The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel

  To tell the truth, Evelyn’s mind was on other things. Why had she spoken like that to Douglas? The words had just come out of her mouth. Then there was Theresa’s mystery friend. Was he the man responsible for her daughter’s newly discovered skittishness and plunging necklines? Maybe the culprit wasn’t drugs at all. The two of them were due to arrive any minute. One look and Evelyn would be able to tell.

  Almost as thrilling was the news about Surinda. In the New Year, Minoo was recruiting her as a trainee manager to replace his wife, who, according to rumor, hadn’t been a nurse at all but simply a chiropodist’s assistant, a fact that explained her interest in feet. They were all fond of Surinda, in whom they took a protective interest, suspecting that for all her brash talk she was a romantic at heart and secretly in love with Rahul, who was treating her fast and loose.

  Surinda had been invited to the meal. At that moment she was in the garden, dressed in slacks and a sun top that left nothing to the imagination. She stood there, frowning at her mobile. “Can’t get a bloody signal,” she muttered, walking up to Evelyn’s table.

  “Sonny could.”

  “This place is a time warp, auntie.” Surinda wrinkled her nose. “Even mobiles don’t work.”

  Evelyn drained her glass. “That’s why we like it, dear.”

  Without Norman’s presence there was an emptiness in the air, as if a burglar alarm had stopped ringing. Other absences were more palpably felt, for Christmas is the cruelest season. It had to be remembered that even in England this could be the case. Eithne, however, had returned for the day. Though nobody’s nearest and dearest, she had been greeted like a soldier returned from the Front. Sitting in a wheelchair, she had visibly suffered a coup d’âge. She had been transferred to a private nursing home out in Phase Six Colony but still had hopes of returning to The Marigold in the New Year.

  Graham Turner sat with Dorothy. He had been drawn to her, as one unclubbable spirit to another, and over the weeks a diffident friendship had developed. Clearing his throat, he placed a parcel in her hands. “A small seasonal gift,” he said.

  Dorothy unwrapped an exercise book: A History of The Marigold.

  “I’ve been doing some research at the British Council Library,” said Graham. “I’ve always been keen on local history. It keeps me out of mischief.”

  Startled, she looked at him.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Dorothy opened the book and gazed at the handwritten pages. “Good God,” she said. “Sister Eileen O’Malley.”

  “Remember her?” he asked. “She was the principal when you were attending the school, am I right?”

  “Old Mally,” said Dorothy. “Well, she seemed old to us, but she was probably about thirty.” Her eyes traveled down the page. “Oh my goodness, here are my classmates. Dora Hethrington … Monica Cable, my best friend. Bobby Miles, I remember him. He got a lentil stuck up his nose.” She paused. “I haven’t thought about him for sixty years. Seventy.”

  Evelyn joined them.

  “Nancy Pringle,” said Dorothy. “She was such a bully, she made me cry.”

  “There was a girl like that at my school,” said Evelyn.

  Eithne wheeled herself over.

  “Look, there’s your name!” said Eithne. “Dorothy Miller.”

  Dorothy raised her head. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said to Graham. Her face was tense with emotion. “I can’t thank you …” She stopped.

  “Thanks for the memory.” Ella singing it, with the Duke Ellington band. Graham had it on CD. He had Dinah Washington singing it, on a long-playing record. He sat there in the afternoon sunlight, sipping his cocktail and gazing at Dorothy’s gray head as she pored over the book.

  We said goodbye with a highball

  Then I got as high as a steeple

  He thought of his studio apartment in Swiss Cottage, his solitary dinners at the Cosmo Restaurant—wiener schnitzel and boiled potatoes, that was his customary fare. The restaurant was run by Austrian émigrés and long since gone. Graham thought of his past Christmases with his sister’s family in Pinner, the loneliness and longing, the painful solace of jazz. With surprise he realized: I’m happy. For the first time in my life I’m a part of something, I’m among companions and we’re all, at last, in the same boat. They’ve caught me up.

