The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel

by Deborah Moggach

  It felt odd, sending Pauline to his home country without being by her side. He would have been interested to see her reactions; in her present moody state she could swing in any direction. Besides, India had an unexpected effect on people; one could never predict who would surrender to its allure and who would be baffled and distressed. He himself had returned on a couple of occasions to visit his family, but both times without his wife. The first occasion was when they were going through that rough patch and Pauline had moved out; the second time was when her mother was dying and Pauline had had to remain in England. For reasons Ravi was disinclined to investigate, he wasn’t sorry.

  On this occasion, of course, he was simply too busy to go. He couldn’t take time off work, and then there was Ravison Ltd. It was thrilling, to discover in himself this aptitude for business. The very word business made his heart beat faster. All his life he had worked in a bureaucracy, ruled by its own caste system, stifled by budgets and management incompetence. Now he felt like a pit pony loosed into the sunshine. Anything was possible—large amounts of money, the power to change things by his own decision. Once the business was up and running, he could even consider resigning from the hospital. He could get up when he liked, he could work the hours he liked. He could travel around the world, liaising with architects under coconut palms. Ravi’s very body felt different, as if unknown muscles were strengthening. Really he should be grateful to that old sod Norman for giving him the idea in the first place.

  Dorabella and Fiordiligi were singing of forgiveness. “Fortunato c’uom che prende …” Ravi wiped away a tear. He went into the kitchen. Pauline, bless her, had left the fridge well stocked. He pictured her tall, broad-shouldered body and felt a stir of desire. Now that she was absent his wife had reverted, like the house, to her old self—brisk, amusing, undisturbed by the turbulence of the menopause and the presence of her father. Even Norman could be remembered more kindly now—as a cheery old reprobate rather than his tormentor.

  Ravi put a fisherman’s pie into the microwave. He was a bachelor again, filled with vim and optimism. After supper he would go upstairs and catch up with work. Everything was going according to plan. The first residents had been installed with only minor problems. Sonny wouldn’t lie to him; they were in this thing together, fifty-fifty.

  Ravi tore open a bag of salad leaves and shook them into a bowl. In the old days he would be exhausted when he came home from the hospital. Nowadays, despite double the workload, he was filled with energy. How exhilarating it was, working for himself rather than for other people! He mixed a vinaigrette—walnut oil, lime juice. He even felt tenderly toward Mrs. Donnelly. “Here I am again,” she had said, “turned up like a bad penny.” She was trying to be cheerful, even though she was shaken. Ravi no longer considered her a racist bigot, more a plucky old bird. After all, the world had changed so profoundly; it must be confusing for somebody of her age. He would send her a brochure, although, as Pauline had said, there was not a hope in hell that she would go. Muriel Donnelly, of all people!

  For one thing, she wouldn’t have the money. And then there was her other little problem.

  Tossing the salad, Ravi smiled. The old girl was right, of course. They were all over the place nowadays; you couldn’t get away from them. Especially, of course, in the health sector. In fact, it was immaterial what country you happened to be in when your time came. Whether you were in Watford or Wisconsin, in all likelihood the last face you would see, on this earth, would be a black one.

  Muriel had been mugged. She had been burgled. Her cat had disappeared; Leonard must have fled when the robbers came, and she didn’t dare go out into the night to look for him. She was alone, and her son wasn’t answering his phone. She just got the machine.

  “Keith! Please come and get me. Wherever you are, Keith, come here quick. They’re going to come back. They got my keys—”

  A beep and she was cut off.

  Her neighbor Winnie was away. The flat upstairs was empty.

  Muriel, still wearing her overcoat, sat trembling on her bed. She had lost all track of time. She felt woozy and disembodied—it must be the painkillers; she felt as if her body was sitting there but she herself was floating up by the ceiling fixture, gazing down at the old lady with the black eye and bandaged leg. Her soul had escaped, leaving her as light as a husk. She knew that her legs felt chilly—they had thrown away her stockings at the hospital—but the chilliness belonged to somebody who had no connection to her.

