Douglas was fond of Dorothy Miller. In general, however, she wasn’t popular. This was partly because Dorothy was a late arrival, an outsider, when friendships had already been formed and patterns established. This would not have been a problem if she had joined in, but she was generally considered standoffish. She ate alone, a book propped in front of her, and refused to play bridge. Of course there were other loners—Graham Turner, for instance, but he was a sad old bachelor whom everybody pitied. Nobody could pity Dorothy.
Douglas, however, felt a certain admiration for her. This was partly because she had been a support to his son, Adam, in his career. But it was more than that. Surrounded by chattering women it was a relief to find somebody with no small talk, somebody so entirely unfluffy. He liked Dorothy’s plain face and square hands. She occupied the next room and when he woke at night he heard, faintly, the sound of her radio. Surely nobody entirely gaga would listen to the World Service?
Douglas looked at his wife. Her nose was peeling. Two weeks ago an arrangement had been set up with the Meridian Hotel, a concrete edifice that loomed up beyond the waste ground at the back. For a nominal fee, its pool had been made available to the residents of The Marigold. Several of them had been going there to swim and to sunbathe, an unwise decision in Jean’s case. Not only did she burn, she also broke out in a mildly disfiguring heat rash. Douglas couldn’t dissuade her, however; she enjoyed sipping cocktails and showing off her German to the airline crews.
Douglas turned away. He was suddenly overcome with such a powerful feeling he could scarcely breathe. Don’t think it, he told himself. Don’t even think of thinking it.
Darkness had fallen. Evelyn paused beside the paan-seller’s stall. A stack of leaves glistened in the light from his spirit lamp. He had a chopping board and little pots of paste, like the glue pots at school. Madge, always game, had tried chewing some paan, but she said the little bits of nut got caught underneath her bridge.
Beyond the stalls stood the shabby concrete office building. “Karishma Plaza” was inscribed over the entrance. Lights blazed from the windows. The call center seemed to be open all night; Evelyn had seen the lights on her nocturnal rambles in the garden.
“Madam would like a santara?” The fruit-seller held out two oranges, one in each hand like a juggler.
Evelyn shook her head and, stepping around a shrouded body, hurried into the building. In the lobby, a man sat behind a desk. She asked for the call center and he pointed upstairs.
Evelyn walked up a flight of stairs, pushed open a swing door and found herself in an open-plan office. It was divided by partitions into little booths. In each booth sat an operative, wearing a headset. There must have been fifty of them. They all seemed to be talking at once.
Evelyn clutched the piece of paper. It had Christopher’s New York phone number written on it. Nowadays she had to write everything down. The only phone number she could remember, curiously enough, was the Hotpoint repair man in Chichester.
A minute passed. Nobody seemed to notice her; they were all too busy. Evelyn was mildly surprised. She had vaguely expected a reception desk and customers waiting to use the phones, something of that kind.
Then she noticed another curious thing. Affixed to each booth was the name of its occupant. She could only read the ones nearest her: Sally Spears, Michael Parker, Mary Johnson. But the people sitting in the booths were Indian—young men and women, dressed in jeans but definitely Indian.
Evelyn listened to the girl in the nearest booth. “Good afternoon,” she said, “this is Sally Spears calling, may I take a moment of your time?”
Good afternoon? It was seven o’clock at night. Evelyn’s head spun. Really, she must be getting confused. She was always getting things wrong. It was Hugh’s death that had done it. She had been perfectly all right until then; afterward, however, she had felt like Alice stepping through the looking-glass into a world where nothing quite made sense anymore.
“Hi, are you looking for anybody?” The young woman removed her headset.
“I want to make a call to New York,” said Evelyn.
The young woman frowned. On the wall hung a sign: You Don’t Have to Be Mad to Work Here But It Helps.
“I think I’ve come to the wrong place,” said Evelyn.
“This is a call center,” said the girl. “You can’t make calls here.”
“But isn’t—I mean—”
“I can make calls, auntie, but you can’t.”
