The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (17 page)

Evelyn sat on the bed and wriggled her toes. Mrs. Cowasjee had given her a pedicure. She had painted her nails a pearly pink. Evelyn knew that it was trivial to find pleasure in such a minor thing, but there was no denying that it was a morale-booster. She had missed Beverley’s sagas, of course—she had written her manicurist a letter but had received no reply—and Mrs. Cowasjee had seemed even grumpier than usual. Evelyn’s tentative inquiries about the shoes, and her first meeting with her husband, had been met with a contemptuous sniff.

Evelyn walked to the lounge. Jimmy, who was dozing in a chair, struggled to his feet. Despite her protestations that she could do it herself, he went to the fridge and fetched her a Thums Up
(Absolutely No Natural Ingredients)
, a drink to which she had become mildly addicted.

Evelyn went out to the veranda, stepping over a line of ants that were making their way into the hotel, presumably to carry on eating it. Only yesterday she had opened a biography of Dr. Crippen, one of the books that had been left behind by former visitors, and found its pages crumbling to sawdust.

She sat down with her drink. Jimmy hovered in the doorway.

“It’s all right, Jimmy.”

“Madam would like something else?”

“No, thank you.”

Still he stood there, a shadowy waxwork. Always, everywhere, eyes were upon her—people wanting to serve her, to sell her something, people simply wanting to accompany her in the street in a desire to be helpful. Indians were so very hospitable and polite, so eager to welcome a visitor to their country. It certainly made a change from England, but it could become somewhat wearing. Though Jimmy was a servant, he was still more or less a man and she didn’t want him to see her bare legs, so pitifully white and bruised from the slightest knock. Of course there were worse sights in India than her thread veins, but she still had her pride. In fact, when she was young her legs had been her best feature. She could remember the exact moment when, puzzled by the phrase
a nicely turned ankle
, she discovered that it was a compliment and applied to herself. Even now she could recall the blush of pleasure. It was at a tea party in Horsham, when she was sixteen years old.

“Watch out for snakes.”

Evelyn jumped. Madge Rheinhart stepped out onto the veranda.

“Eithne swears she saw a cobra,” said Madge, “but you know what a nervous little ninny she is.”

Madge looked beautifully groomed, as always—burnished helmet of hair, silk blouse and slacks. Sleep never rumpled her. Even with her glasses on, Evelyn couldn’t detect a wrinkle on that face. It was hard to believe she was as old as Evelyn; she seemed a different species altogether. Evelyn suspected a few nips and tucks. She wondered if it made one feel any younger, to stall time in this way. It was not a question she could put, even to Madge.

“I wish I could jettison my tights,” said Evelyn. “In this climate … well …”

“Things can get a little clammy,” laughed Madge. “Be a devil and go native. You’ve got gorgeous feet. Mine are hideous—Mrs. C nearly had a fit.”

“You’ve been to her too?”

Madge nodded. “We’re all going; she does a mean pedicure. What you need are some glamorous sandals.”

“I don’t have any,” said Evelyn.

“Come along. We’ll go to the Oberoi, it’s got the best shops.”

“But—”

“Come along, sweetie. The nice thing about India is you never have to think about money because everything’s so cheap.”

For those on a fixed income this wasn’t entirely true, but Evelyn surrendered. A thing she missed, since Hugh’s death, was another person making the decisions.

The Oberoi Hotel was only a mile up the road, but Madge ordered a taxi. It was too hot to walk, and besides, they would get pestered. Evelyn liked the taxis; they were called Ambassadors, but they were really old Morris Oxfords and reminded her of trips to the seaside when she was little.

“Such a happy time.”

“What did you say?” asked Madge.

“Nothing, dear.” Evelyn liked Madge; Norman called her the Merry Widow. Madge already knew her way around the city—Prada shops, Gucci shops. She said that all the best boutiques were to be found in the big hotels.

They were just getting into the taxi when Muriel Donnelly hurried over. “Got room for one more?”

Later it all made sense. At the time, however, Evelyn was mildly surprised. She presumed that after three days of being confined to The Marigold, feeling poorly, Muriel wanted a jaunt. Her behavior, however, was odd. On the way she didn’t speak. The driver swerved around cows and scooters; Muriel gripped the torn hole where the doorknob had once been and stared fixedly out the window. When they passed a group of Europeans, she swung around and gazed at them until they were out of sight.