  Muriel sat there, waiting for Keith to ring, waiting for the click of the cat flap. She knew that she should phone the police, but then she would have to wait for them and they might take a long time. When her son came he would whisk her away from this flat that was no longer hers, that had been invaded by strangers who wanted to kill her. Evil was in the air like a gas leak.

  Just then she heard a click. It was the cat flap.

  “Lenny!”

  Muriel heaved herself to her feet. Her Lenny had come home. She would put him in his cat basket and take him to Chigwell. Keith would make a fuss of her and tuck her up in his spare room; it had its own bathroom, solid gold taps. Even his tart of a wife would be sorry for her now.

  Muriel made her way along the corridor. “Lenny, I’m here.” Maybe what happened today was a portent, a warning to her that she must leave Peckham for good. Maybe her son was right. She would let him pack up her flat and move her to Chigwell; she could end her days peacefully in the countryside with cows, not muggers, for company.

  Muriel went into the kitchen. A ginger tom stood there, eating Lenny’s food. Bold as bold, it didn’t even turn.

  “Get out!” Muriel kicked at it with her good leg. “Sod off!”

  It hissed at her. Its eyes were milky with cataracts. Then it sauntered off, tail up, anus in full view. With difficulty, it squeezed itself through the cat flap.

  Muriel unbolted the back door. The cat had stopped at the end of her yard. It stared at her.

  “Sod off!” she shouted, hobbling across the concrete.

  She stood still, trying to catch her breath. Her lungs wheezed. The car park looked eerie, bathed in the sodium light. Somewhere a bird sang; they sang all times of the night nowadays, it wasn’t right. The streetlights made them think it was the day. Far off, beyond the next block of flats, a man bellowed.

  Muriel steadied herself against the wall and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. Then she turned to go indoors.

  Next to her was a row of giant dustbins on wheels. Something caught her eye.

  At first she thought it was a bit of fur coat—a muff or something—that somebody had thrown away. It was flung onto a pile of rubbish bags.

  She stepped closer. No, it was a child’s stuffed toy. Black fur, white paws.

  She moved even closer. And then she stopped.

  During the movie Pauline slept. She dreamed she was a little girl again, kneeling beside her mother on a grassy knoll. Her mother was already ill, though nobody was saying. Her face was gray and clammy. They were sitting in a place called India, though Pauline knew it was the park in High Wycombe, where she grew up; she recognized the war memorial. Gravely, her mother passed Pauline a plate of food. When Pauline looked down, she saw it was monkeys’ heads.

  It seemed perfectly natural, those wizened faces sunk in gravy. They looked happy enough, smiling up at her like little old men. She wasn’t going to eat them, no fear.

  A shadow fell. It was her father. He sat down on the grass and lifted out a head. He put it into his mouth and started munching.

  “Be a good girl and get me another one.”

  Pauline woke up. Norman was holding up his empty whisky miniature.

  “Be a good girl,” he said to the stewardess, “and get me another one.”

  The stewardess caught Pauline’s eye and smiled. No doubt it was pity; Norman had been making a nuisance of himself throughout the flight. Then Pauline realized that her own face was drenched in sweat. Another hot flush.

/>   “We’ll be landing soon,” said the stewardess.

  Pauline pulled up the shade. Outside, dawn blazed, a rim of fire over the curved horizon. Five hours had been lost as they hurtled through time zones toward a new day. Her heart beat faster, or maybe it was just palpitations. This was what she did for others, sending them speeding through space, sending them to destinations on the far side of the earth. She too had traveled, of course. But tonight was no holiday; for her father, it was a new life. She pressed the dinner napkin to her face. The moon pulled at the earth’s gravity; the tides pulled women’s wombs—except for stewardesses, who crisscrossed the world and whose periods apparently stopped altogether, as her own would soon do.