Sally explained. She and her colleagues were calling businesses in England and selling them things over the phone—life insurance; check recovery schemes, whatever they were. “It’s telesales,” she said. “That’s why we work at night, because of the time difference.”
“Goodness.”
“Quick!” Sally pulled Evelyn into her booth. “The super’s watching, the old dragon.” She sat Evelyn down on the swivel chair and squatted beside her. “They tell us things about England but I’ve never been there. I want to go so much.”
“I’m sure you will one day.”
“You can help me, please!” She grabbed Evelyn’s wrist. “Tell me about England.”
“Well, it’s not like here. It’s a lot colder—”
“You see, some of the people we call, they smell a rat.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re supposed to be calling from England! We mustn’t let on that we’re in Bangalore. That’s why we’ve got English names. I’m really Surinda.”
“That’s a pretty name—”
“We have to pretend we’re English—we’ve been learning how to sound English, do re mi, all that junk—a teacher comes and gives us lessons.” She lowered her voice. “Tell me about Enfield, auntie.”
“Enfield?”
“That’s where we’re supposed to come from, all of us.”
Evelyn tried to gather her wits. “Enfield. Now let me see …” She tried to remember if she had ever been there. Surinda, lips parted, was gazing at her. She was a little plump, but very pretty. Her T-shirt said FCUK. “I remember,” said Evelyn. “I went to a tea dance in Enfield once …” Suddenly it was there, crystal clear. A June day, it was always June. She wore her dress with the white collar and the tiny red roses. “It was in the Windsor Hotel, and I went with my friend Annabel because she lived near there, a big house with lots of dogs, and I was jealous of her because she was coming out and I wasn’t—”
“Coming out?”
“And I danced with Teddy Ramsbottom, who had been terribly brave in the war; he still had a piece of shrapnel in his leg but he danced so beautifully …” Evelyn’s voice trailed away. She sat there, lost in her memories. “We sat out a dance in the garden, and I only saw he had a limp later, when he was walking to his car—it was his father’s car, an Austin Seven—and that was the last I saw of him.”
There was a silence. Through the partition she could hear a voice: “… it’s at a very affordable price, Mr. Bishop, and we can offer a discount if you pay within fourteen days.”
“Is Enfield near Liverpool?” asked Surinda.
“No, dear. It’s near London.”
“Oh. I thought it was where the Beatles came from.”
“No, only Annabel.” Evelyn paused. “And she went to live in Australia in 1953.”
Evelyn hurried up the drive. Dinner must have already begun. Outside was the hooting traffic, the cacophony of the street, but once through the gates a hush fell, as if the hotel created its own silence.
In the lobby she met Madge and Sonny. They were both dressed up, Sonny in a cream silk tunic, a little too tight.
“See you later, alligator,” said Madge. She wore a sequined top that revealed her tanned, wrinkled cleavage. “We’re off to a wedding. Sonny’s going to introduce me to a maharaja who’s got his own plane.”
“So your children are coming for Christmas!” said Sonny. “A little birdie told me. I knew I was right.” He chuckled. “Quicker than Connex South East and almost as cheap!”
/> “I’ve just had an extraordinary encounter across the road,” said Evelyn. She told them about the call center.
“Ah, the manager is a good chum of mine,” said Sonny. “It’s a very popular place to work; they’re all graduates, you know, a lot of get-up-and-go. You see, Mrs. Greenslade, it’s the only place where boys and girls can meet together, in the workplace, without their families breathing down their necks.”
“They want to know about England,” said Evelyn.
There was a silence. Sonny stared at her. From the dining room came the faint clatter of plates.
“Come on, Sonny,” said Madge. “I’ve already been waiting two hours. Does nobody do anything on time here?”
Sonny was gazing at Evelyn. “Mrs. Greenslade, you are a genius.” He lowered himself to the ground. “Please permit me to kiss your feet.”
