Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simoson

Back to back coming of age tales -- or is it three in a row before this month? All teens: Cat’s Table, Brooklyn Tree, Flower Language.!  This time the protagonist is not 16, but 60, and transitioning through male menopause.

Ms. Simonson opens with the portrait of a stodgy old fuddy-duddy, an iconic English “Major”; then the author proceeds to awaken his feminine side, transforming the Major into an emotional, feeling, caring, amorous, and waltzing multi-cultural hero after the application of several doses of estrogen.

This story was pleasant to read because it had a nice balance of plot, narrative, and description.  We, as a group, have complained recently that this sort of balance was missing from our library selections.  For me, having lived the better part of a decade in England, there were many reminders of small town English life.

There were a great number of quotable bon mots, mostly voiced by the Major, and most of which I will leave to others to cite, but two that tickled my English-trained funny bone were: [p.175] in response to “where would we be if we were honest”, the Major retorts, “On a dry spit of land known as the moral high ground”; and [p.203] in response to “I’m in love with an unsuitable woman!” the Major retorts, “Is there really any other kind?”.  Simonson has provided us with a read that is a level up from our recent undertakings: more balanced, more urbane, much more broadly-based in scope.

If there is any fault with this otherwise good book, it lies in gender characterization.  And while yes, I feel the gender portrayals are “spot on” for women; they are a bit off the mark for men.  In “American” argot, she doesn’t get men.  It’s a book written by a middle-aged woman, for other middle-aged women.  The Major’s transformation: philosophically, physically, metaphysically, and culturally takes amazingly little time.

The men are all single-layer stereotypes.  This starts with the Major, who “hates women drivers.”  He is a rock-solid, confirmed bachelor at the onset of this story: golf once a week with his friend Alec (a name only, never developed); periodic telephone updates from his son, Roger [who is the epitome of a self-centered child who think that elders aren’t capable any longer of self-care]; and passing relationships with the local Vicar and other golf club buddies.

Additional men are added as the plot develops: the fundamentalist kid, Abdul Wahid; the Major’s freshly deceased brother Bertie; Mrs. Ali’s deceased husband (Ahmed: a nice guy we are assured); Colonel Peterson (not quite yet dead); Mrs. Ali’s deceased husband’s brother Dawid (a fundamentalist sympathizer at least when it comes to misogynist views on women).

Now with the women, we’ve got a large, yellow, sweet 2-pound onion to be carefully peeled, layer by layer, throughout the story.  Mrs. Ali is real; so is Grace, so is Sandy.  We empathize with dancing Amina; despise the old crone, Mummi.  We don’t really like Bertie’s wife Marjorie, nor Sadie Khan but we do root for Alice B Toklas, along with the women’s club ladies: Alma and Daisy, the Vicar’s wife.

There is no moral – other than, the rich get richer

                              and the poor get to have love and babies