“Ah, the foods of childhood,” said Mrs. Ali, breaking into a smile. “I believe the impossibility of recreating such dishes may be due more to an unfortunate stubbornness of memory than any inherent failure of preparation, but still we pursue them.” She turned to Mrs. Rasool and touched her sleeve. “Najwa, could the Major try some of your mother-in-law’s famous homemade rasmalai?” she asked.
Over the Major’s protestations that he could not eat another thing, the waiters brought bowls of cheese curds floating in bright pink syrup.
“My mother-in-law makes this herself,” said Mrs. Rasool. “She likes to keep a small presence in the kitchen.”
“You must be very talented,” said Grace to the old woman, speaking loud and slow as if to a deaf person. “I always wish I had the time to cook.” The old woman glared at her.
“It is mostly a matter of watching cheese drip dry,” said Mrs. Rasool. “But it allows her to keep an eye on everything else in the kitchen, doesn’t it, Mummy?”
“My parents are a big help to us,” added Mr. Rasool, patting his wife on the arm in a tentative way.
The Major took a spoonful of dessert and felt the pleasure of the smooth cheese and the light syrup: a thrill of recognition in the lightness, the taste more scent than flavor.
“This is almost it,” he said quietly to Mrs. Ali. “Very close.”
“Lovely,” said Grace puckering her lips around the tiniest spoonful of cheese. “But I do think the trifle is a better idea.” She pushed away her dish and drank from her glass of punch. “Now, what can you suggest about decorations?”
“I was looking into it, as Mrs. Ali asked,” said Mrs. Rasool, “and I was afraid it would all be very expensive.”
“But then we struck on a lucky coincidence,” added Mr. Rasool. “A distinguished friend offered to help.”
“Oh, really?” said Grace. “Because our budget, as you know …”
“I know, I know,” said Mr. Rasool. “So let me introduce you to my friend Mrs. Khan. She is the wife of Dr. Khan, a specialist at Hill Hospital. One of our most prominent families. She has her own decorating business.” He waved his hand and the Major looked to see the two ladies from the window table getting up. The older one waved back and spoke to her companion, who hurried out of the restaurant.
“Saadia Khan?” asked Mrs. Ali quietly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Najwa?” Najwa Rasool gave a pained smile.
“My husband insists that she is very keen to help.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Khan implied she might even help out on a complimentary basis,” said Mr. Rasool. “I believe her husband has many friends among the membership of your respected club.”
“Really?” said Grace. “I haven’t heard the name. Dr. Khan, is it?”
“Yes, very prominent man. His wife is involved in many charitable efforts. She is very concerned with the welfare of our young women.”
Mrs. Khan loomed impressively over the table. She wore a tweed suit with a heavy gold brooch on the lapel and a single ring on each hand, one a plain gold band and the other an enormous sapphire in a heavy gold setting. She carried a large, stiff handbag and a tightly rolled umbrella. The Major thought her face seemed rather smooth for her age; her hair, in lacquered layers, reminded him of Britain’s former lady Prime Minister. He tried to stand up and caught his thigh painfully on the edge of the table as he struggled out of the banquette to stand by Mrs. Ali’s chair. He blinked several times. The Rasools also stood and introductions were made.
“How do you do, Major? Do call me Sadie, everyone does,” said Mrs. Khan with a big smile that did not wrinkle any other part of her face. “And Miss DeVere, I believe we met at that awful Chamber of Commerce garden party last year?”
“Yes, yes of course,” said Grace in a voice that telegraphed her complete lack of such a recollection. Mrs. Khan leaned completely across Mrs. Ali to shake Grace’s hand.
“Such a crush of people, but my husband and I feel we must support such basic institutions,” added Mrs. Khan. She stepped back and seemed to see Mrs. Ali for the first time.
“Why, Jasmina, you are here, too?” she asked. The Major recognized the use of Mrs. Ali’s first name as a deliberate slight but he was very grateful to finally hear it. It sounded enchanting even from such a raw and ill-intentioned source.
“Saadia,” said Mrs. Ali, inclining her head again.