  He gazed at his fellow residents sitting around the tables—beaded cardigans, floral dresses. Eithne, in her wheelchair, wore a smart magenta shirtwaist. Jimmy walked from table to table, refilling glasses. Hermione demurely covered her glass with her hand. The sun shone through the leaves of the creeper that hung like a veil over the roof of the veranda. Suddenly, Graham’s heart swelled with love. For Dorothy, for all of them.

  The gong boomed. They got to their feet with difficulty. Dinner was late and they had drunk several of Sonny’s excellent cocktails.

  “I miss Mrs. Gee-Gee,” said Muriel. “They’re not all the same, the Indians, not when you get to know them.”

  Surinda walked toward the dining room with Pauline. “My English is pretty good, but your father used some phrases I didn’t understand.”

  “What phrases?” asked Pauline.

  “Like, Indian men play the pink oboe.”

  Pauline stopped. “He said that?”

  “Is it the same as a shirt-lifter?”

  Pauline’s eyes filled with tears. “The silly old fool,” she said, her voice thick. “Oh I do miss him.”

  “Was he talking about sex?”

  Pauline nodded. “I think he was terrified of it. He was certainly terrified of women.”

  They moved back to let Eithne pass. Stella, dressed in a yellow frilly blouse, was pushing the wheelchair. “Sail before steam!” she said. Oh Lord, she was pissed.

  Madge’s guest had arrived. He was a bald, diminutive gentleman in a black silk tunic. As Madge bent down to whisper in his ear, the sunlight flashed on her jewelry. He laughed. Her husband, apparently, had also been short, but she had cited Tom Cruise as an example of a desirable midget. They paused at the dining-room door, ready to make their entrance; beside them, the barometer was set to FAIR.

  “Where’s my daughter?” asked Evelyn fretfully. “And her friend?”

  She hurried down the garden to the gates, though why this should bring Theresa home faster she had no idea. The elderly beggar stood there, wearing Minoo’s shoes. To him, she supposed, this particular day was no different from any other. He was still as hungry as he was yesterday, and as hungry as he would be tomorrow.

  She rummaged in her purse and found a five-rupee note. What was that in old money—one and ninepence? Quite a lot, in fact, when she was a girl. More than a month’s pocket money, in fact.

  She put it into his tin. “Happy Christmas,” she said.

  Theresa sat squashed next to Keith in the rickshaw. It puttered along past walls spattered red with paan juice, past a building that bore a sign saying GOVERNMENT WORK IS GOD’S WORK. Whenever it stopped, the engine died. The driver had to yank the handle until, in a cloud of exhaust smoke, it coughed into life.

  “My mother will be consumed with curiosity,” she said. “But in a well-bred way.”

  Keith lit a cigarette, his hand jolting as he flicked the lighter. During all these days together he had seldom asked her a personal question. In the long run, no doubt, this lack of curiosity would annoy her. She suspected, however, that there would be no long run. Thank the stranger and say goodbye.

  “At least you won’t have to meet my brother,” she said. “He’s gone to Goa. He’s married to an awful ball-breaking wife who’s destroyed his self-esteem, but he’s too weak to leave her. He’s always been a coward. Or just lazy, which can come to the same thing. Who said that evil comes from inaction?”

  “I hate this bloody country,” said Keith.

  Theresa knew he was depressed. Christmas was always a bad time for her clients; in fact she felt guilty, leaving them. At Christmas you needed to be surrounded by those you loved. Despite the passion betw
een them, she guessed that for Keith she wasn’t included in this category. Though his thigh was pressed against hers, she felt suddenly alone.

  I want my Mummy! she thought. Men might come and go, but a mother was always there. For a little longer, anyway.

  Ravi, flanked by the two elderly bearers, stood at the head of the table. He was carving the turkey. Its appearance had been greeted by a flutter of applause. Those cocktails do grow on you, Stella had said. More drink waited on the table: beer, sherry (the Ainslies’ contribution) and several bottles of imported French Bordeaux, bought at some expense by Sonny.

  Sonny’s solicitude in the past few days was a cause of puzzlement. Since Norman’s death he had seldom been off the premises and he was strangely subdued. It was Christmas Day; did the man have no home to go to? Several people remarked that he had lost weight.