After dinner Evelyn stepped into the garden. The mali had watered it thoroughly for once; she smelled the drenched lawn, the earth exhaling in relief. Now that it was winter the weather was perfect: cool nights, cool enough for a cardi, and days as perfect as that June afternoon when she had sat under the clematis with Teddy. She heard, faintly, the sound of Peggy Lee. The music drifted from Graham Turner’s open window. He had one of the smaller, cheaper rooms at the back of the building. “It was just one of those things …”
She wondered about Teddy, the other life she had dreamed for herself that day in Enfield. It made her feel dizzy, the possibilities. She gazed into the darkness. Through the tangled branches she saw the lights in Karishma Plaza. All those boys and girls … they were spinning their lies in there, dreaming their own Enfields, but they were young and anything was possible. Their youth made her want to weep.
“Psst!”
Evelyn turned. Muriel was beckoning from her window. Evelyn hurried up to her.
“I saw a holy man today,” whispered Muriel. “Mrs. Gee-Gee took me.”
“A holy man?”
“He was in this little room in the temple! Don’t tell nobody, they’ll laugh at me.”
“What was he like?”
“He had mud on his hair, it was all long and matted like the Rastas, you know? There’s lots of them in Peckham.” Muriel pointed to her forehead. “He put this spot here, with his thumb. Can you see it? I haven’t washed. I gave him some money and he blessed me and said my Keith was coming soon. He had staring eyes, they stared right into me. He said my Keith’s coming to find his mum.”
They arrived a couple of days later, twenty girls and boys from the call center, and filed into the lounge. The residents were already ensconced; the young visitors sat at the feet of their elderly hosts. Sonny, who had arranged it, ordered Pepsis all around.
Surinda sat next to Evelyn, her head resting against the side of the armchair. “I could sleep for a week, Evelyn auntie,” she said.
“You poor thing, working all night.” Evelyn longed to stroke Surinda’s shiny black hair. It reminded her of her brother’s old Labrador, Toby.
“It’s really stressful,” said Surinda. “When I get my bonus I’m going to take a course in hotel management.”
“When will you get your bonus, dear?”
“When I’ve made a thousand sales,” said Surinda.
“How many sales have you made so far?”
“Twenty-seven.”
They laughed. Evelyn felt a maternal rush. She longed to take care of this lovely plump girl. In fact she felt a proprietary fondness for all these young people; after all, it was she who had found them in the first place. We’re all desperate for somebody to love here, she thought; that’s why we put out milk for the cats.
“There’s some handsome boys here,” she whispered. “Have any of them taken your fancy? What about that one?” She pointed to a young fellow who was lounging on the floor, propped up on one elbow.
“Oh, that’s Rahul. Just because he’s U.S.-returned he thinks he’s the bee’s knees.”
“What’s his English name?”
“Ramy Gold.”
Evelyn paused. “That’s not very English, dear.”
“He got it by looking out the window,” said Surinda. “He saw the sign for your hotel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marigold. It’s an anagram. Well, sort of.”
Evelyn burst out laughing. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for ages. She leaned across to Madge, who sat in the next armchair.
“They get their surnames from products—Johnson’s Baby Powder, Parker pens.” She felt proud, knowing something nobody else did. “My friend here got hers from that Britney Spears.”
“She’s not a product, sweetie,” said Madge. “She’s a singer.”
“That one’s a Beckham.” Evelyn pointed. “And one of them’s our very own hotel.”
Sonny clapped his hands. “Silence, please! Now, my good friends, the aim of this gathering is for you to ask our distinguished Britishers here about their home country, Enfield in particular. They are kindly giving up their time to help you to perform your jobs to a higher standard. Let’s roll!”
Conversations broke out around the room. Norman’s voice boomed out. “I remember Enfield. Used to stop at the Spider’s Web, out on the arterial road—”
“I went to school near there,” said Olive. “Wood Green. Well, quite near there.”
“Where is Enfield?” asked Hermione.
Norman said: “Used to drink pink gins with a floozie called Fay—”
“I went to the cinema there,” said Olive. “The Gaumont.”
“Is it near Acton?” asked somebody.
“That’s Ealing, dear.”
