“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 eventually. He could only look forward to that day.

“Then there’s no more to be done here,” said Daisy in a huffy voice. “We must go over the plans and we must call the Major and arrange to search his house for uniforms and so on.”

“I will call Roger; he and I can work on the Major,” said Gertrude, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “It’s my job to get more young people involved in the entertainment and, as a new member, I’m sure he’ll be itching to help.”

“I never understand why it’s so hard to get the men involved,” said Alma as the ladies left, talking loud plans all the way to the car.

“Thank you for your quick thinking, Major,” said Mrs. Ali. To his surprise, she seemed to be herding him toward the door also. “Did you need anything before you go? I’m going to shut the shop for a little while.”

“I just came to see if Amina needed a lift back to town,” the Major said. “There are no buses in the afternoon today.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Amina. She looked at Mrs. Ali. “I had better go if the Major is willing to drive us home.”

“No, you must stay and we will talk some more,” said Mrs. Ali.

“She should leave and go back to her mother,” said Abdul Wahid in a fierce, low voice.

“My mother died two months ago,” said Amina, speaking just to him. “Thirty years in the same street, Abdul Wahid, and only six people came to the funeral. Why do you think that was?” Her voice cracked, but she refused to look away from him. To break the painful silence, the Major asked, “Where is George?”

“George is upstairs, out of the way,” said Mrs. Ali. “I found him some books to look at.”

“I am sorry that your mother had to bear that shame,” said the nephew. “But it was none of my doing.”

“That’s what your family would say,” said the girl, tears now making tracks down her thin cheeks. She picked up her backpack. “George and I will go now and you will never have to be bothered by us again.”

“Why did you have to come here at all?” he asked.

“I had to come and see for myself that you don’t love me.” She wiped at her face with the cuff of her shirt and a streak of dirt made her look like a small child. “I never believed them when they said you left of your own accord, but I see now that you are the product of your family, Abdul Wahid.”

“You should go,” said Abdul Wahid, but his voice cracked as he turned his head away.

“No, no, you will stay and we will go upstairs with George and have something to eat,” said Mrs. Ali. “We will not leave things like this.” She looked flustered. She chewed her bottom lip and then projected toward him a smile that was painfully false. “Thank you for your offer, Major, but everything is fine here. We will make our own arrangements.”

“If you’re sure,” said the Major. He felt an unseemly fascination, like a driver who has slowed down to peer at a road accident. Mrs. Ali moved toward the door and he had no choice but to follow. He added, in a whisper, “Did I do wrong in bringing her here?”

“No, no, we are delighted to have them,” she said loudly. “It turns out that they may be related to us.” A last puzzle piece slipped into place and the Major saw in his mind an image of little George frowning and looking so much like Abdul Wahid. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Ali’s face was a mask of exhausted politeness and he did not want to say something that might break the fragile veneer.

“Extra relatives are useful, I suppose—additional bridge player at family parties, or another kidney donor,” he babbled. “I congratulate you.” A small smile lifted her weary face for a moment. He wished he could hold her hand and ask her to unburden herself to him, but the nephew was still glowering.

“Thank you also for your chivalrous deception about the dance, Major,” added Mrs. Ali. “I’m sure the ladies meant well, but I am glad to decline their request.”

“I am hoping you will not prove me a liar, Mrs. Ali,” he replied, trying to speak quietly. “It would be my honor and pleasure to escort you to the dance.”

“My aunt would not dream of attending,” said Abdul Wahid loudly. His jaw quivered. “It is not appropriate.”

“Abdul Wahid, you will not attempt to lecture me on what is appropriate,” said Mrs. Ali sharply. “I will rule my own life, thank you.” She turned to the Major and extended her hand. “Major, I accept your kind invitation.”

“I’m much honored,” said the Major.

“And I’m hoping we can continue to discuss literature,” she said in a clear voice. “I missed our Sunday appointment very much.” She did not smile as she said it and the Major felt a sting of disappointment that she was using him to wound her nephew. As he raised his hat to say goodbye, he noticed that the tension had returned. Or perhaps tension was the wrong word; as he walked away he thought that it was more like a low-grade despair. He paused at the corner and looked back. He was sure the three people in the shop had many hours of painful discussion ahead of them. The shop window revealed nothing but patchy, glittering reflections of street and sky.

Chapter 12

It was not cricket season, so the Major was confused for a moment by the muffled sound of wickets being hammered into turf. The sound shivered along the grassy rise of the field at the bottom of the garden and flushed a few pigeons from the copse on the hill. The Major, carrying a mug of tea and the morning paper, went down to the fence to investigate.

There was not much to see, only a tall man in rubber boots and a yellow waterproof coat consulting a theodolite and a clipboard while two others, following his directions, paced out lengths and hammered bits of orange-tipped wood into the rough grass.

“Major, don’t let them see you,” said a disembodied voice in a loud stage whisper. The Major looked around.

“I’m keeping my head down,” said the voice, which he now recognized as belonging to Alice from next door. He walked toward the hedge, peering to see where she was.

“Don’t look at me,” she said in an exasperated tone. “They’ve probably spotted you, so just keep looking about as if you’re alone.”

“Good morning to you, Alice,” said the Major, swallowing some tea and “looking about” as well as he could. “Is there some reason we’re being so covert?”

“If we’re going to take direct action, it won’t do for them to see our faces,” she explained, as if to a small child. She was crouched on a folding camp stool in the tiny space between her own compost box and the hedge that divided her garden from the field. She did not seem bothered by the slight tang of rotting vegetables. Risking a quick glance, the Major saw a tripod and telescope poked into the greenery. He also noticed that Alice’s attempts at discretion did not extend to clothing, which included a magenta sweater and orange pants in some kind of baggy hemp.

“Direct action?” asked the Major. “What kind of—”

“Major, they’re surveying for houses,” said Alice. “They want to concrete over this entire field.”