“How can anyone sightsee in this weather?” asked Madge.

“The Ainslies do,” replied Evelyn. “They’ve gone to the Bull Temple.”

“Doesn’t that woman drive you round the bend?” said Madge. “So bloody smug. Dragging her husband around like a prize exhibit, crowing because she’s got one and we haven’t.”

“Madge!” said Evelyn.

“Boasting about her bloody son. Sometimes I wish something would happen to her, just to wipe that self-satisfied expression off her face.”

Muriel didn’t join in. She stared out the window. They drove through the Oberoi gates, past emerald lawns, their sprinklers rainbows in the sunlight, past palm trees. Muriel muttered something under her breath.

Madge paid. Even her rupee notes were crisp, unlike the oily rags most people had scrumpled up in their purses. A handsome doorman in a braided uniform bowed as they entered.

“How different from our own dear Jimmy,” whispered Madge.

Muriel, however, seemed distracted. She wandered across the lobby, looking around as if she had made arrangements to meet someone. The lobby was a vast, marble place and pleasantly cool. Evelyn could feel the powder drying on her face. Behind them a group of package tourists arrived—big men in shorts, maybe Germans. A hostess greeted them: a graceful girl in a sky-blue sari. She bowed and placed her hands together. Another young beauty put garlands around their necks and painted a blob of crimson on their foreheads. Muriel stood there, scanning their faces.

“This way to the shoe shop,” said Madge, leading Evelyn toward the arcade. A function board displayed names:
Welcome to Glaxo International, Krishna Room 4th Floor … Jayanti Wedding Party, Skyline Room …
Evelyn marveled at the sophistication of the place—why, they could be in Houston or somewhere. It seemed a world away from their ramshackle hotel and its scruffy little bazaar. She felt a wave of loyalty toward The Marigold.

Just then a man she recognized appeared. He was hurrying across the lobby, talking on a mobile phone.

“Hallo, Sonny!” called Madge.

He finished his conversation, came over and vigorously shook their hands. “Mrs. Rheinhart, Mrs. Greenslade! Ah, and Mrs. Donnelly!”

Now Evelyn remembered: Sonny ran the retirement company. He was restless; his eyes flickered around as he talked like the maître d’ of a restaurant, checking that the customers were being served.

“Everything is okay, ladies?”

“Well, nobody’s died yet,” drawled Madge. “But I wish you’d get us some more men. I mean we might be sad old bags, but—honestly, Norman and Graham! We’re not that desperate.”

“What can I do, madam?” Sonny raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “You are the powerful sex, you shall outlive us all. We are just the poor males of the species.”

“Don’t talk such tosh,” said Madge. “This is bloody India.”

“Yes, but behind every Indian man there is his mother.” Sonny’s voice throbbed with emotion. “He is the mere puppet, she is pulling the strings.”

“Rubbish,” said Madge. “Oh well, I’ll just have to find myself a nice rich maharaja.” She looked at Evelyn’s startled face. “Oh I loved my husband to bits, sweetie, but he’s gone now. I don’t want to die alone.”

“You’ve got us,” said Evelyn.

There was a silence. Madge gave her a small smile.

“You are not happy in your retirement home?” asked Sonny.

“I prefer to think of it as a hotel,” said Madge. “The word ‘hotel’ still has possibilities.”

Evelyn was aware of music playing. It emanated from a lady harpist, stationed beside a potted palm. The loudspeaker asked a Mr. Willoughby to come to Reception.

Sonny took his leave. After he had gone, Evelyn said: “You seem to know him quite well.”

“He and Arnold, they did business together in London,” replied Madge. “That’s how I heard about this place. Sonny owns a lot of property here—that hideous place opposite our hotel, call centers, high-tech stuff. He knows everybody.”

“That true?” Muriel asked, her voice sharp.

“Most of them are his relations. But that’s India for you.”

Muriel turned away and hurried after Sonny. Evelyn watched her waylay him and ask him something. He shook his head, or maybe it was one of those waggles. She still hadn’t got the hang of them yet.

“Come on,” said Madge. “Let’s hit those shops.”

Sonny hurried outside to where a driver waited beside a white Mercedes. Muriel went up to the reception desk. She stood there, a stocky figure in her floral dress, talking to the clerk. Her behavior was really rather odd.

“What’s Muriel doing?” asked Evelyn.

