The Major's Orange

"Grandfather, did you want some of my orange?"

The Major flickered his eyes open reluctantly, put off slightly by the chill of the room and the glare of the fireplace. A slight grunt slipped from between his withered lips. He glanced about to find the source of his nap's disturbance, his aged head bobbing on an aching neck. The whole room smelled of roasting chestnuts and wood polish, and for a moment the old man didn't know where he was.

It was his parlor, he then recalled. The maid had rearranged everything again, though. Sooner or later he was going to have to have a word with that girl. Nothing was ever where he left it anymore. She deserved some credit, he grudgingly admitted, for it was amazing how she had made his Bombay home look so much like his townhouse in London.

The Major slowly began to focus on the decorations. There were ribbons and garlands strewn all about, a stack of opened boxes occupied the other chairs and tables within his normally private sanctuary. It was only when guests or family came over for the holidays that he allowed anyone else within.

"Grandfather?"

Oh, yes. The boy. The wee lad's blond hair was tousled, and there was a slight smear of chocolate about his mouth, but it was with a sincere intensity that the child stood before the Major's chair. The lad stared back into the wrinkled face and its watering eyes. His small hand held up a brilliant orb of fruit for the Major's examination. Something about the lad's face troubled the Major, but he couldn't place it.

"Eh? Orange? Who are you then, lad? What are you, six? One of William's friends from school, are you?"

The old warrior shifted in his chair to glance left and right in search of his wayward son. The room was shadowy enough that his precocious offspring might just well be hiding anywhere. Dim memories flitted back to the Major of how William would hide behind the umbrella stand on purpose while his father, the Major, stumbled about in mock worry as though he couldn't see the giggling child hiding in plain sight. It was one of their favorite games. "Where's my boy hiding then?"

The boy lowered the orange and glanced at his shoes. "France," came the mumbled reply.

Oh. Yes. William had gone off, hadn't he? Just a week ago, wasn't it? Long past the time for games of hide and seek! William had come to say goodbye, wearing his officer's tunic with a lieutenant's pips and promising he'd be home by Christmas with the rest of the army. Yes, come Christmas of 1914, the whole of the family would be gathered in the townhouse, he had reassured everyone. The Major had been so proud of him, too. He had practically cried with pride at seeing how his son had grown into a man.

Not that he ever would have allowed himself to cry publicly, heavens no! Some things were just not done!

If this wasn't William standing before him...

"You're... Oliver, then, what? William's son! Family is over for Christmas, eh?"

The boy smiled and looked back up at his grandfather, glad to have been recognized. "Yes, sir! You were telling me about how the elephant got its trunk, that story that Mr. Kipling wrote. And then you fell asleep in your chair again." Oliver tried to keep the accusatory tone out his young voice, but he was a child wanting his story. "I thought you might want a bite of my orange. I don't mind, really! You can have some!"

Something the boy had said jarred the Major's memories again, some important fact trying to push its way through the fog in his mind. There was too much history, too many memories to sort through them all and merely trying to organize them all in his ancient head was far too wearying. Kipling... He was that writer fellow in Lahore! Yes, yes, the Major could remember him!

Wait, the boy had said something about William being in —

"France, eh? Fighting the Bosche still, is he? I just bet." The Major sniffed. "Said the war would be done by now, didn't he? Home by Christmas, that's what they all said. Probably having his fair share of pinard, a drop of the grape, and bit of cherchez la femme before coming home, what? Ha! Always had an eye for the ladies, your father."

The boy's smile slipped and his gaze fell once more to the richly carpeted floor. "No, sir. He's in France but -"

"No, no," the Major chuckled in paternal camaraderie with his grandson. "Fine man, fine man. His governess saw to that, more credit to her. Where is Mrs. Pendleton anyway?"

"Don't know, sir," came the meek answer.

"Hm. Well. About somewhere, no doubt. Blasted woman is always underfoot." The Major raised his head, shouting: "Sajni! Sajni?! Find Mrs. Pendleton for this lad, what?! She's let William get chocolates all over his face!"

"Oliver," the grandson corrected sadly. Looking curiously into the Major's face, he asked, "Who's Sajni, Grandfather?"

The Major blinked and squinted in surprise. How could the boy not know who Sajni was?! Why the girl had been at his side ever side he had arrived in Bombay, his wife's first maid! Nothing happened in the Major's house without their native servant checking to make sure it didn't somehow endanger or insult her employers, and after the Major's wife had died of malaria... After Margaret's passing... The fever had wracked her fair, English body... William had only been two, but Sajni had been, she had been...