Everybody seemed to be talking at once. It was a novel sensation, having people interested in what they said. The young telephonists sat there, drinking in every word.
“I remember when the newsreel came on saying Gandhi had been shot,” said Olive.
“I was drinking my milk.” Stella’s eyes were bright. “I heard it on the wireless.”
“I was in rep in Enfield,” said Dorothy. “I was playing the maid in Dear Brutus.”
“You were an actress?” asked Madge.
Dorothy nodded. “For a few years. There was a Lyon’s Corner House in the high street. One day I saw Nye Bevan driving past. It was like seeing God.”
“Who was he please?” asked a young man.
“He created our National Health Service,” said Dorothy. “So people no longer died in the streets, as they do here. The next day I decided to give up acting and started making programs for the Labor Party.”
“Bully for you!” said Norman, who was drinking whisky.
“I know Enfield quite well,” said Graham Turner.
The residents turned.
“I grew up there,” he said.
“I never knew,” said Madge.
“In Maybury Road,” said Graham. “We had an Anderson shelter at the end of the street. When the air raid sounded, I tried to smuggle in my pet hen.”
“A hen?”
Graham nodded. “I was rather fond of her.” He sat there, his cheeks flushed, in his shirt and tie. He had never been seen without his tie.
Evelyn looked around. Some of the young workers had fallen asleep. No wonder, poor dears, slaving away all night. They slept beautifully. Sleep was so simple, when one was young.
“My fiancée, Amy, worked at the Army & Navy Stores,” Graham said.
“Fiancée?” Norman drained his glass. “Well, I’ll be buggered.”
Graham’s bald head glistened in the lamplight. “Thursdays were her half-days. I used to travel down to London, on the bus, and take her to tea at Gunter’s.”
He stopped.
“What happened to her, darling?” asked Madge.
Graham didn’t reply. They gazed at him. For the first time, Evelyn noticed his hands. They were thin and liver-spotted, knotted together in his lap.
“She passed away.”
There was another silence. Stella blew her nose.
“Why didn’t we know that?” Evelyn whispered to Madge.
“We didn’t ask.”
It was half an hour later. The curtains had been drawn in the TV room. Squashed together, they were all watching a video of EastEnders. Packages of these would arrive, at irregular intervals, from Olive Cooke’s grandchildren. They never labeled them properly, so people would watch the episodes in the wrong order, which even for the most clear-headed could be somewhat confusing.
Surinda whispered to Evelyn: “Why did you all leave England?”
“Various reasons, dear. Some of us found we couldn’t manage to live there anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Various—well, provisions we had made—didn’t turn out to be quite what we had been led to expect. Pensions and so forth.”
“Why didn’t your children look after you?”
Evelyn paused. “It’s different in England.”
On the TV, a woman battered at a man’s head and burst into tears.
“Do you miss it, auntie?”
“Sometimes,” said Evelyn. “I miss the rain.”
“Wait for the monsoon!”
I miss the Sussex Downs, thought Evelyn. I miss the wind blowing over the pelt of the barley field, brushing it silver. A family named Harbottle lived in her house now. “I miss my garden. I know it sounds silly, but I long to get my hands dirty. I’d love to get cracking on the garden here, plants just plonked down in a row.”
“I want to go to England,” sighed Surinda.
Evelyn smiled. “You probably want to go for the same reason we wanted to leave.”
“Ssh!” Madge turned up the sound. On EastEnders, two young men with shaved heads hurled abuse at each other.
Evelyn whispered: “It doesn’t belong to us anymore. We don’t understand it. Britain belongs to other people now.” She hoped this didn’t sound racist. She hadn’t meant it like that.
Just then there was a small commotion. A girl got up and pushed her way through the bodies. She sat down beside Surinda, shifting her aside.
“Norman uncle just groped me!” she said.
Surinda giggled. “Put Kamila next to him.” She turned to Evelyn. “Ever since she called herself Karen she’s become a real slapper. She’s anybody’s now.”
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: A Novel Page 17