“Why, what a treat it must be for you to be liberated from the shop counter,” added Mrs. Khan. “A small break from the frozen peas and newspapers?”
“I think you have some fabric samples to show us?” said Mrs. Rasool.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Khan. “My assistant Noreen and her niece are bringing them now.” They watched Mrs. Khan’s lunch companion and a younger woman struggle through the heavy restaurant door with several armfuls of sample books and a small box of fabrics. A small boy followed, carrying a large book precariously in both arms. The Major recognized him immediately as the young boy from the Promenade. He felt a schoolboy flush of panic rise into his face at the possibility that he and Mrs. Ali would be exposed. Of course, there had been only public tea drinking, not some kind of debauchery. Still, as the small group came slowly across the expanse of the restaurant, running the gauntlet of curious faces, he felt miserable that he was to be discovered in his private friendship. The Major could not move. He could only clutch the back of Mrs. Ali’s chair and guess the feelings in the glossy head beside him.
“Oh, my goodness, the niece has brought her boy,” said Mrs. Khan in a loud whisper to Mrs. Rasool. “I’ll get rid of him right away—what was she thinking?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Rasool. She laid a hand on Mrs. Khan’s sleeve. “It will be perfectly all right.”
“I’m trying to help, if only for Noreen’s sake,” said Mrs. Khan. “But the young woman is very difficult.” She gave the Major and Grace an uncomfortable glance.
“What a darling little boy,” exclaimed Grace as the women dropped their heavy load onto a nearby table and the boy struggled to do the same. “What’s his name?” There was the briefest of pauses, as if introductions had not been expected. The woman named Noreen looked quite frightened. She patted her thin gray hair with a nervous hand and darted her eyes at Mrs. Khan, whose lips were pressed to a thin line.
“I couldn’t just leave him in the car,” said the young woman, also looking at Saadia Khan, but with a face as fierce as her aunt’s was meek.
“I believe his name is George,” said Mrs. Ali, dispelling the tension. She got up and went to over to shake the small boy by the hand again. “We had the pleasure of meeting in the park. Did you manage to get your ball all the way home?”
The young woman frowned and swung George up onto her hip. “He managed that day, but he lost it down a drain on the way to the shops the next day.” She said nothing to the Major, giving him only a brief nod. Today she wore a long, shapeless black dress over leggings; the tone was spoiled only by violently crimson sneakers that laced up over the ankle. Her hair was partially hidden under a stretchy bandana. She had made an obvious effort to dress more conservatively, but it seemed to the Major that she had just as deliberately measured out a stubborn resistance. She looked as out of place at the restaurant as she had done on the Promenade, when she had screamed at the tea lady.
“Jasmina, I believe Amina and George are from your home turf up north,” said Mrs. Khan with a silky smile. “Perhaps your families are acquainted?”
The Major couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Ali was amused or angry. She compressed her lips as if suppressing a chuckle, but her eyes flashed.
“I don’t think so, Saadia,” she replied. The Major detected a deliberate avoidance of the name Sadie. “It’s a big place.”
“Actually, I think you might have a nephew my age who used to live there,” Amina put in. Her aunt Noreen trembled like a leaf in a sudden squall and fiddled with the books of fabrics. “Maybe I went to school with him?”
“Well, perhaps, b
ut he left a while ago,” said Mrs. Ali. There was a hint of caution in her voice that the Major had not heard before. “He has been in Pakistan studying for some time.”
“And now I hear he is living with you,” said Mrs. Khan. “How fortunate to be given the chance to move to Sussex. My charity does a lot of work in these northern cities, and there are many, many problems.” She patted Amina on the arm as if Amina constituted most of them. The young woman opened her mouth and looked from one to the other as if torn between saying something more to Mrs. Ali and delivering a stinging retort to Sadie Khan. Before she could speak, her aunt gave a savage tug to her arm and she clamped her mouth shut again and turned away to help unfold a length of heavy fabric. The Major watched them tussle over it in silent argument.
“Shall we talk about decorations?” said Mrs. Rasool, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “Why don’t you show us the table runner fabrics first, Mrs. Khan?”