Dark eyes, soothing hands, sliding silks, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, the sultry heat of the Bangalore nights, a ready willingness to bring comfort. Whispering, laughing, loving, passion incarnate. That's who Sajni had been.

It was all so long ago, distant enough to be nothing more than his own faded malaria dream. Yet it teased at the edges of his fraying mind so hauntingly!

"Never mind, lad," whispered the Major forlornly, "Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter anymore."

The fire crackled in its place, throwing heat and light out onto the hearth as it broke the still air between elder and child.

So it was Christmas, and he was in England again. And Oliver was William's son, and William had gone over with Kitchener's Army, and Margaret was long since buried in India, and Sajni was -

"Did you want to play soldiers, Grandfather?" Oliver twisted the toe of one shoe into the red and gold carpet. He gestured towards the tiny ranks of tin that had been put on parade before the hearth. There were near to three dozen of the soldiers, all brightly colored in reds and greens to reflect the uniforms of an early age. "I don't think Mother was too happy that you gave them to me, but I think they're bully! Especially the Gurkhas! Do they really wear those little hats like that?"

Gurkhas! Another image emerged from the mists, and the Major's eyes lit up with glowing memories.

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes, my lad, the Gurkhas, they do! Fiercest fighters you can imagine! Took more than a bullet to slow one down. You should have seen them, William! Volley after volley, their Martinis blasting away, the sudden charge! There were Scotsmen who were afraid of them, let me tell you!"

The Major sensed he had said something wrong again. The boy looked quite mournful as his childish voice murmured, "Wish Da had been a Gurkha."

"What? What was that? Don't mumble lad, Mrs. Pendleton doesn't stand for it." The Major adjusted the woolen blanket that had been spread over his stiff legs and arthritic knees. "A man should be heard! Never hide your words, lad. Your father's an officer, like me. Like you'll be one day, I've no doubt! Just won't do, you see?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oliver!" a woman's voice called from without the parlor. The Christmas cheer in her voice was strained. "The goose is about done! Come and give us a hand setting the table, then!"

The Major didn't recognize the young lady's voice, though he felt that he should. It was an important voice. It was a voice that had told him something with tears and sorrow, a voice that had explained something to him again and again but still made no sense. Something about the Somme and some battle that had happened there. That it was 1916, not 1914, which certainly could not have been correct! And she had said something about William.

But William was right there in front of him, wasn't he?

"I have to go, grandfather. Mother's calling."

"Eh? Oh. Off you go then," the Major yawned. Talking with the lad had been exhausting! William had always been precocious. His eyes were already dropping shut, too heavy with the distant past and too weighted by the forgotten present. "If you see Sajni, tell her to come and join me in here, lad, would you?"

Oliver glanced back at his grandfather sadly. "Yes, sir."

But the old man was already asleep. In his dreams, he was in India once again. Margaret had passed into God's grace, but Sajni was there. She was smiling at him, leading him to the bedroom, and the Major knew what love was.

Oliver felt bad that he hadn't gotten his grandfather any presents for Christmas. The Major was the only father figure left to Oliver now. It was his house they lived in, his money they lived on, and the old man had lavished them with gifts that holiday and then promptly forgotten that he had done so. Oranges, chocolates, soldiers made of tin were all expensive gifts in this time of hard rationing. It didn't seem right to the small child that his grandfather had nothing.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the man's rest, Oliver laid the orange in the blanketed lap of his namesake before answering the call of his widowed mother.

"Happy Christmas, Grandfather."

***

***

Historical Notes: 1) The idea that people believed that The Great War would be over by Christmas of 1914 is something of a myth, although the general public opinion was that the war would be a short one, lasting a few months at best. Military leaders on both sides predicted that the conflict would last anywhere between a year and a half to three years long. The Kaiser promised German troops that they would be back home before the leaves started falling that year. Needless to say, both the public and the military on both sides were greatly mistaken. 2) The first day of the Battle of The Somme in July 1916 resulted in nearly twenty thousand British deaths alone. It then ground on for five horrible months. 3) Due to wartime rationing, things such as chocolates, fresh oranges, and tin soldiers would have been luxurious gifts, and that the Major was able to procure them speaks to his wealth and influence.

Author's Notes: This is based on something I wrote several years ago and just recently reworked. It's been proofed by some lovely people (who stated that no credit need be given) to whom I am quite grateful. There may still be a few errors here and there; I am not perfect. While the story takes place during Christmas, I'm submitting it so it will be up in time for Veterans Day (US) and Remembrance Sunday (UK).