Read Online Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Simonson
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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 Rambler , not widely available, and was quite disappointed that the librarian didn’t seem to appreciate my request at all. You’d think that after stamping the flyleaves of cheap novels all day, they’d relish the challenge of tracking down some wonderful old classic, wouldn’t you?”
“Try ordering foreign languages,” said Mrs. Ali. “There’s one librarian who peers at me as if I’m committing treason.”
“You speak other languages besides French?” asked the Major.
“My French is very bad,” she said. “I’m more fluent in German. And Urdu, of course.”
“Your family’s first language?” said the Major.
“No, I’d say English was my family’s first language,” she said. “My father insisted on European languages. He hated it when my mother and grandmother would gossip in Urdu. I remember when I was a young girl, my father had this unshakable belief that the United Nations would evolve into a world government.” She shook her head and then raised her left hand from the wheel to waggle a finger at the windscreen. “‘We will speak the languages of diplomacy and take our rightful places as world citizens’,” she said, in a serious singsong. Then she sighed. “He died still believing this, and my sister and I learned six languages between us in honour of his memory.”
“That’s very impressive,” said the Major.
“And generally quite useless in the running of a small shop,” said Mrs. Ali with a sad smile.
“There’s nothing useless about reading the classics,” said the Major, weighing the books in his hand. “I salute your continued efforts. Too few people today appreciate and pursue the delights of civilised culture for their own sake.”
“Yes, it can be a lonely pursuit,” she said.
“Then we – the happy few – must stick together,” said the Major. She laughed, and the Major turned his head to look out of the window at the fog-soaked hedges of the lanes. He was aware that he no longer felt chilled. The hedges, far from being grim and soggy were edged to the last leaf in drops like diamonds. The earth steamed and a horse under a tree shook its mane like a dog and bent to nibble freshly moistened dandelions. The car broke from the hedged lane and crested the last rise of the hill, where the road widened. The town spread down the folded valley, opening out along the coastal plain. The sea lay gray and infinite beyond the sharp edge of the beach. In the sky, a rent in the fog let down pale shafts of sunlight to gleam on the water. It was as beautiful and absurd as an illustrated Victorian hymnal, lacking only a descending archangel trailing putti and rose garlands. The little car picked up speed as it headed down and the Major felt that the afternoon was somehow already a success.
∗
“Where would you like me to drop you?” she asked as they joined the slow curl of traffic into town.
“Oh, anywhere convenient.” As he said this he felt somewhat flustered. It actually mattered a great deal to him where she set him down – or rather, where they would later meet and whether he might have the opportunity to ask her to join him for tea – but he felt it would be rude to be too specific.
“I usually go to the library and then I run my errands and do some shopping up on Myrtle Street,” she said. He wasn’t quite sure which was Myrtle Street, but he thought it was up on the hill, at
“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 Rambler , not widely available, and was quite disappointed that the librarian didn’t seem to appreciate my request at all. You’d think that after stamping the flyleaves of cheap novels all day, they’d relish the challenge of tracking down some wonderful old classic, wouldn’t you?”
“Try ordering foreign languages,” said Mrs. Ali. “There’s one librarian who peers at me as if I’m committing treason.”
“You speak other languages besides French?” asked the Major.
“My French is very bad,” she said. “I’m more fluent in German. And Urdu, of course.”
“Your family’s first language?” said the Major.
“No, I’d say English was my family’s first language,” she said. “My father insisted on European languages. He hated it when my mother and grandmother would gossip in Urdu. I remember when I was a young girl, my father had this unshakable belief that the United Nations would evolve into a world government.” She shook her head and then raised her left hand from the wheel to waggle a finger at the windscreen. “‘We will speak the languages of diplomacy and take our rightful places as world citizens’,” she said, in a serious singsong. Then she sighed. “He died still believing this, and my sister and I learned six languages between us in honour of his memory.”
“That’s very impressive,” said the Major.
“And generally quite useless in the running of a small shop,” said Mrs. Ali with a sad smile.
“There’s nothing useless about reading the classics,” said the Major, weighing the books in his hand. “I salute your continued efforts. Too few people today appreciate and pursue the delights of civilised culture for their own sake.”
“Yes, it can be a lonely pursuit,” she said.
“Then we – the happy few – must stick together,” said the Major. She laughed, and the Major turned his head to look out of the window at the fog-soaked hedges of the lanes. He was aware that he no longer felt chilled. The hedges, far from being grim and soggy were edged to the last leaf in drops like diamonds. The earth steamed and a horse under a tree shook its mane like a dog and bent to nibble freshly moistened dandelions. The car broke from the hedged lane and crested the last rise of the hill, where the road widened. The town spread down the folded valley, opening out along the coastal plain. The sea lay gray and infinite beyond the sharp edge of the beach. In the sky, a rent in the fog let down pale shafts of sunlight to gleam on the water. It was as beautiful and absurd as an illustrated Victorian hymnal, lacking only a descending archangel trailing putti and rose garlands. The little car picked up speed as it headed down and the Major felt that the afternoon was somehow already a success.
∗
“Where would you like me to drop you?” she asked as they joined the slow curl of traffic into town.
“Oh, anywhere convenient.” As he said this he felt somewhat flustered. It actually mattered a great deal to him where she set him down – or rather, where they would later meet and whether he might have the opportunity to ask her to join him for tea – but he felt it would be rude to be too specific.
“I usually go to the library and then I run my errands and do some shopping up on Myrtle Street,” she said. He wasn’t quite sure which was Myrtle Street, but he thought it was up on the hill, at
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