  What a strange dream. Maybe there would be monkeys in India. There would certainly be babies. It was painful, having her mother so briefly restored to her. Suddenly, Pauline missed her so powerfully she felt nauseous. How could her mother desert her by dying? The old man in the next seat had sucked the life out of her; Pauline realized that now. There was no justice in the world. Her mother, a good woman, had died; her father, on the other hand, seemed indestructible. Selfishness was a powerful life-force; he would probably outlive them all, despite the abuse he had inflicted on his body by a lifetime of drinking and smoking—he had even lit up a fag in the toilet and been hauled out by the steward.

  “In a few moments we will be commencing our descent into Indira Gandhi International Airport … please make sure that your seat belts are fastened, your trays folded and your seats returned to an upright position …”

  Norman seemed to have got his way. He unscrewed the cap and poured whisky into his glass. “Going on to Bangalore,” he told his neighbor on the other side, a corpulent Indian who had slept most of the journey. “My daughter’s dumping me in an old folks’ home there.”

  “Bangalore is a charming city,” said the man. “Very pleasant climate, very up-to-the-minute facilities.”

  “See, Dad?” said Pauline.

  “It’s known as Pensioners’ Paradise,” said the man. “My countrymen live all over the world. Sometimes they have no family left in India, so they buy into new residential complexes for their old age.”

  “See, Dad? It’s not just you.”

  “It’s very similar to England, in many ways,” said the man. “Wait for Christmas. They all go to Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Church, and then it’s roast turkey and all the trimmings at Koshy’s.” He tapped Norman’s knee. “And for a man who likes a drink, Bangalore is the place to be. The home to Kingfisher beer. A pub on every corner!”

  Norman tapped the side of his nose. “And a few more things besides.”

  The plane hit turbulence. They jolted in their seats. The whisky slopped out of Norman’s glass.

  “You sure you shouldn’t be in hospital?” said the cabbie.

  “I’ve been in hospital,” said Muriel. “Put your foot down and take me to Chigwell.”

  “I live that way myself,” he said. “Ongar. Couldn’t live in London, not nowadays; I mean look at you. How could they do that to a poor defenseless woman? Law and order, it’s totally broken down; I mean where’s the police, where’s the bobby on the beat? Kids today, they’re totally out of control. They come to this country—you know what I’m talking about—they come here, living on benefits, the dads fucking off, pardon my language, kids dealing in crack cocaine, they’re off their heads half the time, little kids twelve years old. They know the system, see, they just laugh at the police, they just give ’em the number of their solicitor. Hardened criminals at twelve years of age! Lock ’em up, I say, lock ’em up and throw away the key.”

  Muriel sat there, her eyes closed, as the cab drove through the streets. She had drunk half a tumbler of some liqueur Keith had brought back from Spain.

  “I mean, did you read about that old lady, she was in the papers, left for two days in A & E. Call that a civilized society? Bring back hanging, that’s what I say.”

  Muriel’s overnight bag sat beside her. She couldn’t remember packing it. Normally a talkative woman, she seemed to have lost the power of speech. All she could do was will the cab to get her to Keith’s house before she collapsed. When the flying bombs came, that was what you did—count during the silence, waiting for the explosion … fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …

  Leonard.

  Muriel must have fallen asleep, because now they had arrived at Keith’s house and she was fumbling in her pocket for the money she had got from the shoe box.

  “This the place?” The cabbie heaved out her bag.

  The house was dark. Keith and Sandra must be out for the evening, enjoying themselves. Even his mobile had been switched off.

  “My boy’ll be back soon,” Muriel said. “I got the keys.”

  She had found them in her kitchen drawer. She had moved around like an automaton. It was like, when the systems were down, an emergency generator kicking in. Pacemakers did that, with your heart.

  The cabbie escorted her up the drive. His hand cupped her elbow. “Nice place. Must’ve cost a few bob.”

  “There’s a swimming pool out the back.” Even now Muriel could summon up maternal pride; it was that deep-rooted.

  Suddenly they were flooded with light. The house was thrown into relief—large, half-timbered, stickers scattered over Jordan’s bedroom window. The kids were away at boarding school.

