The Major and the Brigadier

In his civvy greys and slippers, The Major sat to attention, awaiting tea and scones at 4pm, provided by the Brigadier.

His lady wife, the Brigadier, (affectionately, “Brig, m’dear …”) entered with a silver tray, that flashed the sunlight up to light her like an angel.

When they had courted, he had called her “Goldie”; her blonde hair, loose in sunlight, floated like dandelion seeds. His kisses shaped her face and neck and palms and happy upturned lips….

Her silver hair, set now in corrugations, lapped like a gentle wave onto her unlined forehead. Her unkissed lips pursed only for tea and coral lipstick (which she removed at 8pm, applied cold crème and battened down her curls).

The tray, now placed safely on the old mahogany Queen Anne table, Brig afforded the Major an automatic wifely smile but slid her gaze to wander around the garden. Her eyes, as usual, strayed to the perfect Princess Margaret rose, where old Sally’s blood and bones and flesh and death still fed the rampant climber for over seven years. The fragrant full and scarlet blooms won prizes at the local show, but never once made up for a heavy loving head that warmed an evening lap and gave purpose to every walk, word, or gentle look.

“We shan’t have another dog,” the Major ruled. “Brig got too upset when we lost Sally. Better leave things as they are, don’t want to risk upsetting her again”. Brig made sponge cakes; whipped the egg whites in a frenzy. Gave the cakes away and whipped up more.

The Major liked to be informed: He read both the Times and the Guardian, liked to hold a balanced view, and compared the two for errors and omissions. Brig read the travel guide and looked up names of exotic destinations in the Readers Digest Atlas, an elegant tome of gold edged pages with fine lined maps of lands, post World War 2 and an excellent reference for the phases of the moon and the passage of the planets. But, easier to find the Sea of Tranquility, than Mumbai or Sri Lanka. Brig noted the naked brown babies, knitted pink and blue cardigans and sent them off to Oxfam.

The Major watched the evening news. He still preferred the BBC (run by commies) than the commercial channels (run by degenerates). They used to watch Neighbours, for the colonial touch, but one day two men kissed! “Call that entertainment!” fumed the Major. “Might as well watch dogs sniff each other’s bottoms!”

Now they watched the BBC news; (the Major gleefully pointing out the errors and omissions, compared with the Times or Guardian) followed by the Secret Life of Whales and other documentaries,

“Because the day the BBC shows two men kissing – I’ll fall on my grenade!” (A little souvenir the Major had returned from Ireland).

When the Vicar called, Brig brought tea in Royal Albert, kept for special guests, with sponge fingers arranged on doilies. She sat and listened silently as the Major excellently itemised the church accounts. Finished and refreshed, the Vicar praised the tea, cheerfully nodded at the Major’s tale of seeing off the Seventh Day Adventists, remarked upon the lovely roses and bounced off down the street.

“Surprised he can move that fast, after five of your cakes,” commented the Major. Brig smiled and nodded; washed the cups and stood the plates on the dresser, making sure the patterned roses all lined up. Looked for something else to do….

Brig ironed socks and paired them with a plastic peg; cut the crutch out of the Major’s old Y-fronts and turned them into dusters; dead-headed the Princess Margaret rose and scattered the tattered petals in her secret drawer, carefully caressed the grenade, held it weightily in her palm like a ripe and lusty scrotum.

It was nine o’clock when she re-applied her coral pink lipstick, patted her carefully coiffed hair into place, smiled and dropped the grenade down the stairs.

The Guardian said it was a gas leak.

The Times didn’t report it at all.