  Evelyn sat next to two empty places. Maybe her daughter was in some drug den, shooting up or whatever they did, in the company of her unknown corrupter.

  “Children, even when middle-aged, are such a worry,” she said to Pauline, who sat on her other side. “Nobody tells you; it’s one of those secrets.”

  “I always wanted children.” Pauline took a gulp of wine. “I had a miscarriage once and that was that.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

  “After it happened, Ravi and I went through a rocky patch.” Pauline’s cheeks were flushed. “These damn saris!” She flung the material back over her shoulder.

  Sonny tapped his glass and stood up. A hush fell.

  “My dear ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please allow me to welcome you to your first Christmas at The Marigold—”

  “I want to set up a children’s home here,” whispered Pauline, “but where’s the money? Besides, Ravi’s not keen.”

  Sonny said: “I am sure, my friends, that you are aware of some teething troubles, but what grand venture does not bring problems? I must thank you for your kindness and patience, and want to inform you all that we are fortunate to have engaged the services of a new cook and assistant lady manager who will take up their positions in the next week.” Sonny cleared his throat. “And now, to be serious for a moment, I would like us to raise our glasses to the gentleman who can no longer be with us.”

  There was a general murmur as they hurriedly filled their glasses from whatever was nearest to hand.

  “Mr. Norman Purse,” said Sonny. “A great man, and my very good friend.”

  The bearers passed around the plates of turkey. The diners paused, uncertain whether to begin. Was he going to continue?

  Yes. “I admire your esteemed selves for your courage, for you have shown that it’s never too late to embark on a new experience. By opening your hearts to the hospitality of my country, you have shown that in the twenty-first century the world has no borders. As the wise man said, geography is now history!” Sonny wiped his brow. “As your co-director it’s gratifying to see you flourishing in our sunshine, for as many of you have been so kind as to say, our country has given you a new lease of life.”

  “Try telling that to Norman,” muttered Madge.

  “Throughout the centuries my country has enjoyed a unique bond with yours,” Sonny continued. “As you have made my people welcome, so too we have made yours. I hope our modest venture will be the start of a whole new export market—no longer cotton, but people!”

  “What, by the kilo?” whispered Douglas.

  “For India has bypassed the industrial revolution, my dear friends. She has leaped from agriculture straight to the service industries—”

  “What is he going on about?” whispered Evelyn.

  “Maybe he’s drunk,” whispered Pauline. “He’s been rather odd since my father died.”

  Sonny continued: “This has been a difficult year for myself too, in ways I won’t elaborate now—”

  “Thank God,” whispered Madge.

  “Can we start eating now?” hissed Olive.

  “And I would like to inform you that I propose to wind down my other commitments and devote my energies to this enterprise, for here in my country we have a tradition of reverence for older people, we respect their wisdom and their place at the head of our families—”

  “Hear hear!” said Douglas.

  “We don’t abandon them in nursing homes or on hospital trolleys,” said Sonny, “this is not the Indian way—”

  “No, but you press baby girls’ faces into sacks until they suffocate,” whispered Theresa, sitting down beside her mother.

  “Darling!” exclaimed Evelyn. “Thank God you’ve arrived.”

  “You burn brides to get their dowries, some lousy VCR. You force children into labor.” Theresa leaned close to her mother. “I’m going off India. This is Keith.”

  Evelyn shook hands with a man, rather charming in a rough-diamond kind of way. Keith had pale blue eyes and a pugilist’s nose.

  “You can’t be her mum,” he whispered.

  “Can’t I?” Evelyn felt the warmth rising up her neck.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Theresa. “Rickshaw broke down.”

  Keith gazed at Evelyn, his eyebrows raised. “I can see where she got her looks,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Evelyn simpered. That was how it felt—simpering. “Welcome to Bournemouth-in-Bangalore,” she said.

  Sonny was still droning on. Nobody seemed to be able to stop him.

  Suddenly someone screamed.

  Muriel was staring across the room. “Keith!” she cried, her voice strangled. “KEITH!”