Mrs. Khan, Mrs. Rasool, and Grace were soon arguing over the relative merits of the iridescent sorbet sheers and the heavy damasks resplendent with rioting paisleys. Amina and her aunt Noreen unfolded fabrics and turned sample book pages in silence, the former with pressed lips. The Major regained his seat and the waiters brought glasses of hot tea. Ignoring the elderly Rasools, the Major watched Mrs. Ali invite George to climb up on her lap.
She handed him the teaspoon dipped in honey and he gave it a cautious lick. “George likes honey,” he said with a perfectly serious face. “Is it organic?” Mrs. Ali laughed.
“Well, George, I’ve never seen anyone injecting bees with antibiotics,” said the Major, who was generally in favor of medicating sick livestock and saw nothing wrong in a healthy application of properly aged manure. George frowned at him, and for a moment the Major was reminded of Mrs. Ali’s dour nephew.
“Organic is better, my mum says.” He ran the spoon down the entire length of his tongue. “My nanni puts honey in her tea, but she died,” he added.
Mrs. Ali bent her head to the top of his and gave his hair a brief kiss. “That must make you and your mother sad,” she said.
“It makes us lonely,” said George. “We’re lonely in the world now.”
“You mean ‘alone’?” asked the Major, aware that he was being pedantic. He resisted the urge to ask about a father. These days it was better not to; and somehow, it seemed unlikely that there was one.
“Can I have more honey?” asked George, closing the subject with a child’s honest abruptness.
“Of course you can,” said Mrs. Ali.
“I like you,” said George.
“Young man, you have very good taste,” said the Major.
Grace came back to the booth beaming and informed the Major of the good news that Mrs. Khan would lend them wall hangings and draperies and charge them at cost for lengths of fabric used as table runners, which were almost certain to get stained.
“It is such an old and important institution in the area,” said Mrs. Khan. “And my husband has so many friends who are members. We are glad to help in any way.”
“I’m sure it will be appreciated,” said the Major. He raised his eyebrows at Grace who gave him a blank smile in return. “Perhaps Grace, you’d like to get a final approval from your committee chairwoman?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course I should,” said Grace. “Though I’m sure they’ll be thrilled with everything.”
“My husband and I would be pleased to come and meet with your colleagues if necessary,” said Mrs. Khan. “Since we know so many of them already, we would be delighted to help make them comfortable with the Rasools’ wonderful catering. I can tell you I’ve used Mrs. Rasool on many occasions for my own functions.” The Major caught sight of Mrs. Rasool rolling her eyes at Mrs. Ali. Mrs. Ali smothered a giggle and put down George, who ran back to his mother.
“That sounds lovely,” said Grace in a vague manner. As the Major shook hands with Mrs. Khan, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Regardless of her husband’s prominence, or their generosity, he thought it quite unlikely that Daisy or the membership committee would have any interest in entertaining the question of their joining the club. He could only hope they would have the decency to refuse the Khans’ generous offer and keep things properly separated with cash instead. He made a note to have a quiet word with Grace later on.
Chapter 10
On the way to Little Puddleton, Grace elected to sit in the back of the car, where she sprawled at a strange angle and, after a few moments of heavy traffic out of the town, declared herself to be feeling just the tiniest bit green.
“Would you like me to stop the car?” asked the Major, though he could only manage a half-hearted attempt at sincerity. It was getting close to three and he did not want to disappoint Roger by being late. He accelerated as the road became clear and ran the heavy car effortlessly up over the crest of the hill.
“No, no, I’ll just rest my eyes,” said Grace in a faint whisper. “I’ll be fine.”
“I have some eau de cologne wipes in my bag,” said Mrs. Ali. She rummaged in her tote and handed back to Grace a small jeweled bag. The light scent of flowers in alcohol invaded the car.
“These are wonderful,” said Grace. “I’ll feel right as rain in just a jiffy, and then I can’t wait to show you the new alpaca yarns, Mrs. Ali. It’ll be the highlight of our afternoon.”
