was plenty of room to adjust the seat on Roger’s existing bicycle, a solid-framed green bike that had been the Major’s at a similar age. His parents had stored it in the shed at Rose Lodge, wrapped securely in burlap and oiled once a year.
    “The only problem is finding furniture on a big enough scale. She’s having a sectional custom made in Japan.” Roger was still boasting about the loft. Marjorie looked impressed.
    “I find G-Plan makes a good couch,” she said. Bertie and Marjorie had acquired most of their furniture from G-Plan – good solid upholstered couches and sturdy square edged tables and chests of drawers. The choice might be limited, Bertie used to say, but they were solid enough to last a lifetime. No need to ever change a thing.
    “I hope you ordered it with slipcovers,” Marjorie advised. “It lasts so much better than upholstery, especially if you use antimacassars.”
    “Goatskin,” said Roger. There was great pride in his voice. “She saw my goatskin lounger and said I was ahead of the trend.”
    The Major wondered whether it was possible he had been too strict with Roger as a child and thereby inspired his son to such excesses. Nancy, of course, had tried to spoil him rotten. He had been a late gift to them, born just as they had given up all