Madge followed her gaze. “Maybe she wants an upgrade,” she laughed.

B
y the time they returned, the afternoon shadows had lengthened. After the chaos of the streets, The Marigold felt like home; for the first time Evelyn felt it might be possible to make a life for herself here, with her new friends.

Maybe it was something to do with the light. In India this time of day was very beautiful; for some reason they called it cow hour. It reminded her of the long, golden afternoon of her childhood, an afternoon that never seemed to end, when birdsong echoed and her mother was calling her to come in to bed, a call she pretended not to hear. Maybe it had to do with the freedom she felt, bare-legged, wearing her new sandals.

In the hotel somebody was playing the piano. Whoever it was played hesitantly, sometimes missing the note.

“Who is Sylvia? What is she—”

Evelyn herself used to sing it.

“That all our swains commend her …”

On the veranda stooped Eithne Pomeroy, in her yellow dress. She was putting out a saucer of milk for the cat she had befriended. Graham Turner, the ageing bachelor, had come to a standstill in front of the aviary. Evelyn looked at his back view—the thinning hair, the sloping shoulders. He often stood for long periods, lost in thought.

“Is she kind, as she is fair?

“For beauty lives with kindness …”

Evelyn hummed the tune. Actually, she had never believed this bit. Cecilia Shaw, at school, had the looks of an angel but she had made Evelyn’s life a misery with her bullying. Suddenly, Evelyn was seized with fury. No feelings since then—not for her husband or her children—were as fierce as that tumult of half a century ago, caused by someone who might now be dead.

“Come on,” said Madge, “drinkipoos.”

She led Evelyn to the veranda and ordered gin and tonics, like a husband. This was the best moment of the day. Evelyn had never been a drinker, but hotel life had liberated her. This wasn’t home; nor was it the stuffy prison of Leaside.
The word “hotel” still has possibilities
.

“Then to Sylvia, let us sing …”

The piano was out of tune, of course. Whoever was playing must have learned it as a child. Evelyn had learned it too. She had squirmed on the piano stool, longing to escape into the green light of the garden.

Under the table Evelyn pushed the sandal off her foot; it was already rubbing. Once she had stayed out all day, running wild, crashing through the undergrowth. Now she was exhausted by a taxi ride. Once she ran through the grass, her shadow following her as the sun sank. Now she was in a country where the shadow cast by the sweeper was so polluting that a higher-caste Hindu had to disinfect it. Mr. Cowasjee had told her that. How could such kind people be so terribly cruel? It was as bad as Cecilia, holding her nose when Evelyn walked past. Yet the sweeper, the lowest of the low, seemed unperturbed. To him, perhaps, this life was as insubstantial as his own shadow.

Evelyn watched the
mali
. He walked slowly across the lawn, stooping to pick up Norman’s cigarette butts. Cecilia, the bully, was the only girl at school who smoked. It seemed thrillingly wicked. She developed, too, before anyone else. Evelyn and her friends, inspecting their flat chests, used to chant:
“I must, I must, I must increase my bust.”
Would they ever become women? Would anyone, ever, want to hold them in their arms?

With an effort, the
mali
straightened up. His back was as stiff as her own. What had happened to Cecilia? She had probably had scores of lovers; Catholic girls were known to be fast. Evelyn had only had one: her husband.

The drinks arrived. Madge signed the chit and sat down. Evelyn was flattered that the glamorous Madge had singled her out. It was just like school, all over again, but freed from the pain.

“Why did you come here?” asked Evelyn.

“Because I was bored out of my mind,” replied Madge. “Ever been to Stanmore?”

Evelyn shook her head.

“Well, then.” Madge lit a cigarette. “I wanted to have one last go at it.”

“Indians seem to have a lot of goes,” said Evelyn.

“I don’t think one should give up. Someone told Clark Gable that he was bad in bed. He said:
‘That’s why I have to keep practicing.’
”

Startled, Evelyn laughed. She smelled dinner cooking. “I liked what you said about hotels,” she said. “I don’t fancy the word
retirement
either.”

Madge fished out a slice of lime from her drink with her fingernail. Sucking it, she gazed at the residents sitting at their tables. “Actually, sweetie, it’s more like a waiting room. Just don’t look at the departure board.”

There was a silence. Deep in the hotel, the piano-playing stopped. Evelyn wished Madge hadn’t said that.