  Stella, who was sitting next to her, touched her arm. “Don’t distress yourself, dear, it’s just Theresa’s young man—”

  Keith stared across the table.

  “Fuck me!” he said.

  Scraping back his chair, he jumped to his feet and stumbled past the diners. Heads turned as he charged around the table. Jimmy, holding a tureen of cabbage, was blocking the way. Keith moved him to the side as if he were a hat stand.

  “Mum!” He opened his arms and scooped Muriel up. Holding her tightly, he lifted her off her feet and whirled her around. They bumped against the bamboo bookcase. It wobbled; several volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica fell to the floor.

  “My son!” cried Muriel, and burst into tears.

  Outside, darkness had fallen. The meal seemed to have gone on for hours. The residents, paper hats on their heads, sat among the debris—slimy coins spat out from the Christmas puddings; torn cheese wrappers. These were Theresa’s contribution to the feast—individual portions of cheese that she had bought in the bazaar near the airport. She suspected they came from airline meals, pocketed by cleaning staff and sold on to the stallholders, but didn’t let on. “Camembert!” cried the diners. “Cheddar!” They slipped the spare ones into their handbags, for later.

  Muriel sat next to her son. People had shifted around so that the two could be together. Her shock had given way to a dazed gratification. “It’s like all my Christmases have come at once,” she said.

  “In India,” said Theresa, leaning across the table, “sooner or later you bump into the person you want to meet.”

  “That true?”

  “No,” said Theresa. “But it’s not entirely untrue either.”

  Muriel had told her son about the mugging, the burglary, how she had buried her cat in his garden before going back to Peckham, packing up her life and coming to India to find him. “It’s all fate,” she said. “That first tumble, and me meeting that nice Dr. Kapoor.” She beamed at Ravi down the table. “I’ve even got those black boys to thank, who took my bag, because here I am and I’m never going home, never. And you can’t go home, so that makes two of us.”

  The miracle of this reunion had affected them all. The prodigal sons … the daughters, disappeared into the demands of their adult lives … at any moment, they felt, the door would open and in would step their lost families, drawn to India by its transforming magic. The effects of alcohol gave this a Spielbergian radiance, as
if they were sitting at their own movie, awaiting the scenes of reconciliation and final credits.

  “It’s been go-go-go these past few weeks,” Madge whispered to her new boyfriend, whose name was Mr. Desikachar. “Dorothy told the Ainslies their son was gay, the manager kicked out his wife, the cook’s gone, the doctor’s gone, an old soak called Norman died in a brothel but his daughter doesn’t know, she thinks he was buying her a Christmas present. And that’s just for starters.”

  “I thought this was a retirement home,” said Mr. Desikachar.

  “Life begins at seventy.” Madge smiled, dazzling him with her expensive dentistry. “Seventy’s the new forty, didn’t you know?”

  “Looking at you, Mrs. Rheinhart, I find that easy to believe.”

  She touched his knee. “Do call me Madge.”

  Down the table, Douglas tapped his glass. “I think we should toast the cooks.”

  They raised their glasses to Ravi. He rose to his feet. After thanking his helper, Pramod, he cleared his throat. “As Sonny said, you have indeed shown great courage in moving to my country. More courage than I have shown.”

  Pauline made a small noise in her throat. She was sitting at the far end of the table, a paper hat on her head.

  “It’s said that in Britain family life has broken up,” continued the doctor. “That people no longer feel a duty to care for their parents anymore. That’s part of the reason we set up this company. I have to tell you, however, that this does not just apply to your countrymen.”

  He sat down. Madge leaned to her neighbor, Douglas. “What’s that all about?” she whispered.

  “Search me,” replied Douglas. “Maybe he’s tipsy.”

  “He’s been on the lime sodas, darling. The man doesn’t drink.”

  Oh well. He was Indian. However much you knew them, pockets of incomprehensibility still remained. Madge gazed at Mr. Desikachar’s hand as he lit her cigarette. He wore a heavy gold signet ring. Tufts of black hair sprouted from his finger-joints. She was so hungry for sex her throat was dry. I shall have one last adventure, she thought. Arnold would want me to be happy.