“I am to be converted to the joys of knitting,” said Mrs. Ali, smiling at the Major.
“My condolences,” he said.
As they made the long slow swoop downhill into Little Puddle-ton, the Major tried keep up a good speed and ignore the stifled groans from the backseat. He was sure Grace would feel much better once he dropped them both off at the craft shop. Just the sight of all that colored yarn would no doubt cheer her up.
The village green was as obsessively manicured as the Major remembered. Wooden posts with a fresh coat of whitewash held up a knee-high chain all around the edges of the cropped grass. Bronze signs warned people to keep off except for concert afternoons. Gravel paths curved this way and that like some strange Venn diagram. The gazebo at one end looked across the elliptical duck pond, on which floated three bleached-looking swans. There were always just three and it fascinated the Major to try to work out which was the odd one out and why it stuck around. The cottages and houses of the village huddled together companionably. An army of topiaries in terracotta pots guarded pastel front doors. Window boxes foamed with painterly foliage. Windows twinkled with custom double glazing.
The shops occupied a small street running away from the green. The Major pulled the car up in front of the Ginger Nook. Its brimming windows offered a cornucopia of cushion covers waiting to be cross-stitched; dolls’ houses awaiting paint and furniture, and baskets of wool skeins in a rainbow of colors.
“Here we are,” said the Major in what he hoped was a jolly, rallying tone. “Shall we say I’ll come back for you in one hour?” There was only a groan from the backseat. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of a gray face in which Grace’s pink lipstick stood out like new bricks.
“Or I can try to be quicker,” he said. “My son just wants me to have a look at a cottage with him. Seems to think I could help make a good impression.”
“Grace, I think you’ll feel much better in the fresh air,” added Mrs. Ali, who had turned around in her seat and was staring with concern. “I’ll come around and help you out.”
“No, no,” whispered Grace. “I can’t get out here, not in front of everybody.” To the Major, the road appeared largely deserted. The Ginger Nook itself seemed to have only a couple of ladies browsing.
“What should we do?” he asked Mrs. Ali. The clock on the church steeple was pointing to three and he was beginning to panic. “I am already expected at Apple Cottage.”
“Why don’t we go there?” said Mrs. Ali. “You can go in, and I’ll walk with Grace in the lane. Would that be all right, Grace?” There was another indistinct groan from the backseat.
??
?Wouldn’t you be happier sitting on the Green?” asked the Major, horrified. “There are some lovely benches by the pond.”
“She might get cold,” said Mrs. Ali. “It would be better if we stay near the car, I think.” She looked at him rather sternly. “If our presence in the vicinity won’t spoil your good impression, of course?”
“Not at all,” said the Major, who could already imagine Roger’s raised eyebrows. Perhaps, he hoped, he could park a little away from the cottage and walk there.
Apple Cottage was at the end of a small lane, which ended in a five-bar gate and a field. The Major was already upon the place before he had time to stop and park. Sandy’s Jaguar was parked by the field, leaving room for another car directly in front of the cottage’s front gate. The Major had no choice but to pull up there. He could see Roger’s brown head over the hedge next to Sandy’s shiny blond hair. The top of a brown felt hat indicated the presence of a third person: the widow Augerspier, he assumed. His son was looking up at the cottage roof and nodding as if he had some expertise in the evaluation of rotting thatch.
“Here we are,” said the Major. “I don’t expect to be too long. I’ll leave the car unlocked for you.”
“Yes, please go ahead,” said Mrs. Ali. “Grace will feel much better after a walk, I’m sure.” As the Major got out of the car, Grace was still groaning. He hurried through the gate of the cottage and hoped her groans wouldn’t carry too far on the still afternoon air.
Mrs. Augerspier was from Bournemouth. She had a long face set in a slight frown, and lips that seemed thinned by sourness. She wore a stiff suit of black wool. Her hat boasted black feathers sweeping in serried rows across her sunken forehead.
“Ah, my father was a colonel in the military,” she said when introduced. She did not specify which military. “But he made his money in hats,” she added. “After the war, there was much demand for European hats. My husband took over the business when my father died.”