  “They’re not my son’s kids,” she said. “They’re Sandra’s.”

  The intruder lights made the house look flimsy, like a stage set. They reached the porch. “Blimey, this bag’s heavy.” The cabbie lowered it to the ground.

  “Don’t leave me!” Muriel grabbed his arm.

  “ ’Course I won’t, my love.”

  The cabbie took the keys and opened the locks for her, one by one.

  He had to push the door open; it was jammed by a heap of letters. They stepped in. The air was chill. Something went beep-beep-beep.

  “Oh oh,” said the cabbie. “Where’s the alarm, ducks?”

  Muriel switched on the light. She was too flustered to think. There was an unused smell in the place; the table was littered with dead lily petals.

  “Must be somewhere,” said the cabbie, searching the passage.

  Then the burglar alarm wailed.

  Muriel was sitting in an unknown lounge. The cabbie had gone. Seated opposite her were a man and a woman who looked vaguely familiar. A Yorkie sniffed her leg.

  “Stop that, Coco,” said the man. “Sorry, sweetheart, it’s your bandage.”

  Muriel was clutching a mug of tea; some of it slopped on the carpet.

  “Here, let me hold it for you.” The woman took the mug out of Muriel’s hand.

  How long had Muriel been sitting there? Slowly their faces assembled themselves into familiar people. They were Keith’s next-door neighbors; Muriel had met them at a barbecue. The man was named Carl; he was a builder.

  “Your poor eye,” said the wife, what’s-her-name. “You poor dear.” She had bleached-blond hair and wore a dressing gown. There was a cabinet full of silver trophies against the wall. Muriel spotted a Diana mug.

  “Where’s Keith?” Muriel asked.

  Carl looked at his wife. She said: “I’ll make you up a bed, Mrs. Donnelly. We can talk in the morning.”

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “He’s gone abroad.”

  “What, to Spain?”

  Carl shook his head. He was a big, beefy man with a suntan. “Not Spain, love. See, they’ll be looking for him there, too.”

  “Who will?” asked Muriel.

  “The police.”

  “The police?” Muriel stared.

  “See, Keith’s been in a spot of bother,” Carl said.

  The wife turned to him. “More than a spot, cherub.”

  There was a silence. The dog started whimpering. It was sniffing Muriel’s holdall.

  “Coco!” Carl gripped its collar and pulled it away. Claws skittered across the parquet floor.
r />   “What’s been happening?” said Muriel. “What’s happened to my son?”

  Rita! That was the name. Rita cleared her throat. “What Carl’s trying to say is that your son’s in trouble. A business thing. We don’t know nothing about it, but something’s blown up and he’s had to get out of the country. He told us not to say anything, but seeing it’s you. I don’t know what’s happened to Sandra, I mean there’s the kids, isn’t there? I don’t know if she’s gone with him. But he’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

  The dog struggled out of Carl’s arms and bounded over to the bag again.

  “Coco!”

  “The cat’s in there, that’s why,” said Muriel. She couldn’t say the word dead, she would start blubbering. “I couldn’t leave him all alone.” There was a pause. They gazed at the bag. “Keith wouldn’t leave me all alone,” she said.

  “He was in a bit of a hurry,” said Carl.

  “I’m sure he would have told you,” said Rita. “If he had time.”

  Carl looked at the bag. “Don’t you want to let your cat out?”

  “No,” said Muriel. “He won’t be coming out again.”

  Somewhere, far away, a clock chimed. This house was even bigger than Keith’s.

  “Your son left on Tuesday,” said Rita. “And that afternoon the police came round. They’d only just missed him.” She looked at the bag. “Is there something wrong with it? Your cat?”

  “My Keith’s done nothing wrong,” said Muriel. “Why’re they wasting their time chasing my son when they should be catching criminals! They should be catching those boys.” Her head swam. Was it really that very morning that she had been mugged? “He hasn’t gone abroad. He’s hiding, like he used to do when he was little. He’s ever so clever at it. He’s hiding and nobody’s going to find him.”